Before She Was Found Page 4

  “A little pinch here, Violet,” she says, and I wince when she inserts a needle in the crook of Violet’s arm. She doesn’t even flinch. Judy draws several vials of blood and then sets up an IV drip of clear liquid. Then she reaches down with gloved hands and picks up Violet’s shorn clothing. I expect her to toss them into the wastebasket but instead she places them inside a plastic bag, seals it and affixes a label to the front. She reaches for a cell phone sitting on the metal tray and drops it into another bag and seals it shut.

  “Now I’m going to get you cleaned up, Violet. Does that sound like a good plan to you?” the nurse asks. Violet gives no indication that she hears the question.

  “Why won’t she answer?” I ask, tears stinging my eyes. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Like Dr. Soto said, she may be in shock. It happens sometimes when there’s a traumatic event. You’ll come around, won’t you, Violet?” The nurse smiles down at her. “We’ll have you sitting up and talking in no time. But for now we’ll keep you warm and get all cleaned up.” The nurse holds up a small blue hospital gown. “First thing we’ll do is get you into this lovely outfit.” Judy deftly dresses her, nimbly shifting Violet’s weight so she can button the gown into place. Violet is nearly swallowed up in the fabric.

  “Do you know if Cora is okay?” I ask Judy, who situates a metal cart with an arrangement of paper envelopes, jars in a variety of sizes, a large tweezer, a camera and several other items I can’t identify next to Violet’s bed.

  “Cora?” Judy asks. I glance over at Violet to see if hearing her friend’s name brings any reaction. It doesn’t. “I don’t know who that is.”

  “She’s the other girl who was brought here. She came in an ambulance,” I explain. “She looked like she was hurt pretty badly.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that. Let’s just focus on Violet right now,” Judy says, holding up a small spatula-shaped tool. “See this, Violet? I’m going to use this to clean your fingernails, okay? It won’t hurt a bit.” I watch while Judy uses the spatula to scrape dried blood from beneath Violet’s fingernails and deposit it within one of the paper envelopes.

  This is when I understand that this nurse isn’t just treating my daughter for shock or dehydration, she’s collecting evidence. This is why they bagged up Violet’s bloody clothing and cell phone. That’s what the camera is for and the thought of others seeing photos of my daughter, half-dressed and covered in her best friend’s blood, is too much.

  My stomach lurches and I leap from the chair, unable to speak. I stagger out to the hallway in search of a bathroom. Probably from the look on my face, a woman pushing a cart of cleaning supplies points me in the right direction. I make it to the toilet just in time before I start heaving. The sour taste of the chicken marsala and wine Sam and I ate fills my throat.

  Who could have done this? She’s nearly catatonic and they are poking and prodding her to gather evidence. I think again of Cora, somewhere in this hospital being treated for terrible injuries. I need to know what is going on and at the same time want to know nothing. I only want to take Violet home with me and try not to think about any of this.

  I sit on the floor for a minute catching my breath before pushing myself up from my knees and flushing the toilet. I try to rinse the bitter taste from my mouth with water from the tap. I run my fingers through my hair and take several deep breaths before stepping back into the hallway. I’m still not ready to go back into Violet’s room. God, I’m such a coward.

  Dr. Soto is standing outside Violet’s room talking with the officer who drove us to the hospital. Dr. Soto glances my way, his face grim. My first thought is that Violet must have taken a turn for the worse and I press my fingers against the wall to steady myself. The officer turns and I register the worry in his eyes, the tightness around his mouth. I will my legs to move me forward but I don’t want to hear what they are going to tell me. I have only been away for a few minutes. What possibly could have gone wrong?

  Dr. Soto and the officer move toward me and for an instant I want to run. If they can’t catch me they won’t be able to give me the news. My thoughts travel to the darkest corners: collapsed lungs, a brain bleed, a ruptured spleen, internal injuries that might have gone undetected. I can’t catch my breath and as they draw closer I press myself more closely to the wall, trying to make myself smaller, trying to disappear.

  “Ms. Crow,” the officer begins. My eyes are on Dr. Soto, who must recognize my terror and lays a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Violet’s fine,” he says.

  I want to cry. I want to lash out at them for scaring me so badly. “What is it?” I ask, unable to keep the anger from my voice but instantly I’m sorry for it. “Is it Cora, then? Is she okay?”

  Officer Grady ignores my question. “I really need to ask Violet a few questions,” he says. “We need to get as much information about what happened as possible.”

  “I told him that he needed to talk with you first before speaking with her,” Dr. Soto says before excusing himself.

  “I don’t know,” I hesitate. “She’s in shock. I don’t think she’s in any condition to talk to anyone. She tried to say something at the train yard but I couldn’t hear what it was. Maybe one of the other cops heard what she said.” Officer Grady shifts from foot to foot, runs a thumb across his lips but doesn’t say anything. “What?” I ask. “Do you know something? Did she say who did this?”

  “I just really need to question your daughter. The more time that passes, the harder it will be to work out what happened. Do I have your permission to talk to Violet?”

  “No,” I say. “No one is talking to Violet. Not until you tell me what you know. Who is he?” Again, the worst pinballs through my head. A sex trafficking ring, a deranged drifter, a serial killer. “If you won’t tell me, I want to talk to someone who will.”

  “One of the other officers did hear Violet say some names,” Officer Grady tells me, though I know he doesn’t want to.

  “Names?” My stomach clenches again. “There was more than one person?” It’s bad enough to think that one horrible person attacked Violet and Cora, but the thought that there were two monsters is too much.

  “Yeah, Violet said two names. Joseph Wither and something that sounded like George or Jordon.”

  “Jesus.” I lean against the wall for support. “Jordyn Petit. She’s a friend of Violet’s. She must have been there, too. Did you find her? Is she okay?”

  “I don’t know anything about another girl but we have a guy back in Pitch checking into it.”

  “It’s Jordyn Petit. I know it is. You have to send someone to find out if she’s okay.”

  “Don’t worry, we’re on it,” he says and I want to scream. How can he tell me not to worry? I’m about ready to ask him this when it hits me that he mentioned another name. “Wait,” I say. “You said another name—Joseph...”

  “Wither,” Officer Grady finishes for me.

  I’ve heard the name before. Something to do with a school project, I think. I’ve been working so many hours lately. I really haven’t been paying attention as much as I should have. “Who is he?” I ask. “Did he do this? Is someone out looking for him?”

  Officer Grady sighs and he looks oddly at ease. “There is no Joseph Wither,” he says. This isn’t the response I was expecting.

  “What do you mean?” I ask in confusion. “He didn’t do this?”

  Officer Grady shakes his head. “No, he didn’t. He’s not real. Not anymore, anyway. Joseph Wither, if he is still alive, would be a very old man today. Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt the girls?” he asks.

  Officer Grady can see that my mind is still stuck on this Joseph Wither person and he holds up his hand to stop me from questioning him any further. “Trust me, Joseph Wither doesn’t exist. For every minute that passes we lose precious time finding Jordyn and who did this.” Impatience is creepi
ng into his voice so I let Joseph Wither go for the moment.

  “They are twelve,” I say. “I can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt them. No one. Do you think someone was trying to kidnap them?” I ask, my stomach churning as sex offenders and human traffickers and other dark thoughts lodge themselves in my brain.

  “I promise you, we’ve got someone checking out that possibility. What about the girls?” Grady asks. “How did they get along with each other?”

  It takes me a second for his question to register. He can’t possibly think that Jordyn did this to Cora. I open my mouth to tell him he’s crazy, wasting his time, but then shut it again. I’ve only met Jordyn a few times, and while she is always polite to me, I get the sense that she is the queen bee of the group. Violet and Cora watch her carefully, gauging Jordyn’s reaction to what they say, what they do, how they dress. But violent? No way.

  “Ms. Crow?” Officer Grady raises his eyebrows, waiting for my response.

  “No,” I say firmly. “Jordyn gets along just fine with Violet and Cora. I can’t imagine her hurting anyone.”

  “What about Violet?” he asks pointedly. “Has she had any physical confrontations with anyone? With classmates? Friends?”

  “What? No!” I say. “Violet’s never been in a fight with anyone. You don’t think Violet had anything to do with this, do you?” I ask.

  “I have to ask,” Officer Grady says. “Can you think of anyone who would target the girls?” he asks, moving on, but the idea has been brought up; it’s crossed his mind. Officer Grady thinks that Violet and Jordyn may be behind the attack.

  Thomas Petit

  Monday, April 16, 2018

  A shrill ringing yanks Thomas from his sleep. With his sons grown and his day-to-day role as owner of Petit’s Bar and Grill greatly diminished, Thomas thought perhaps he would finally be able to start sleeping past 6:00 a.m. In the early days his schedule had been brutal. For years, he tiptoed into bed well after 1:00 a.m., careful not to wake his wife and kids. The couple would get up just a few hours later to head next door to Petit’s to prepare for the lunch crowd.

  He is in the house alone. A predicament that is both unfamiliar and unsettling. Tess, his wife of forty-five years, is convalescing in a skilled-care facility in Grayling after a nasty fall and his granddaughter, Jordyn, is spending the night at the Landry girl’s house. The ringing continues and Thomas realizes that this won’t be his day to lounge beneath the covers. With effort he sits up, shoves the down comforter aside and eases his legs over the edge of the bed until his toes find the cold wood floor. He shivers through the thin fabric of his boxer shorts and T-shirt.

  Each step sends bolts of pain through the soles of his feet and coursing through the ropy purple veins that line his legs, the result of years of standing behind the bar. As the day goes on, the aches will become less pronounced but until then he will limp along, clutching at heavy pieces of furniture to keep upright.

  “Dammit to hell,” he mutters, nearly tripping over Jordyn’s soccer ball, and the house phone stops ringing.

  Thomas wishes briefly that he would have kept the smartphone his youngest son, Donny, sent him last Christmas. “This one works just fine,” he said, holding up a flip phone that Jordyn called archaic. A word she said she learned in English class. It means old, Grandpa, just like you, she teased. “What do I need a fancy phone for?” Thomas asked incredulously.

  “Emergencies,” Tess said.

  “Shopping,” Donny offered.

  “Snapchat,” Jordyn giggled.

  Thomas gave them a look that let them know the topic wasn’t up for discussion and the phone disappeared back into its box and then reappeared a few months later on Jordyn’s twelfth birthday. Now he is considering buying two smartphones. One for Tess and one for himself.

  With the house quiet once again, Thomas debates whether to go back to bed or keep pushing forward to the kitchen where the thought of coffee beckons. Again, the phone begins its maddening trill, making Thomas’s decision for him. He picks up his pace, trying to ignore the needle-sharp prickles of pain that he thought he would have become accustomed to by now. No such luck.

  “Hello,” Thomas says into the receiver, not bothering to disguise his irritation.

  “Mr. Petit?” an official, unfamiliar voice asks.

  “Is my wife okay?” Thomas asks. A shiver of fear runs down his spine. He knows how quickly hip injuries can lead to something even worse like pneumonia and blood clots and infections of the bone.

  “Mr. Petit, this is Officer Blake Brenner from the Johnson County Sheriff’s Office. Does a child by the name of Jordyn live in your household?”

  “What happened now?” Thomas asks. He loves Jordyn beyond words but drama seems to cling to his granddaughter like cockleburs. Last month, the local police brought Jordyn home after she was caught climbing the Pitch water tower east of town.

  “Relax, Grandpa,” Jordyn had told him. “It’s no big deal.”

  “Sir, does Jordyn Petit reside in your home?” the officer asks firmly, his voiced edged with tension.

  Thomas leans against the corner of the kitchen counter. “Yes, she’s my granddaughter. Is she okay? She’s supposed to be spending the night at a friend’s house.”

  “Is her mother or father available?” the officer asks.

  “No. My wife and I are her legal guardians. Jordyn’s parents aren’t able to care for her.” It pains Thomas to admit that his eldest son and Jordyn’s mother were deadbeats. Unfit to care for Jordyn. “Did something happen?” Thomas asks, finally registering the concern in the officer’s voice.

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. So, you’re telling me that Jordyn is not at home right now?”

  “No, she’s at a friend’s house. Cora Landry’s,” Thomas says but uncertainty pricks at the corner of his thoughts.

  “Jordyn isn’t at the Landrys’ home at this time. That I can confirm,” the deputy says.

  “I’ll go check her bedroom,” Thomas says. “Maybe she came home and I didn’t hear her. Can you hold on a second?”

  Thomas lays the receiver on the counter and moves as quickly as he can to the bottom of the stairs. “Jordyn, are you up there?” he hollers. There’s no response. With a sigh he begins the ascent, one knee catching and crackling with each step, the other refusing to bend. By the time he reaches the landing, he’s out of breath, damp with sweat and thoroughly irritated.

  “Jordyn!” he booms, pushing through the bedroom door, finding it empty. Grabbing tightly to the banister, Thomas makes his way back down the steps and picks up the phone, hoping that the officer hasn’t hung up, impatient for his return.

  “She’s not here,” Thomas says, anxiety squeezing at his chest. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “We’ll send an officer over to your house, Mr. Petit. She’ll fill you in on what we know.”

  The line goes dead and Thomas slowly lowers the receiver from his ear. He and Tess have raised Jordyn since she was four, after their oldest son, Randy, came back home and dropped her off. “I can’t deal with her,” Randy said, “and I can’t find her mom.” Then he left. They hear from him only a few times a year by way of a phone call, a postcard or birthday card.

  Thomas wanted to tell Randy to stop calling altogether. That the sound of his voice and his letters made Jordyn sad and out of sorts. But Tess told him that barring Randy from Jordyn’s life would be a mistake that Jordyn would hold against them one day. So he held his tongue.

  Jordyn is the daughter he and Tess never got the chance to raise. Betsy, their third-born, didn’t live to see her first full year and Tess never quite recovered from the loss. She loved her boys but they weren’t Betsy, and Jordyn reminded them of their daughter.

  If Jordyn wasn’t at the Landry house, then where was she? The bar and grill, Thomas thinks. Maybe Jordyn went next door. She spent a lot o
f time in the office and the restaurant part of the business. Thomas limps to his bedroom and pulls on a pair of jeans from the bureau and a shirt from the closet.

  Despite the recent trouble with the local police, the over-the-top drama, the slammed doors, the icy silences that come with a preteen girl, Jordyn has been more joy than trouble over the years. Tess taught her how to make gingerbread and ptichie moloko—birds’ milk cake—and how to knit. She braided her hair and told her about growing up on a farm, the daughter of immigrants from Russia, and stories of Baba Yaga and Kikimora, the House Hag.

  For his part, Thomas taught Jordyn about how to run a business. Put her to work sweeping and taking inventory, taught her, much to Tess’s chagrin, how to mix drinks. All alcohol-free, of course.

  Thomas pushes through the front door, the newly risen sun momentarily blinding him, the air mild against his face. Holding tightly to the wrought-iron railing, he picks his way down the four concrete steps that lead to the sidewalk. Directly next door is Petit’s. The twin buildings are two stories tall and made of red brick and weeping mortar.

  When the boys were small they lived above the bar in the cramped second floor but eventually bought the building next door after Tess complained that the noisy patrons kept the boys up late into the night and filled their ears with crass language and their heads with unsavory ideas.

  By the time Thomas climbs up the steps to the bar he is breathing heavily and sweating. Peeking through the window he sees Kevin, the young man who has taken over the day-to-day duties of running the bar, wiping down the scarred mahogany counter. He tries the door handle but it doesn’t open. Kevin keeps the door locked before opening time to ensure that no one wanders in with hopes of getting an early-morning cocktail.

  He raps on the door but Kevin doesn’t even look up. Thomas can hear the faint trill of the phone and bangs harder, the glass shivering with each strike. He must be listening to music, he thinks. That’s why Kevin doesn’t hear the bar phone ring, why he can’t hear him knocking. He waves his hands in front of the window and Kevin finally glances up. Kevin takes his time unlocking the door and when he does Thomas reaches up and rips the earbuds from his ears.