I nodded, though my mind immediately leapt to a single thought: If I didn’t contact them, I wouldn’t know what happened. But maybe that was the point. Maybe the police already suspected what I was afraid to name.
When I went back into Lucy’s room, she was calmer, sipping from her cup with small, careful sips. She watched me like a hawk.
“Did you talk to him?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, sitting beside her. “I talked to him.”
“Am I in trouble?” she whispered.
My heart cracked. “No,” I said firmly. “No, baby. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
She blinked hard, as if she couldn’t quite accept that.
Chris sat in the chair on the other side of the bed, leaning forward, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white. “Hey, Lu,” he said softly. “We’re right here.”
Lucy’s eyes flicked to him and then back to me, and she gave a tiny nod.
I knew I wasn’t supposed to contact anyone about the case. I also knew I couldn’t sit there in that sterile room with my child’s hair still damp from heat and not demand answers from the people who had been responsible for her.
So I did what I’ve always done: I broke the rules for my family— not to protect them, but to protect my daughter.
I called Amanda.