Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

The beer garden at the Old Angler's Inn is an oasis in the DC area. On pleasant evenings, you can order a veggie burger and a cocktail and sit on a tree-lined patio under the stars. Sometimes a musician strums a guitar and sings old Carly Simon or new Ed Sheeran songs, and there are always a few dogs by their owners' feet, praying for a dropped French fry.

Charles is waiting at a table when I arrive. He rises, and I lean into the hug he offers, holding on for a beat longer than usual.

"Wonderful to see you, sweetheart," he murmurs in my ear.

I settle into the chair opposite him, taking in his dear, familiar face. His thick hair is silver now, and lines crease his face, but his blue eyes are as sharp as they were the day we met.

He's only a few years older than my father would be.

"I'm glad you called, Stella. I've been wondering how things are going with the case."

I wait until the approaching waitress has taken our order before I answer.

"I met Beth and Rose Barclay today."

"And?"

"Beth was a little aloof. Cold."

"Perhaps she was nervous?"

I shake my head. "More uncomfortable, I'd guess. Maybe she wanted to be in control of the process and didn't like the fact that she wasn't. She practically kicked me out after I met Rose, as if she wanted to assert her authority somehow."

Charles nods. He doesn't know the Barclays personally, but he has dealt with similar situations as a family law judge. "People with that kind of money are used to running the show."

"True."

Charles leans forward. "And you saw Rose, too? How was that?"

I tell him the truth, like I've done since the day we met. "Mixed. She's so young, Charles. And she must be suffering terribly…"

The emotions I suppressed in order to do my job threaten to pour out now. Tears prick my eyes as the memory that's been haunting me most of my life envelops me again: There's a heavy knock on the door. My mother ushers me into the only closet in our little efficiency, whispering, "Don't make a sound." I hear her conversation with a man who has a deep voice. Then she says, "No… please." It grows quiet. Too quiet. I pull my mother's coat from a hanger and wrap myself up in it. It smells like her—the good smells from before, like a hint of the sweet perfume she used to wear, nearly overpowered by the way she smells now, sweaty and unclean. I wait for my mother to open the closet door and let me out. But she never comes. I finally fall asleep and awaken with my foot painfully tingling. When I creep out of the closet, I have no idea what time it is. The apartment is dark, but the glow from the nearby streetlamp seeps through the cheap curtains. My mother is on the floor. Her eyes are open and blank, like all the light has drained out of them.

I dial 9–1–1, but when the dispatcher comes on, I don't make a sound.

I can't.

I swallow hard and pull myself back into the present. "It was strange … to see what I was like at around her age. I've never known anyone else who had it."

"Traumatic mutism." Charles was the one who gave me a name for my condition. In a voice filled with compassion, he told me it wasn't my fault. That I should have received help instead of shame and punishment from my caretakers.

"How am I going to figure out what's best for Rose when she can't tell me anything?" I ask him.

The waitress brings over our drinks, setting down my beer and Charles's martini and saying she'll be back with our veggie burgers soon. Charles thanks her and waits until she is out of earshot before speaking again.

"Stella, when I heard about this case, I knew it was meant for you. Not just because you're in a unique position to understand Rose. Your heart is still in your work. You've never gotten numb or jaded, like so many do. Little Rose deserves someone like you fighting for her."

As always, Charles's faith in me is a tonic and incentive. My pulse slows and my breathing evens out.

I thank him and reach for my beer, the glass cold in my palm, tasting the tangy hint of lemongrass in the microbrew.

I note the heaviness of the thick glass in contrast to the tumbler I held at the Barclays'. Tomorrow I'll go back to the plastic house, as I've begun to think of it. The place that scared the nanny.

What else happened to Tina there? I wonder.

"Do you think one of the parents could have done it?" I ask Charles. "That's the part that worries me the most. That I could end up sending Rose to live with a killer."

His hand reaches up and briefly massages his jaw. "The police conducted a thorough investigation and no one was arrested. I think you need to consider the possibility the nanny tripped and fell. I understand that the window was so close to the floor it wasn't up to code, but it was grandfathered in because of the age of the house. Maybe this was a tragic accident, nothing more."

"It's certainly possible," I concede.

"Are you going to talk to the police?"

I nod. "I've already put in a request. I gave your name as a reference."

"As you should have. Who else is on your interview list?" he asks.

"Ian and Beth Barclay, of course. His mother, Harriet. Rose's piano teacher and schoolteacher. Maybe some of Tina's friends…"

Charles must pick up on how overwhelmed I feel. "One by one," he tells me, "the pieces of the story different people provide will start to fit together and form an image. And then you'll know what to do."

I wish I could believe him. Both Ian and Beth's sides will call witnesses at the divorce trial, but in a case as hostile and divisive as this one, my report will hold enormous sway with the judge. I need to get it right.

When the waitress delivers our meals, we order a second round of drinks and move on to lighter topics: a jazz concert Charles recently attended at Strathmore Hall, and whether I should trade in my Jeep for a Bronco. Charles doesn't mention his wife, or the two sons who live in faraway states and are raising children Charles rarely gets to see. I don't bring up Marco and his new relationship.

We finish our burgers and sit in companionable silence, listening to the guitar player. He finishes a Jimmy Buffett song and launches into an Ellie Goulding cover, "Bittersweet." I recognize it because it was a favorite of one of the teenage clients I worked for last year.

" Baby, don't forget my name when the morning breaks us, " he sings.

At a nearby table, a baby with a headful of dark curls has fallen asleep against his mother's chest. She strokes light circles on his little back with her fingertips, a contented smile playing at the edge of her lips. Her husband's arm is curled around her shoulders, enveloping his little family in a cocoon.

This will be Marco soon, I realize. He wants children. This time, he will have picked a woman who shares his desire.

My mother's descent into addiction always occupies a warning place in my mind. It's why I typically stop at two drinks.

Tonight, though, I signal the waitress and order a third.