Chapter 8: What Chloe's Mother Said
Her name was Paula Marsh.
She cried for the first two minutes of the call and I let her, and then she stopped and apologized and I told her not to.
"Chloe talks about Lily," she said.
"Even before all of this.
She'd come home from school and say Lily did this, Lily said that.
They sit near each other."
"I know," I said.
"Lily talks about her too."
"I dropped her off at that house." Paula's voice broke on the last word and then steadied.
"I stood at the front door.
Brenda Cole offered me a cup of coffee and I said no thank you because I had errands to run.
I stood at that door and I thought she seemed nice.
She had a nice house.
The girls were excited."
"You couldn't have known."
"I should have known something.
I should have felt something."
"Paula—"
"She told me about the name game," Paula said.
"When she finally told me.
She said Mrs.
Cole made it sound fun.
Like a spy game.
She said she was a little scared but she didn't want to be the only one who was scared, so she didn't say anything." A long pause.
"She said she was scared of letting the other girls down."
I closed my eyes.
"She's eight," Paula said.
"She was scared of letting the other girls down."
We were both quiet for a moment.
"Lily said Chloe's real name out loud," I said.
"In the room.
When the man was there.
That's what got her separated from the others."
"I know." Paula's voice was very low.
"The detective told me.
She said it was brave." A pause.
"Chloe doesn't think it was brave.
She thinks she made a mistake.
She thinks she ruined the game."
"She didn't ruin anything."
"I know that.
But she's eight." Paula exhaled slowly.
"I've been trying to explain it to her.
That saying her own name was the right thing.
That it was the bravest thing.
But she keeps asking me why Mrs.
Cole got so angry if she did the right thing."
I didn't have an answer for that.
Not one that would make sense to an eight-year-old.
"The detective says there will be a trial," Paula said.
"Or trials.
She says it might take a long time."
"It probably will."
"Will Lily have to testify?"
"I don't know yet.
I hope not.
But I don't know."
Paula was quiet for a moment.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"When you pulled up that morning — when you saw Brenda dragging Lily down the steps — did you know right away?
Did you know something was wrong before Lily said anything?"
I thought about that.
About the ripping seam on the windbreaker.
About the wrong shoes.
About the way Lily's eyes had been fixed on Brenda's knees, not on me.
"I knew something was wrong," I said.
"I didn't know what."
"But you stayed.
You didn't just take Lily and drive away."
"No."
"Why not?"
I thought about the seven sleeping bags.
About the nametag on the seventh one.
About the door closing quietly somewhere inside the house.
"Because Lily told me Chloe was still in there," I said.
"And I wasn't going to leave without knowing she was okay."
Paula didn't say anything for a moment.
Then she said: "Thank you.
I've been trying to find a way to say that since it happened and I couldn't find the right words.
But that's it.
Thank you for not driving away."
I held the phone and didn't say anything.
"Will you bring Lily to see Chloe sometime?" Paula asked.
"When they're both ready.
No rush.
Just — I think it would help Chloe to see her."
"Yes," I said.
"When they're both ready."
After we hung up, I went to Lily's room.
She was awake again, sitting at her small desk, drawing something with colored pencils.
I stood in the doorway.
"What are you drawing?"
She held it up.
Seven sleeping bags, drawn in careful rows.
Six of them had simple smiley faces on them.
The seventh one had a name written on it in large, deliberate letters.
CHLOE.
"I'm going to give it to her," Lily said.
"So she knows I didn't forget her."
I leaned against the doorframe.
"That's a good idea," I said.
Lily looked at the drawing for a moment.
Then she picked up a red pencil and wrote her own name — LILY — on the sleeping bag next to Chloe's.
"So she knows which one is me," she said.
Outside, the street was quiet.
The police cruisers were gone from Brenda Cole's driveway.
The house sat behind its pristine hedges, the heavy oak door closed, the curtains drawn.
But Gerald Fitch's kitchen light was on.
May you like
And somewhere across town, a detective was reviewing footage that didn't lie.
And in a house two streets over, a little girl named Chloe Marsh was sitting with her mother, learning, slowly, that saying her own name had not been a mistake.
