Chapter 3 - The Broken Crayon
The pediatric ward smelled of rubbing alcohol and lemon-scented floor wax. Emily woke up at dawn, the gray autumn sunlight cutting through the blinds in thin, surgical slices.
She didn't cry when she opened her eyes. That was the most terrifying part. A normal ten-year-old waking up from an ordeal would have sobbed, called for her mother, asked why her throat hurt. Emily merely turned her head on the pillow, her hazel eyes completely empty, staring at the plastic pitcher of ice water on the rolling nightstand.
“Hey, bug,” I said softly, leaning over the metal bed rail. I took her small, cold hand in both of mine.
She stared at me for three long seconds, as if waiting to see if my image would dissolve back into the wire mesh of the cage. Then she whispered, “Daddy, is Mom in heaven?”
The breath left my chest like I had been kicked by a workhorse. I had rehearsed half a dozen gentle non-answers throughout the sleepless night, but looking into those hollow eyes, the lies died in my throat.
“The police are looking for her, sweetie,” I said, brushing a tangled lock of brown hair from her forehead. “The doctors are making sure you’re healthy and safe. Nobody can touch you here. I’m right outside the door, and I’m never leaving you again.”
Emily didn’t look relieved. Her fingers curled around my thumb with unnatural force. “Julian told me that if I yelled, he would put me in the deep end with her.”
The room seemed to drop ten degrees. My heart hammered violently against my ribs. “He said that to you, Em? On Friday?”
Emily nodded once. “Mom was yelling in the kitchen. She said she found the bank papers in the garage. She said she was going to call you, Daddy. She said she was bringing me to your house and never coming back.”
Tears welled in the corners of her eyes, but they didn’t spill over; they just sat there, glassy and still.
“And then?” I urged gently, kneeling so my eyes were level with hers.
“There was a loud thump,” she whispered, her voice shrinking until I had to lean my ear against her lips. “Like when a heavy box falls off the top shelf. Then the kitchen went quiet. I tried to come out of my room, but Julian was standing in the hallway. His shirt was ripped. He had Mom’s phone in his pocket. He locked my bedroom door from the outside.”
“Did you see her, Emily?”
“No,” she breathed. “I heard him dragging something heavy down the basement stairs. The stairs make a squeaking sound on the fourth step. Squeak, thump. Squeak, thump. Then the vacuum cleaner started. He ran the vacuum for two whole hours. At night, he came into my room. He didn’t have his glasses on. He grabbed my arm, dragged me outside in my pajamas, and threw me into the dog kennel behind the shed. He put the tarp over it so the streetlights wouldn’t shine in.”
She stopped. A shudder ran through her entire small frame, rattling her teeth.
“What else, Em? Did you see the pool?”
“Saturday morning,” she said, staring past me at the blank hospital wall. “He made breakfast. I could smell the bacon through the tarp. He brought me half a piece of toast and a paper cup of water. While I was drinking, he started throwing the big black bags into the water. Four of them. Splash. Splash. Splash. Splash. But Daddy...”
She gripped my wrist so hard her fingernails dug into the meat of my palm.
“The fourth bag wasn’t Mom,” she whispered.
I froze. “What do you mean, Emily?”
“Mom has a butterfly tattoo on her left ankle,” Emily said, her small voice trembling with an impossible, eerie certainty. “When Julian was dragging the fourth bag toward the pool, the plastic caught on the iron edge of the lawnmower. It ripped. I saw a foot hanging out.”
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She looked dead into my eyes.
“It was a man’s foot, Daddy. It was wearing a black dress sock and a shiny brown shoe. Mom doesn’t wear men’s shoes.”
