The paint on it was a little chipped near the bottom. I had noticed it once and added fixing it to a list that had never ended. The thought of Emma sitting in that cold room, believing she was bad because an adult told her she had forgotten something, made every breath burn.
“What did he want you to remember?” I asked.
Her eyes finally found mine.
“That Mommy was scared.”
Detective Ramirez stepped closer, her voice low and controlled. “Scared of who?”
Emma looked toward Vanessa.
Vanessa’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“Emma,” I said, “did Vanessa know that man?”
My daughter’s lower lip trembled.
“She brought him Bunny.”
Vanessa’s composure broke so suddenly it looked physical. She grabbed the back of a chair.
“That is not what happened.”
“Then tell us what did happen,” I said.
“I met Adrian after Claire died. That’s all. He was helping you. Helping Emma.”
“You knew him before you moved in?”
“Yes.” Her eyes flashed. “Of course I knew him. We were seeing each other before you and I got serious. I told you he was a colleague from the clinic.”
“You said he was a child-development consultant.”
“He is.”
“Why did he come here at night?”
“I don’t know.”
Emma flinched at the sharpness in Vanessa’s voice.
Something in me changed then. It was not rage, exactly. Rage would have been easier. It was the end of an argument I had been having with myself for eleven months. Every time Emma woke screaming. Every time she cried when I reached for her bedroom door. Every time she asked whether Mommy could hear her from heaven, I had blamed grief because grief was a terrible answer, but it was an answer.
Now I understood that I had been handing my daughter’s fear back to her and calling it healing.
Officer Carter’s radio crackled. He moved toward the front window, listening to the dispatcher. Detective Ramirez kept her eyes on Vanessa.
“Mrs. Mercer,” she said, “I need you to come with us to answer some questions.”
“I am not going anywhere with you.”
“That is not a request.”
Vanessa looked at me, and for a fraction of a second, I saw the person I had married. The woman who had made soup when I worked late. The woman who had held my hand at Claire’s grave and told me Emma needed a mother who would stay. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Daniel, please. You know me.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t.”
The front door opened before anyone could move.
Mark came in soaked through, carrying a paper grocery bag against his chest. He stopped when he saw the police, the open drawers, Vanessa’s coat, Emma in my arms.
“What happened?”
“Get out,” Vanessa said.
Mark looked at her with confusion, then at me.
“Daniel?”
Before I could answer, Officer Carter crossed the room, one hand raised. “Sir, please stay where you are.”
Mark’s face drained.
“What is this?” he asked.
The detective looked from Mark to me. “You said this was your brother?”
