Protector - Laurel Dewey [68]
“How come you’re lying to me?”
Jane turned to Emily. “What do you mean?”
“You’re lying. I can tell. When I ask my mommy a question and she doesn’t want to tell me the truth, she looks up in the air or she turns away.”
“I—”
“I thought you didn’t lie! That’s why I picked you.”
Jane’s head started to pound. Her forced sobriety was beginning to hurt. The general numbness she had come to embrace over the years was quickly wearing off, leaving raw, exposed nerves. She wanted out of that little pink room, out of that house, out of that neighborhood and to fall back into a comfortable state of intoxication. The answer was going to call for tact and tact wasn’t her forte. But she also knew her typical response of “fuck off” wasn’t the way to go with the kid. “Okay,” Jane said, “You really want the truth?”
“Yes,” Emily said with an uneasy edge to her voice.
“Do you remember where you were when the policeman found you last Monday morning?”
“In my closet,” Emily said, pointing to the door.
“Right.” Jane struggled with putting her words together. “And that’s the last thing you remember?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you see, the police believe—and I’m not saying this is true—but they believe that possibly some person came up here. So that’s why they had to come in and check out the room.”
“Who was in here?” Emily’s eyes widened.
“We’re not sure. Just someone who didn’t belong here.”
“Well . . .” Emily looked at the carpet, trying to process everything. “Who was it?” Jane turned away and let out a deep breath. “Jane?” Emily said, her eyes still wide with concern. “Who was in my room?”
Jane turned back to Emily. “The person . . . or persons who . . . killed your parents.”
Emily moved closer to Jane, still gripping her hand. “They were here?”
“I don’t—”
“Is that why my carpet pieces are cut out?”
“Yes.”
“Why just that part of the carpet?” Emily asked, pointing to the floor.
“Because they had to test that part of the carpet.”
“Test it?”
“Footprints,” Jane said without flinching. There was no way she was mentioning blood. “They have to match footprints.”
“Footprints? Match them from where?”
“The stairs that lead up here. They took some carpet from there, too. They want to see if the footprints they found there are the same as what was in here.”
Emily considered the idea and figured it seemed logical. She glanced toward the closet door. “So, they were standing here when I was in there?”
“That’s what the cops think.”
Emily buried her head in Jane’s stomach. “I don’t remember anything.”
“I told you before, you don’t have to remember a thing. How about if we get out of here? What do you say we go downstairs and you flick that little flashlight you’ve got out the window and see how fast Martha can get her ass in this house?”
Emily threw her arms tightly around Jane’s body. “I want to stay with you.”
Jane steadied herself as Emily leaned into her body. “Okay. Fine. We’ll stay here. Where are your pajamas?”
Emily stayed glued to Jane’s body. “In the top drawer over there.”
Jane gently peeled Emily off her and motioned to the bed. “Sit there.”
Emily sat on the bed as Jane shuffled through the bureau drawer. Upon finding the pajamas, she returned to Emily’s side and helped her undress. There was stone silence between the two of them as Jane pulled off Emily’s jumper and shirt and dressed her in a matching set of white pajamas, decorated with hundreds of blue and pink stars. When Jane finished, Emily looked up at her. “What if I can’t remember ever?”
“You don’t have to remember, Emily. Some things in life are better left forgotten. Believe me, kid. That’s the God’s truth.”
“But I’m already forgetting what Mommy and Daddy look like.”
“That’s easy to fix. You’ve got photos of them. There’s that photo downstairs on the refrigerator of the three of you. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah.” Emily leaned over to the side table next to her bed and pulled out the overstuffed drawer. “Where’s my pack of photos?” Emily said, clearly upset.
“Is that where you left them?”
“Yeah,” Emily said, growing more annoyed.
“Well,” Jane said, wedging her