Punch Like a Girl (18 page)

“I hope not, but she's still going to be traumatized.” Mom glances at me. “Something like that doesn't leave you.”

I avoid Mom's eyes. “I guess not.”

“I hope they lock him up for good,” Dad mutters. “Men like that aren't fit for society.”

“No kidding,” I say.

At the station,
TV
crews and reporters are camped outside the front doors. As Mom parks the
SUV
, I sink lower in my seat.

“Why are there reporters everywhere I go?”

“You don't have to talk to them.” Mom turns off the car.

Dad opens his door. “We won't let them near you.”

Outside, I zip up my hoodie and hold my broken hand against my chest. As we head up the walk, Dad takes my right flank while Mom's on my left and slightly in front, like a lopsided battering ram. Even though my parents can be controlling and demanding, I'm glad they're here with me now.

I keep my head down and my eyes on my running shoes.

“Isn't that the witness from the park?” I recognize Janice Reese's voice and cringe.

The reporters, cameras poised, crowd us as we approach.

Then the questions fly. “Are you involved in the case against Stewart Foster?” “Do you know Casey-Lynn or her father?” “Did you injure your hand in an altercation with Stewart Foster?”

I keep my mouth shut and my feet moving while my parents ward off the attack. It takes only a bit of pushing to make it into the lobby of the police station.

I look around nervously before approaching a large bald officer at the information desk. As soon as I say who I am, he ushers us into a nearby room and then abandons us. In the room there's a plain metal table, three plastic chairs and little else. I fiddle with a strap on my cast.

“Is this an interrogation room?” I spin in a circle. There's no two-way mirror, like on
TV
crime shows.

Mom puts a hand on my shoulder. “It'll be fine.”

Dad takes a seat and stretches out his legs. “Of course it will. They probably just want to talk.”

I'm pacing when two women enter the room a few minutes later—a tall brown-skinned woman followed by a smaller one with olive skin and dark hair. It surprises me that they're both in regular clothes.

“I'm Constable Nancy Hobbs,” the tall woman says briskly, “the designated investigator in this case. You can call me Nancy.” She motions to the other woman. “This is Andi Chavez, the children's-aid worker assigned to Casey.”

Mom opens her mouth to speak, but I interrupt her.

“How is Casey?” I blurt out.

Mom looks startled. She probably expected to do the talking.

“She's fine physically, other than a few bruises.” The woman named Andi has a softer voice. “She's been examined at the hospital. But she's shaken, of course.”

“Stewart Foster is in custody,” Nancy adds.

“We heard that on the radio.” Dad nods grimly, and it hits me like a slap across the face that Stewart Foster could be somewhere in this building. I stare into the hall, shaking. If I met him shackled and shuffling on the way to some cell, I'd want to punch him out.

“Sit down,” Nancy tells me. “You're probably wondering why we asked you to come.”

No kidding. I perch on the edge of a chair. Nancy sits opposite Dad. Mom hovers nearby. Andi shuts the door and rests against it.

“We were hoping you could help us out.” Nancy leans toward me. “You see, we need to interview Casey while the events are fresh in her mind. It'll help us figure out what charges to lay against her father.”

“And how to help her,” Andi adds.

Nancy nods. “But Casey won't speak. Not to her mother, to me or to any other officer.”

“That's terrible. She only started to talk again recently.” If Casey isn't speaking again, she must have gone through hell.

“Yes. We understand that you've successfully encouraged Casey to talk in the past,” Nancy continues. “Her mother says you have a special connection. It's a little unorthodox, but with your permission”—she glances at both of my parents and then back to me—“we'd like you to try to get Casey talking again.”

“Of course I'll help,” I say, not waiting for my parents' response.

“Are you sure you can handle it?” Mom asks. “It might be hard to deal with.”

“I'm very sure.” If she wants to argue this, she'll have a fight on her hands.

A fleeting look passes between my parents.

“Okay,” Mom says. “It's up to you.”

Nancy and Andi send my parents back to the lobby to wait. Then they lead me to another part of the building.

“We have an idea what happened.” Nancy takes large strides down the hall, with Andi and me a step behind. “But we need Casey's statement to build a strong case against her father. If you can encourage her to speak at all, I can ask her a few questions.”

“I'll try.” I hug my broken hand, dreading Casey's reaction when she sees me. What if she blames me for what happened?

We stop outside a plain metal door.

“Casey is fairly withdrawn now, so don't be discouraged if she won't talk.” Andi puts a hand on my shoulder. “I'm sure your presence here will be a comfort to her.”

“I hope so.” What if Casey doesn't even want to see me?

“Let's go.” Nancy opens the door and heads inside.

I'm expecting to find Casey in an interrogation room, but the room is large and bright, with colorful armchairs and a rainforest mural painted on one wall. Casey is sitting on the floor near a coffee table. She's hunched over with her knees up, slowly winding the dirty lace from one of her shoes around one finger. Rita is crouched beside her with her hand on Casey's back. Blank white paper and a box of crayons lie untouched on the table.

“Thanks so much for coming.” Rita stands when she sees me. Her hair is in a messy bun, and she looks like she's had no sleep. Tears well in her eyes.

I swallow the lump at the back of my throat.

Casey doesn't look up.

“Your friend Tori has come to see you, Casey.” Nancy touches her arm briefly.

Casey shies away. Her face is pale and drained of emotion. My heart aches for her.

Andi takes a seat near the door. Nancy sits closer. I notice a video camera discreetly mounted in one corner of the room.

Rita gives me a pleading look that says,
Go to her
.

I sit on the floor beside Casey.

Casey drops her shoelace and begins tracing the circular pattern on the rug with her finger.

I say the first thing that comes to mind. “I'm sorry for what happened at Mill Pond Park, Casey.”

Her finger stops.

“I wish it hadn't happened. I wish I could have done more to help you.”

Her finger begins tracing again, this time in a counterclockwise direction.

I pause, not sure what else to say. I feel like I'm battling Stewart Foster for Casey. He's done something to close her down again. How do I open her up?

“Go on,” Andi mouths.

Nancy, Andi and Rita watch me, waiting, expecting a miracle.

Casey's eyes are hauntingly vacant. It's like Stewart Foster has snatched her from me again. I'm flooded with guilt.

Nancy clears her throat. “Tori? Are you with us?”

“Maybe this is too much,” Andi says.

“I'm fine.” I sit straighter. I have to get it together. For Casey.

Casey tucks her knees under her chin and hugs her legs.

“I wonder what the kids at Haven are doing now.” My voice is fake-cheery and pitched too high. I try again, lower. “Let's see. It's Saturday. Do you sometimes watch morning cartoons in the
TV
room on Saturday mornings?”

I pause, leaving time for Casey to respond.

She stares at the rug without blinking.

“I hear that Sheerma makes blueberry pancakes for weekend breakfasts. Have you ever eaten them?”

Silence. Is she even listening?

“I've never had them, but I'd like to. Do you like jam or maple syrup on your pancakes?” I blabber on about my favorite breakfast foods, as if it matters, asking Casey questions every now and then.

Casey is a statue, still and unspeaking. What has Stewart Foster done to her?

Eventually, Nancy motions for me to join her in the hall. Andi comes too.

“I'm sorry,” I say as soon as the door closes behind us. “I'm not sure how to reach her.” I'm failing Casey and letting everyone else down too.

“Maybe give Casey a few minutes and try again?” Nancy's voice is urgent. She reminds me of my mother in some ways. I bet she's used to getting what she wants, but this time is different.

“That's okay, Tori.” Andi directs a look at Nancy. “It was a long shot anyway. Unless you can think of something else to talk about, or an activity that might draw her out?”

Drawing.

I remember seeing the paper and crayons on the table. “There is one thing…” I bite my lip. Could it work?

“What?” Nancy perks up.

“Do you have a ruler?” I ask. “Casey always draws with one.”

“I can get one.” Andi hurries down the hall. She's back in a few minutes with a clear plastic six-inch ruler.

“Thanks.” I grip the ruler. “Let's hope this works.”

SPEAK
to engage in conversation

I lay out two sheets of paper on the coffee table, side by side.

Casey begins tracing circles on the rug with her finger again.

I open the box of crayons; there are sixteen, and they've never been used. I set the ruler and the purple crayon—her favorite color—beside Casey's paper. Then I pull out the orange and black crayons and begin.

“I thought I saw Monty the other day outside my school.” I keep my voice calm and pick up the black crayon with my injured hand. At least I can still draw. “But it wasn't Monty. You know how I know?”

I wait. One beat. Two.

Casey stops tracing circles on the rug. Beside her, Rita shoots me an approving look.

“Because he didn't have a torn wing,” I finish.

With the black crayon, I outline the shape of a butterfly with the tip of one wing missing. Casey watches my hand moving across the paper.

It's a start.

I take more than five minutes to fill in the butterfly's abdomen with black. I'm working slowly, deliberately. As I color and chat about butterflies, Casey moves closer. Eventually, she leans over my good arm to see my paper.

I'm thrilled, but I try not to overreact.

“Do you like my picture so far?” I ask, not really expecting an answer.

Casey nods.

A good sign.

I pick up the orange crayon, daring to hope now. “Monty may be small, but he's really strong. He made it all the way here from down south.” I pause. “Do you want to draw with me?”

“Yes.” Casey's voice is a whisper.

I slowly exhale. “Great.” I smile, and it dawns on me that what I'm doing is even better than punching Stewart Foster out. Maybe helping Casey speak about what happened is another way of fighting back.