something that might have happened when Taylor was seven or eight. “And you have no idea what happened, what might have brought this on?”
“I always figured it was something at school. Kids can be so cruel.” Marian turned away from the photo, tears spilling down her cheeks again.
True that, as Detective Wolf would say. Aimee glanced over her shoulder. He was standing in the kitchen, but she had a feeling that everything they said was being analyzed.
Aimee looked back at the photo, at the joyful, laughing child so sure of herself and her place in the world. It was nearly impossible to connect this image with the blood-covered, wordless girl in the emergency room. Her heart sped up a bit. Knowing when whatever had happened to Taylor had occurred was a first step in figuring out what had happened.
Then Aimee’s heart sank. She wouldn’t have the opportunity to try. By the end of the day, Taylor would be safely ensconced in the Whispering Pines Center and Aimee’s services would no longer be necessary.
Aimee looked again at the carefree little girl in the photo, wishing she could ask that sweet, open face who had hurt her. When, and how? There would be no answer to why; there never really was. At least not enough of a reason to rob someone of their innocence, of their trust.
“I’m sure it was nothing at home,” Marian went on. “My sister…my sister was a wonderful mother. Orrin was a wonderful provider. He always wanted the very best of everything for Stacey and Taylor.” Her voice shook. “Top of the line for his girls. Nothing less. Ever.” She wiped her eyes. “Taylor’s room is this way.”
Aimee followed her down the hallway, Detective Wolf at their heels. Aimee ignored him.
Taylor’s bedroom was a testament to how recently her personality had changed and how desperately someone—most likely her mother—had been clinging to whom she had been before. The centerpiece of the room was a confection of a canopy bed, the top still covered with a flowered and eyeleted flounce of fabric. The desk was white and pink and the dressers were candy-colored, too. The light lavender walls with the orchid stencil motif around the ceiling, however, had been covered with posters of bands. My Chemical Romance. Death Cab for Cutie. AFI. Aimee recognized most of the names. Taylor had often come to therapy with her arms covered with elaborate ballpoint pen drawings with the names of those bands as the centerpiece. Stacey had actually been relieved when she had started writing on herself instead of cutting; she had felt it was great progress.
The rumpled bedspread on the unmade bed and the curtains were clearly new additions. The bedspread was red satin with a black velvet lining. The curtains were lacey with a spider motif worked into them. The bookshelf had books with titles like Everything That Creeps and Amphigorey , although the book on the nightstand was Be Your Own Best Friend . Another book, a graphic novel about Buffy the Vampire Slayer, sat on the dresser. Aimee picked it up. There was a yellow Post-it note attached to it that read, “Thought you might enjoy this. Sean.”
“Very goth,” Aimee said, looking around.
“More emo, actually,” Marian said.
Aimee raised her eyebrows in a question.
“My Margot is five years older than Taylor. That’s what she said when Taylor started acting this way. She said she’d gone emo. You know, emotional rock. Sort of like punk but with more feeling.” Marian was already opening drawers and taking out clothing.
Detective Wolf, standing in the doorway, nodded toward the posters. “Those bands are all emo bands.” When Aimee turned to him, he shrugged. “I’ve got nieces and nephews.”
Marian tried to smooth the bedspread out to stack the clothing and encountered a lump under the covers. She fished underneath and pulled out a battered stuffed dog. “Oh,” she said, sinking down on the bed. “It’s Sammy.”
Aimee sat down next to her. “Is Sammy
“I always figured it was something at school. Kids can be so cruel.” Marian turned away from the photo, tears spilling down her cheeks again.
True that, as Detective Wolf would say. Aimee glanced over her shoulder. He was standing in the kitchen, but she had a feeling that everything they said was being analyzed.
Aimee looked back at the photo, at the joyful, laughing child so sure of herself and her place in the world. It was nearly impossible to connect this image with the blood-covered, wordless girl in the emergency room. Her heart sped up a bit. Knowing when whatever had happened to Taylor had occurred was a first step in figuring out what had happened.
Then Aimee’s heart sank. She wouldn’t have the opportunity to try. By the end of the day, Taylor would be safely ensconced in the Whispering Pines Center and Aimee’s services would no longer be necessary.
Aimee looked again at the carefree little girl in the photo, wishing she could ask that sweet, open face who had hurt her. When, and how? There would be no answer to why; there never really was. At least not enough of a reason to rob someone of their innocence, of their trust.
“I’m sure it was nothing at home,” Marian went on. “My sister…my sister was a wonderful mother. Orrin was a wonderful provider. He always wanted the very best of everything for Stacey and Taylor.” Her voice shook. “Top of the line for his girls. Nothing less. Ever.” She wiped her eyes. “Taylor’s room is this way.”
Aimee followed her down the hallway, Detective Wolf at their heels. Aimee ignored him.
Taylor’s bedroom was a testament to how recently her personality had changed and how desperately someone—most likely her mother—had been clinging to whom she had been before. The centerpiece of the room was a confection of a canopy bed, the top still covered with a flowered and eyeleted flounce of fabric. The desk was white and pink and the dressers were candy-colored, too. The light lavender walls with the orchid stencil motif around the ceiling, however, had been covered with posters of bands. My Chemical Romance. Death Cab for Cutie. AFI. Aimee recognized most of the names. Taylor had often come to therapy with her arms covered with elaborate ballpoint pen drawings with the names of those bands as the centerpiece. Stacey had actually been relieved when she had started writing on herself instead of cutting; she had felt it was great progress.
The rumpled bedspread on the unmade bed and the curtains were clearly new additions. The bedspread was red satin with a black velvet lining. The curtains were lacey with a spider motif worked into them. The bookshelf had books with titles like Everything That Creeps and Amphigorey , although the book on the nightstand was Be Your Own Best Friend . Another book, a graphic novel about Buffy the Vampire Slayer, sat on the dresser. Aimee picked it up. There was a yellow Post-it note attached to it that read, “Thought you might enjoy this. Sean.”
“Very goth,” Aimee said, looking around.
“More emo, actually,” Marian said.
Aimee raised her eyebrows in a question.
“My Margot is five years older than Taylor. That’s what she said when Taylor started acting this way. She said she’d gone emo. You know, emotional rock. Sort of like punk but with more feeling.” Marian was already opening drawers and taking out clothing.
Detective Wolf, standing in the doorway, nodded toward the posters. “Those bands are all emo bands.” When Aimee turned to him, he shrugged. “I’ve got nieces and nephews.”
Marian tried to smooth the bedspread out to stack the clothing and encountered a lump under the covers. She fished underneath and pulled out a battered stuffed dog. “Oh,” she said, sinking down on the bed. “It’s Sammy.”
Aimee sat down next to her. “Is Sammy
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