worker tried again.
“Simon,” Mariah whispered. “Please.”
He didn’t even glance at her. “I’ve never been alone with this girl, I hardly know who she is. Look elsewhere for your monster.”
“Monsters,” Detective McLean said, “can take many forms, Mr. Stavig. Even that of a man like you.”
Face contorted with anger and, Mariah thought, an effort to hide fear or even tears, Simon stalked to within a few inches of the police officer. “Out,” he snarled.
The detective inclined his head. “Certainly. But we will be back, and you will answer questions.” Those light, compelling eyes turned to Mariah. “Mrs. Stavig, please try to persuade your husband to help us instead of hindering. And consider taking your daughter and staying elsewhere if you can’t persuade him to leave the house for the new few weeks.”
They walked out. Neither Mariah nor Simon followed. She sat frozen, stunned, reluctant to look at her husband. She heard him breathing as hard as if he’d been running, or fighting.
The front door closed quietly. From down the hall came the sound of quiet sobs.
Mariah waited for Simon to say, How can they think I would do such a thing? Or, Help me remember. I’ve never even been alone with this girl, have I? She waited for him, to come to her, perhaps kneel in front of her and take her hands and beg her to believe him incapable of being the monster Detective Connor McLean had named him.
Instead he turned that furious face on her and said, “You will take Zofie out of preschool so that no one else can accuse us.” And then he picked up the remote control and turned on the television, as if nothing had happened.
Stiff and tired and feeling terribly afraid, Mariah stood and went down the hall to her daughter’s room.
“Martinez is rounding third,” the commentator crowed.
She wasn’t sure Simon had even noticed she’d left the room.
If he had asked her, Help me remember, she would have had to say, Last Saturday, my students did a Sunday matinee of The Diary of Anne Frank. You agreed to watch both Zofie and her friend Lily Thalberg. I know nothing happened, but you were alone with the girls.
But he had not asked that or anything else. He had not been grieving for Lily, nor bewildered at such a terrible accusation. He had been in a rage that anyone would believe the word of a three-year-old child.
A child the age of his own Zofie, who was just as pretty as Lily Thalberg.
CHAPTER ONE
“MS. STAVIG? CAN I TALK to you?”
Mariah looked up with a smile. “Tracy! Of course you may. Come on in.”
A seventh-and eighth-grade literature and drama teacher, she kept her classroom door open during her planning period specifically so that students would feel free to drop by. Most often it was the theater enthusiasts who hung around her classroom during breaks, but she wanted to be available to kids like Tracy Mitchell who were falling behind with their assignments, too.
Mariah had been grading papers in which her eighth-grade advanced lit students were supposed to be analyzing To Kill A Mockingbird. Josh Renfield’s opening sentence was a tangle with no subject. He liked big words and multiple clauses, but basic grammatical structure apparently eluded him. Mariah laid down her red pencil with relief.
“Are you here to talk about your missing assignments?” she asked.
“No. Um…” Tracy fidgeted in front of the desk. “Can I tell you something? I mean, something…well, that I’m not supposed to?”
“Not supposed to?” Was Tracy mature enough to realize that a friend was in over her head with drugs or boys, that some secrets weren’t meant to be kept?
“Mature” was not the word that leaped to mind with Tracy Mitchell, who tended to spend classes passing notes and giggling.
“Yeah.” Her blond hair swung down, a curtain hiding her face. She spoke so softly, Mariah had to strain to hear. “This guy made me do things. He said no one would believe me if I was stupid enough to talk. I’ve been…I’ve been really scared.”
“Scared,” Mariah echoed, a chill hand closing on her heart. “Somebody threatened you?”
“I didn’t think anybody would believe me.” The girl looked up, her blue eyes full of hope. “But Lacy Carlson says you will. That you listen to kids.”
No. Please not me, Mariah begged silently. Choose someone else to tell.
Even as she had the pitiful thoughts, Mariah knew she was being selfish. Tracy had come to her because she had developed a reputation among students as trustworthy. She should be glad that the teenager felt she could safely tell her story. She should even be flattered that the girl had chosen her. It meant she had done something right as a teacher.
But, oh, she didn’t want to hear it. Not if the hearing meant she had to report the story to authorities and loose them on some man and his family.
Showing none of her inner turmoil on her face, she rose to her feet and closed the door to the hall. Coming back to the girl, Mariah placed a gentle hand on her arm.
“Why don’t we sit down.” She pulled a student desk to face the one Tracy chose. “Okay. Whoever ‘he’ is, it sounds like he doesn’t want you to think anybody will believe you. Which doesn’t mean they won’t.”
Tracy thought about that. “Maybe. Except—” she blushed “—I’m not a very good student. And I dress kind of…”
Like a slut, Mariah filled in. Aloud she said, “Provocatively?”
Tracy knew that word. She nodded.
“It’s against the law for a man to rape a prostitute, you know.”
“You mean, a whore?”
“That’s right. In other words, your clothing or even, in the case of a prostitute, your profession do not constitute an invitation. No one can touch you without your permission.” She paused a beat. “Is that what happened?”
Tracy’s blue eyes filled with tears. After a moment, she gave a jerky nod.
“Will you tell me about it?” Mariah asked gently.
“The first time, he, um, just touched me.”
“Where?” She kept her voice patient.
“My…well, my breasts. And, um, he kissed me.”
“Did you mind? Or did you like it?”
“I guess I kind of… I mean, he’s older and everything,” the thirteen-year-old mumbled to the desk.
“You were flattered.”
Tracy squirmed. “Kind of.”
“Okay. Any of us might be.”
