Making Her Way Home. Janice Johnson Kay
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than he’d intended. He was mad at himself for letting her drive. She’d been a danger to everyone else on the road. “Stay put. I can heat some soup if you have any.”
Of course she tried to pop right back up. Her knees must not have been any too steady, because she fell back when he applied a little pressure. This time she stayed, not so much obediently, he suspected, as because she’d forgotten why she wanted to be on her feet.
He found cans of Campbell’s soup as well as some boxed macaroni and cheese and the like. The usual kid-friendly foods. He chose tomato, and added milk to make it cream of tomato. The milk was two percent, not skim; maybe because she thought her niece needed it? After a minute he decided to feed himself, too. He assembled and grilled two cheese sandwiches with sliced tomatoes, the way his mom had made them, then brought plates and bowls to the table. Instead of making coffee, he poured them both glasses of milk.
Ms. Greenway stared at what he’d put in front of her as if she didn’t know what to do with it.
“You need to eat,” he told her again, and watched as she finally lifted a spoonful of soup to her mouth. “Good.”
He ate hungrily and went back to start coffee in the machine she had on the counter. She was eating way more slowly, but sticking to it with a sort of mechanical efficiency.
It bothered Mike that he couldn’t get a more certain read on her now than when he first set eyes on her. Initially he’d tagged her as a cold bitch. Beautiful, but unlikable. Fully capable of disposing of a kid she didn’t want and lying to cover up her crime. But he’d come to believe her shock was genuine. Unless she was an Oscar-worthy actress, it almost had to be.
But there were people who lied that well. He’d met a few. He couldn’t be sure about her.
And the one didn’t preclude the other. She could have killed the kid. Perhaps in a burst of rage or only irritation—planned the cover-up, and now was suffering a physical reaction to what she’d done. Or she could be frightened, after discovering that everyone didn’t totally buy into her story.
He wished he wasn’t attracted to her. That made him second-guess everything he did and said. Was he being nice because that was a good way to lower her guard, or because she was getting to him? Should he have gotten aggressive, in her face, hours ago?
Mike poured their coffee, put one of the mugs in front of her and took a sip of his own. Then he said, “I’d like to look at Sicily’s bedroom, but first I need to see any photos you have of her.”
Ms. Greenway carefully set down what remained of her sandwich. Her expression was momentarily stricken. She gave a stiff nod and stood. Mike let her go, managing only a few more swallows of coffee before she returned with a framed five-by-seven photograph.
“This is the most recent,” she said. “It was her fourth-grade school picture.”
So, over a year old. Kids changed a whole lot in a year.
He took it, both wanting to see her face and reluctant because now she’d become real to him. An individual.
There she was, a solemn-faced little girl who had apparently refused to smile when the photographer said, “Cheese!”
Sicily had a thin face and blond hair with straight bangs across her forehead, the rest equally bluntly cut above her shoulders. Her eyes were, he thought, hazel. She had her aunt’s cheekbones, which made her almost homely now, before she’d grown into them. No one would call her pretty. Her grave expression was unsettling, probably only because of what he knew about her family, but he couldn’t say she looked sad or turned inward. More as if she were trying to penetrate the photographer’s secrets. This was a child who tried hard to see beneath the surface.
After a moment he nodded. “May I borrow this?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Okay. Her room?”
She didn’t ask why he wanted to see it, which meant she’d guessed that he was suspicious.
“This way,” she said, voice polite but remote.
He was able to glance in rooms to each side as he followed her down the short hallway. The house was a three-bedroom two-bath, although none of the rooms were large. The first seemed to be a home office. Across the hall from it was a bathroom, tiled in white up to waist level and wallpapered above that. Beyond it had to be her bedroom and through it a doorway leading into a second bath. Next to the home office was Sicily’s room.
Ms. Greenway stood aside and let him go in. He was worried more than relieved to see signs of a young girl’s occupancy. He’d have been pissed if this whole thing was a hoax and Sicily Marks didn’t exist at all, but at least he wouldn’t have had to worry about her being dead in a shallow grave, either.
He wondered what this room had been used for before Sicily came to stay. Maybe nothing. The walls were white. The only furniture was a twin bed and a dresser. No curtains to soften the white blinds. No artwork. Only one throw rug, right beside the bed, and it was one of those hooked ones that might have been moved from elsewhere in the house. One of the sliding closet doors stood open, letting him see a few pairs of kid-size shoes in a neat row and exactly one dress hanging on a hanger beside a pink denim jacket. He crossed the room and opened each drawer on the dresser in turn. The contents were startlingly skimpy.
“She didn’t come with much.” The words were soft. Ashamed? “Mostly she’d outgrown what she did have.”
Sicily Marks still didn’t have much, he couldn’t help thinking.
“I didn’t use this room.” Ms. Greenway still hovered in the doorway. She was looking around. “We’re going to paint or wallpaper or something, but she hasn’t decided yet….” She didn’t finish.
That was believable, he supposed. “She into pink and purple? All that girly stuff?”
“I’m…not sure.” At least she hadn’t said “I don’t know.” “She seems to like red. But she did pick out a pink jacket. And some pink flats.”
Flats? His gaze fell to the shoes and he saw a pair of pink leather slip-ons.
“I think—” and she sounded sad “—Sicily hasn’t ever been able to buy new or really pick out what she liked. The whole idea that she can is taking her some getting used to. I wanted to buy her a whole new wardrobe in one outing, but she had to think so long about every single thing we bought, we haven’t gotten that far.”
She was talking about her niece in the present tense, which was good. People sometimes slipped up that way, when they were talking about someone they knew was dead.
Yeah, but he’d already concluded Beth Greenway could be one hell of a liar.
“Does she have a school bag?” he asked. “A binder where she might have written down her thoughts? Or does she keep a diary?”
“A diary?” She sounded slightly uncertain. “Not as far as I know. I’m sure she didn’t bring anything like that. Everything she owned was in one small suitcase that had lost a wheel. Her book bag is probably in my office. She usually does her homework there or at the dining-room table. We’re going to get her a desk for in here eventually….” Again her voice trailed off. She backed into the hall and turned toward the office.
Sicily was in fifth grade, she told him. Flipping through the girl’s binder, he learned that she was organized, had careful handwriting with generous loops but no flourishes, and was getting top-notch grades. Excellent! the teacher had scrawled on returned assignments. 99%. 100%. Fine work.
Behind him, Ms. Greenway said, “She’s been in eight schools so far. Rachel kept moving. Mostly around here, but she went to L.A. for a little while, then San Francisco. Somehow Sicily managed to do well in school everywhere she went.”
He caught the note of sadness in her voice. Something else, too. Guilt? Or was it grief, because she knew damn well Sicily wasn’t going to have a chance to do well in school ever again?