Mr. Frank sat back. He honestly appeared appalled.

“But . . . but . . .”

“Not to mention,” Wyatt continued, “she’s tied up hours of county and state resources looking for a child who doesn’t exist.”

“It’s not her fault!”

“And yet—”

“Please, you have to understand . . .” Thomas Frank appeared wild-eyed, nearly panicked. “My wife is not a bad person. She’s just sick. I’ll take care of her. Watch her more closely. It won’t happen again.”

“I thought you had to work. Behind on the bills and all that.”

“I’ll take a leave of absence. Or hire a companion or something. Please, Detectives. There’s no need to pursue any charges. My wife is going to be all right. I promise you, I’ll take care of everything.”

Wyatt eyed the man carefully. Thomas Frank, he decided, was not lying. He honestly believed he could take care of anything and everything. And yet . . . there was something here that just didn’t feel right to Wyatt. Detective’s intuition, twenty years of experience that suggested when a wife was in the hospital, the husband was the most likely suspect. Wyatt didn’t know anything about this post-concussive syndrome. He just knew families, all families, inevitably had something to hide. He took one last shot over the bow:

“What about Vero?” Wyatt asked. “Gonna take care of her, too?”

And had the satisfaction of finally seeing the man flinch.

Chapter 7

VERO AND I are having a tea party. We are sitting at a kid-size maple-wood table, Fat Bear sitting across from her, Priscilla the Princess sitting across from me. The room is bright and sunny. Light-green walls covered on one side in a mural of climbing roses, set off by fresh white trim. Vero’s twin-size bed is pushed against the far wall, hidden behind yards of pink gauze. It’s a beautiful room, perfect for a little girl, and I feel a pang because I know already that neither of us likes it here.

Vero passes the porcelain teapot. I delicately pour a stream of apple juice in my dainty china cup. I repeat the process for Fat Bear, with his overstuffed brown limbs and happily rounded belly, who sits to my left. I notice for the first time, Vero has taped Xs over both of his glass eyes. Same for Priscilla the Princess.

I glance at Vero, a vision in pink chiffon and yards of pearls.

“It’s okay,” she tells me. “They’re not afraid of the dark.”

I nod, as if this makes perfect sense, and set the teapot in the middle of the table. The hand-painted rosebush is moving on the wall. It appears as if some of the pink petals are falling from the flowers onto the ground. As well as something darker, more ominous. Blood dripping from the thorns.

“Have some tea,” Vero says.

We sip in companionable silence, each munching a vanilla wafer. Between the apple juice and the sugary cookie, the meal is too sweet; I feel vaguely nauseous. But I don’t stop. I need this moment, any moment, not nearly enough moments, with Vero.

“He’s going to leave you,” she says now. I understand she’s referring to Thomas. “He thinks you’re crazy.”

I don’t say anything, simply set down my thimble of tea. I wish I could reach across the table and take her into my arms. I want to comfort her, tell her everything will be all right. I want to tell her I’m sorry. I didn’t know any better. These things happen.

But I don’t want to lie.

I realize for the first time that the table, the room, is really too young for her. She’s not a child of six, but closer to twelve, with mascara coating her steel-gray eyes, a harsh slash of overly bright lipstick smearing her lips.

She stares at me, takes another sip of apple juice. Or maybe it is scotch, eighteen-year-old Glenlivet, straight from the bottle.

“It’s not your fault,” I whisper.

“Liar.”

“If I could go back, I would.”

“Bigger liar.”

“Vero—”

“Shhh . . .” She stands abruptly, and I hear it now: heavy footsteps coming from down the hall.

I can’t help myself. I shudder, and across from me, Vero smiles, but it is not a nice look.

Now that she’s standing, I realize her dress is cut nearly to her navel. Not at all appropriate for a twelve-year-old. And peeking from beneath the flounces of pink are green and purple smudges, bruises covering her arms and legs.

The footsteps, looming closer. As more petals fall from the climbing rose, fresh blood dripping from the thorns.

I want to touch this marble statue of a woman-child, who already holds herself too tight and defies me with her gaze to comment on the neckline of her dress, the state of her limbs.

“Be strong,” I whisper, but we both know that is not the problem. Vero has always been tough. In this world, however, those who can’t bend eventually break.

Footsteps. Louder. Heavier. Ominous.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

“I miss you—”

“You killed me.”

My mouth opens. I have nothing else to say.

“Run,” Vero states firmly, the child more in command than the adult. “Get the hell out and don’t look back.”

But I can’t bring myself to leave her.

Again.

“He’s here! Don’t you understand? He’s going to find you, and when he does . . .”

“It’s not your fault,” I hear myself say again, but Vero is already turning away from me.

“Stupid loser. Get out. Get away. Run, dammit! Run!”

I want to do all of those things. Instead, I do none of those things. I push away from the table. I approach this little girl who is not so little anymore. And even though I know what’s going to happen next, I take her into my arms.

For one second, she is there. I can feel her. I can smell her. Vero. And in that moment, as always, I know exactly what I have done.

Then her flesh dissolves within my embrace. And I cradle nothing but a pile of bones, covered in hundreds of fat white maggots that wriggle against my skin.

In my arms, her skull slowly rotates, regards me with dark, empty sockets.

“Run,” Vero’s skeleton orders me.

But it’s too late. He’s already here.

*   *   *

MY EYES BOLT awake. Bright overhead lights. Sterile hospital room. I don’t think anymore. I move.

Grabbing the first batch of wires and wrenching them from my body. Blood sprays from the back of my hand as the IV needle is ripped away. From the thorns of the roses, I think wildly, watching the red drops fan across the hospital bed. He’s here. He’s here.

I can’t figure out the metal rails. They are up, trapping me on the bed. I shove at them desperately, trying to force them down. When that fails, I scramble to the end of the mattress and jump, bare feet hitting the cold floor, hospital gown flapping loosely as I bolt for the open door.

Gotta run. Where, where, where?

I make it out to the broad hallway. It’s too vast, overexposed. Anyone can see me. As if on cue, a nurse down the hall shouts out a warning.

Run. He is coming. Or maybe he’s already here.

I flee, mindless, oblivious, fueled by instinct. My feet hurt, my ribs, my chest. I don’t care. Nothing is more important than my desire for flight. I want a closet. Someplace small and dark. Like an animal retreating to its den. A closet could save me.

I hear footsteps pounding behind me, then more voices, joined in alarm.

I skitter around the corner, and he’s standing there.

“Nicky,” Thomas says.

He spreads his arms, blocking my path. His face is expressionless. I can make out nothing but his dark eyes, boring into mine.

“He’s here,” I state wildly.

“Shhh,” my husband replies.

“No, no, I have to run. I have to get away. Vero says so.”

Something flickers in his gaze. For a second, it’s almost as if he believes me. Then:

“Listen to the sound of my voice, Nicky. Just focus. My voice. Talking to you. My voice, calming you.”