Secrets to the Grave

21

Anne walked into the hospital room, Haley Fordham’s screams piercing her eardrums. She went straight to the doctor standing at the foot of the bed, a small dark-haired man with a close-cropped beard. He was making notes in the chart, strangely calm, considering the state the child was in.

“Anne Leone,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m a court-appointed special advocate. Detective Mendez asked me to come.”

That sounded very official, at least, she thought, even though there was nothing official about it. They were circumventing protocol in about eight different ways. There was no one from Child Services present. Anne had not been assigned to Haley Fordham’s case. She hadn’t spoken to her supervisor to apprise her of the situation. She didn’t know if relatives had been notified. The list went on. But in her heart her only concern was for the terrified child in the bed.

“Dr. Silver,” he said, clipping his pen to the chart and shaking her hand.

“Why are you letting her scream like this?” she asked. “Isn’t there something you can give her to help her calm down?”

“She’s just coming out of a coma. She hasn’t responded to anyone. It’s as if we aren’t here. This sometimes happens with brain injury patients,” he explained. “She probably doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.”

Anne looked from the doctor to the child and back. “I’m sorry,” she said calmly. “You’re an idiot.”

She didn’t bother to care that Dr. Silver was offended. She didn’t bother to introduce herself to the well-dressed older woman standing frozen in shock along the wall. She went alongside the bed to the head of it, where Haley Fordham was curled into a ball, shrieking.

“Haley?” she said softly, reaching her hand out to the little girl. “Haley, sweetheart, you’re all right. I know you’re scared. You don’t need to be afraid, honey. We’re all here to help you.”

Still screaming, the child looked up at her. Her eyes were entirely bloodred, petechial hemorrhages filling the whites of her eyes around the dark iris and pupils. It was a result of the strangulation, but even knowing that, Anne was startled at the sight.

“It’s okay,” Anne murmured, brushing the girl’s damp dark curls back from her forehead. “It’s okay, Haley. You’re not alone. I’m here for you.”

The screams subsided as the little girl looked up at her. Her breath caught and hiccupped and stuttered in her throat. She was trembling, dressed only in a flimsy hospital gown. White tape held an IV catheter in place in her tiny arm.

The bruises on her throat were purple. Anne felt her own throat tighten. She knew exactly how it felt to be choked, to look up into the face of the person trying to take her life away from her. Had Haley known the person doing that to her? How confused and terrified she must have been.

Her mother had to have been dead by then. No mother would have stood by and allowed someone to harm her child this way, no matter how dire the circumstances. Haley had been all alone with her killer.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she whispered, continuing to stroke the girl’s hair. “I’m so sorry.”

Slowly Haley came up on her knees and reached her arms out. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. She tried again, croaking out a scratchy sound.

“I can’t hear you, honey,” Anne said, bending down close.

Haley wrapped her arms around Anne’s neck and the word came out in a whisper as the tears began again.

“Mommy.”

Anne’s heart broke for the little girl. She held her close and rubbed her back and kissed the top of her head, offering as much comfort as she could.

Finally the woman draped in Gucci and reeking of Chanel moved forward.

“Thank God someone has a magic touch,” she said softly. “I had no idea what to do. I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“She’s terrified,” Anne said, irritated that neither this woman nor the doctor seemed to have been able to figure out something so simple.

“She wouldn’t even look at us,” Bordain said. “It was like she was in her own world.”

In her own world where she was watching her mother be butchered and was helpless to escape the killer, Anne thought.

“Did you know Marissa?”

Anne glanced at her. “No. I never met her.”

“But Haley went to you,” the woman said, bemused.

Milo Bordain, Anne realized, doyenne of Oak Knoll society. Anne had seen her picture in the paper many times—photographs from various charity fund-raisers and the summer music festival. She was a tall, handsome woman in her fifties. Her features were just a couple of steps this side of masculine, but perfectly made up. Marissa Fordham’s sponsor, Vince had said.

A woman who had probably spent time with Haley—at least in proximity to her. But not quality time, Anne guessed. She had not one hair out of place, but scraped back against her skull and pulled into a flawless, tight chignon at the base of her skull. She wore a beautifully patterned silk scarf draped artfully around her broad shoulders over the top of her camel-hair blazer, pinned in place with a jewel-encrusted brooch. Chocolate brown kid gloves and a pair of perfectly pressed black slacks completed the picture.

“Mommy!” Haley wailed, burrowing her face into Anne’s shoulder.

Anne rocked her and shushed her, and stroked her hair.

“I don’t understand,” Bordain said, hurt. “I’ve known Haley since she was a baby. She’s like a granddaughter to me. It was like she didn’t even recognize me.”

Haley’s cries were building toward another crescendo.

Anne cut the woman a look. “If you don’t mind,” she said. “I’m a little busy here.”

Offended, Milo Bordain drew herself up to her full height—she had to be six feet tall, if not a little more—and looked down her patrician nose at Anne.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes,” Anne replied. “I just don’t care. This isn’t about you.”

Bordain left the room without another word. Anne watched her through the glass wall as she marched up to Cal Dixon and Vince to file her grievance.

Later, Anne thought, she might feel a little guilty for being rude to the woman. But for now, she cared only about the child in her arms.