Pretty Girl Thirteen. Liz Coley
if we’re not too late.”
Words flew out of her mouth. They weren’t her own. “Why are you so sure he’s still alive?”
“A good question.” The detective flattened his expression to open curiosity. “Is he?” Angie saw the flecks in his eyes take on that hunting gleam.
She shifted on the couch, slightly flustered. What had she asked exactly? “What do you mean? Is he what?”
“Is he alive?” He asked it so casually, Angie could have missed the implication that she knew more than she was saying.
But she didn’t. “How should I know?”
“The tone of your voice suggested you just might.” He didn’t go further. She read it in his face, though. The sharpened shiv he’d held so carefully yesterday might be a murder weapon.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“You used the word ‘he.’ We’re talking about a man? One person?”
She searched her brain, trying to force it to cooperate. It remained stubbornly blank. “I don’t know. It just came out that way.”
“Okay.” He levered himself up with his hands on his knees. “Let’s hope Dr. Grant can help us find some answers. I wanted to make sure you understand that the usual doctor-patient confidentiality laws apply. Even though we have an investigation, Dr. Grant can’t reveal any information that you don’t give her explicit permission to reveal to me or to your parents.”
“Not to us?” Mom gasped.
Though his answer was for Mom, Brogan’s reassurance was really aimed straight at Angie. “Angela needs to feel completely safe and comfortable with the doctor’s discretion. Believe me, at this point, I’m truly more concerned about her recovery than the investigation.”
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll probably tell you.” The hurt expression on Mom’s face was small payback for the load she had dumped on Angie this morning.
“Good luck, then,” Brogan said as he reached for the front doorknob. “I think you’ll like Dr. Grant.”
Angie’s lips moved. The words came from her mouth, but again they weren’t her own thoughts—they came out of left field. “Besides, if he isn’t alive, that would be self-defense, wouldn’t it?” It was like someone else was having a conversation with the detective.
His eyebrows flew up. “Most likely. Any more questions?”
“Definitely not.” Angie clamped her jaw shut.
She didn’t expect Dr. Lynn Grant to be beautiful. A doctor with a plain name like that should be narrow-nosed, gray-haired, and pointy-chinned. Dr. Grant looked like a Gwendolyn Foxworthy or a Meredith Johanssen, with tons of white-blond hair softly curling against round cheeks. Instead of a white lab coat, or something stiffly professional, she wore a shell-pink cashmere sweater set and white wool trousers. All she needed was a pearl choker to complete the glamour ensemble. Oh wait. She had one.
It would have been easier to spill her guts to someone less perfect, if she had any guts to spill. Of course that’s why they brought her here in the first place, to dig into the guts and see what they could find inside.
In the car, Mom had tried to warm her up to the idea. “Keep an open mind,” she began. “A counselor can really be helpful.”
“Right. Like you’ve ever gone to one.” The words came out hard and bitter instead of teasing, like Angie intended.
“Your father and I saw a grief counselor for more than a year. She was helpful.”
“Is she the one who told you a replacement child would make it all better?”
The steering wheel jerked slightly as Mom flinched. “I never, ever, ever, ever gave up on finding you.” A surge on the accelerator punctuated each “ever.”
Seems like Dad did. Angie bit back her automatic response. She knew it wasn’t entirely fair, and if she threw out an accusation that sharp, it would cut Mom to the bone.
Wow. Maybe she really did need a counselor.
Mom sat in the waiting room, her hands strangling an old magazine. Angie knew she wouldn’t read any of it in the next hour.
Angie tried to calm her own jitters as she followed the psychologist into her private office. The walls were paneled in pale wood with lots of knots. They felt like a hundred eyes.
“Sit anywhere you like,” Dr. Grant said, and Angie knew that was like the first test. Open mind, she reminded herself.
The room wasn’t overly large, but aside from a tidy desk, there was space for a stiff vertical armchair facing a blue velour couch, a beanbag in a corner, and a plushy leather recliner. What would a sane person choose? She had no idea, so she decided to throw the test back at the doctor. Angie sat on the desk, careful not to knock over the vase holding a single white rose.
Dr. Grant didn’t crack a frown or a smile, just wheeled her desk chair around. She folded her hands in her lap, comfortably. Angie realized her own arms were crossed like a shield and casually let them slide down to rest on her knees.
“So, Angela Gracie Chapman. What do you prefer to be called?”
Oh God. Another test, she thought, and hesitated too long over the answer.
“Your mother called you Angie,” Dr. Grant said. “Is it okay if I do the same?”
Angie shrugged. “Whatever. Dad calls me Angel. Strangers call me Angela.”
Dr. Grant smiled a little. “Okay, Angela. I hear you. But I don’t anticipate being strangers for long. You can call me Lynn or Doctor or Dr. Grant. Whatever you like.”
The silence stretched, and finally Angie said, “So what am I supposed to do?”
Dr. Grant nodded. “That’s the question of the moment, isn’t it? What are you supposed to do?” She waited.
The confusion and frustration of the last twenty-four hours tumbled out. “I have absolutely no idea.” Angie flung her hands up dramatically. “They totally don’t get it. I mean, look at it from their perspective. They say I was missing. They searched for three years. They spent a ton of money. They eventually got over me and moved on. And then I came back.”
“They moved on?” Dr. Grant asked.
“Did you know my mom is pregnant?”
“No, Angela. I didn’t know that. Pregnant.” She let the word hang in the silence.
Angie picked the rosebud out of its vase and stared into the heart of the white petals. So pure, so clean. “So I guess that was their backup plan. Replace me.”
“I understand your feelings,” she said. “That’s a very natural reaction. Do you want to talk about it?”
Angie shook her head.
“Okay.” The doctor moved on without pushing. That was surprising. “What else don’t they get?”
The outermost petals were browning just at the curled edges. Angie picked one and slid the silken texture between her fingers. “They think I’m sixteen.”
“But you’re not sixteen.”
She felt a glimmer of hope. Finally. Someone believed her. “I’m thirteen. Three years passed for them? No time at all passed for me. Like …” How could she explain? She snapped her fingers. “Like that.”
“Hmm.” Dr. Grant snapped her own fingers, with a puzzled expression. She gestured to a large filing cabinet. “The case notes the department gave me are very sketchy. Why don’t you tell me about the last three days you remember, in as much detail as you can recall.”
So Angie told her about packing for camp, about almost forgetting her toothbrush. She did