Chapter 2 - The Child Who Wouldn't Take the Blanket
I spent that night learning two things about fear. The first was that money cannot make a laboratory work faster. The second was that a frightened child can sit perfectly still while every adult in the room pretends not to notice she is terrified.
Lucy refused a second blanket.
“It’s warmer,” the nurse told her.
“I already got one.”
“You can have two.”
Lucy shook her head.
“Somebody else might need it.”
I had known children who demanded ponies, private tutors, imported birthday cakes. This child was afraid to own two blankets.
Nathan and I sat with Detective Mara Ortiz from Major Crimes in a small family consultation room. Ortiz was forty-something, practical, unsentimental, with eyes that did not miss much.
“Tell me about Malcolm Worthington,” she said.
“He’s my sister’s son,” I replied. “Forty-one. Executive vice president of Worthington Group.”
“Your presumed heir?”
“After Caroline died, yes.”
Nathan leaned forward. “Lucy said she saw a man near the viaduct before she heard the babies. Tall. Dark coat. Silver ring shaped like a wolf.”
Ortiz looked at me.
I rubbed my face. “That ring belonged to my father. He gave it to Malcolm when the boy graduated from college.”
“Could someone else have one?”
“No.”
Before Ortiz could ask more, the door opened.
A broad man in a brown raincoat entered with a county badge clipped to his belt. He had gray at his temples, a flat mouth, and the kind of handshake that tried to prove something.
“Clyde Mercer,” he said. “Director of Willow Creek Children’s Residence.”
Lucy, sitting outside the glass wall with a nurse, saw him.
Her cocoa slipped from her hands.
The paper cup hit the floor.
Clyde smiled as though he had not noticed.
“There she is,” he said. “We’ve been looking everywhere.”
Ortiz blocked his path. “You know the child?”
“Lucy’s been in our care fourteen months. Chronic runaway. Attention seeking. Fabricates stories when she wants sympathy.”
Through the glass, Lucy pressed herself against the wall.
I stood.
“Why is she bruised?”
Clyde sighed like a tired teacher.
“Lucy bruises herself climbing fences. She’s difficult.”
“I asked why she is bruised.”
“And I answered.”
He moved toward the door.
Lucy ran.
Not toward the exit.
Toward me.
She grabbed the back of my coat and hid behind my legs.
That surprised everyone, including me.
Clyde’s smile tightened. “Come on, Lucy. Enough.”
She shook her head violently.
“Mr. Mercer,” Ortiz said, “you’re not taking her anywhere tonight.”
“Detective, she’s a ward under our supervision.”
“She’s also a potential witness in an abandonment investigation.”
Clyde looked down at Lucy.
For one second the friendly mask slipped.
“You cause trouble wherever you go,” he said quietly.
Lucy flinched as if he had raised a hand.
I felt something old and ugly rise inside me.
“My father used to say children tell you the truth with their bodies before they can tell you with words,” I said.
Clyde smirked. “And you’re an expert because you write checks to hospitals?”
“No. I’m an expert on bullies because I’ve employed enough of them.”
Ortiz almost smiled.
Clyde left under protest, promising to call county counsel.
Lucy remained behind me.
When I turned, she looked embarrassed.
“Sorry.”
“For what?”
“I grabbed you.”
“You’re allowed.”
She studied my face to see whether I meant it.
Nathan crouched nearby. “Lucy, Detective Ortiz needs to know what you saw.”
“I already told.”
“Tell it one more time.”
Lucy took a breath.
She had slept near Grant Street because Willow Creek was three bus stops away and Clyde usually searched the transit station first. She had been under the viaduct maybe twenty minutes when a black SUV stopped beside the construction fence. A man got out. Lucy hid behind a concrete support because she thought he was looking for her.
“He had a basket,” she said.
“The babies?” Ortiz asked.
Lucy nodded.
“Did you see his face?”
“No. Hood.”
“The ring?”
“He took off one glove. It shined.”
“Then what?”
“He put the basket down. He said something.”
“What?”
Lucy swallowed.
“‘This ends tonight.’”
My stomach hardened.
“Was anyone with him?”
“A lady was in the car.”
Ortiz straightened. “You didn’t mention a woman.”
“I forgot.”
“What did she look like?”
“I didn’t see. She was crying.”
“Could you hear her?”
Lucy nodded.
“What did she say?”
The child’s eyes went to me.
“She said, ‘Please, Malcolm. They’re your family.’”
Silence filled the corridor.
Nathan whispered, “That’s his name.”
Ortiz immediately called for officers to locate Malcolm.
I sat down because my knees no longer trusted me.
Lucy asked, “Is he bad?”
“I don’t know yet.”
She gave me the same disappointed look as before.
“You know.”
I looked at her bruises.
Maybe she was right.
Dr. Patel came back later with food for Lucy. Turkey sandwich, apple slices, milk. Lucy ate half the sandwich, wrapped the rest in a napkin, and pushed it into her coat pocket.
“For later?” I asked.
She stiffened.
“Yes.”
“There will be breakfast.”
She did not respond.
I lowered my voice. “At Willow Creek, was there not always breakfast?”
Her eyes dropped.
“Sometimes you had to earn it.”
“How?”
“Be good.”
“And if you weren’t?”
She picked at a thread on her sleeve.
“No food.”
Nathan turned away.
I asked, “Did Clyde hurt you?”
Lucy’s mouth trembled.
“He said nobody wants kids who lie.”
“Did he hit you?”
She did not answer.
That was answer enough.
Then Lucy reached into the pocket of her jeans and took out a small piece of folded foil.
“I found this by the babies.”
Ortiz opened it carefully.
Inside was a torn hospital identification band.
The printed name was smudged, but readable.
CAROLINE WORTHINGTON.
My daughter.
And underneath the name was a date.
May you like
Yesterday.
Before dawn, Lucy finally allowed a nurse to wash the mud from her hair. She insisted the bathroom door stay open. I sat in the hallway where she could see my shoes beneath the chair. Every few minutes she called, “You still there?” and I answered, “Still here.” The exchange sounded trivial. It was not. She had learned that adults vanished, that promises lasted only until a door closed, and that asking twice could make people angry. When she came out in clean pajamas, she carried the dirty hospital blanket with her. “You can leave that,” the nurse said gently. Lucy hugged it tighter. “It was mine first.” I understood then that possession meant something different to a child who had almost nothing. I asked the nurse whether she could keep it. She could. Lucy folded it with enormous care and placed it under her chair. That blanket would later travel through three houses, two courtrooms, and more than one nightmare. Years afterward, when she owned rooms full of things, she still kept it in a cedar box. Some objects are not valuable because they are beautiful. They are valuable because they are proof that once, at the worst moment, somebody said you could keep something and meant it.
