Chapter 10
The child advocacy center didn't look like any office I'd been to before. It was a house on a quiet street off Main, pale blue siding, a ramp out front and a sign with a handprint. The CPS worker, Ms. Patel, walked us to the door and held it open. Inside it smelled like coffee and crayons.
A woman met us in the foyer. Late thirties, soft sweater, no uniform, no badge clipped to her belt. She knelt down to his level so she wasn't towering over him.
"I'm Lauren," she said. "I talk with kids in a special room. Your mom's going to wait right out here with Ms. Patel."
He looked up at me. His left cheek was still that patched purple-yellow and his knees were scabbed under his shorts. He'd held my hand the whole drive over, his grip tight and sweaty.
"Is it just talking?" I asked Lauren.
"Just talking. And playing if he wants. No tests."
I nodded. I tried to keep my face still. He didn't let go right away.
"You're right here?" he said to me.
"Right here," I said. "In that room with the chairs. I don't go anywhere."
Ms. Patel touched my forearm lightly, not the bruised one, and said Diane could have water and that there was no rush. Lauren offered him her hand and he took it after a second. She didn't pull him. He walked with her down the short hall to a door with a small window in it. It clicked shut.
Ms. Patel led me to a waiting room. It had a low couch, a box of tissues, a water cooler that gurgled. On the wall was a framed print of a tree. Through the far wall I could hear the faint hum of the air conditioner and nothing else. The recording light above the hallway door stayed off for us. They didn't let parents watch live.
I sat with my keys in my coat pocket. The blue tag was still on the ring. I'd kept it there since the gas station because I didn't know where else to put it. I turned it over and over with my thumb.
Ms. Patel sat across from me with a notebook she didn't write in.
"He'll be about forty minutes," she said. "Lauren's trained in forensic interviewing. She'll use open-ended questions. No leading. We need his words in his way."
I nodded. My mouth was dry. "Do I — will you tell me what he says right after?"
"Yes. We'll bring you in when she's done. If he needs a break, she'll give him one."
The clock above the door ticked. I could hear a car pass on the street outside, a dog bark once. I stared at the tree print and tried not to listen for crying that wasn't coming. My watch pressed into my wrist. Every few minutes I looked at the hallway door.
When it finally opened, Lauren came out alone first. She closed it softly behind her.
"He did well," she said quietly. "Really well."
My chest dropped. "Is he —"
"He's drawing now. Ms. Patel can sit with you while I go over what we have."
She pulled a chair closer and kept her voice low and even, like she was giving a weather report.
"We recorded the whole interview, audio and video. I asked him about his arm and his knees first, just what happened. He used the dolls to show me."
She demonstrated with her own hands, not touching me. "He took the bigger doll and showed a grab, like this, around the upper arm. He said 'he held me tight.' Then he pushed the smaller doll down onto its knees. He said it was on the kitchen floor."
I felt heat crawl up my neck. I clasped my hands to keep them still.
"What did he say about who did it?" I asked. My voice sounded smaller than I wanted it to.
Lauren didn't hesitate. "When I asked who was there, he said 'Uncle Elias.' I asked what happened before that. He said he spilled juice. He knocked a cup over on the counter. He said Uncle Elias was angry. You weren't home."
I swallowed. That was the day I'd picked up an extra shift at the diner. Elias had offered to watch him for three hours. I'd told myself it was fine because he'd been smiling that morning.
"Did he say anything about the playground?" Ms. Patel asked.
Lauren shook her head. "I asked about the playground, where he likes to play. He said no, not the playground. He was very clear. No playground that day. Not outside."
She looked at me then. "We asked if anyone told him what to say. He said no. No coaching. His language was his own. Spilled juice, held me, pushed. That's consistent with the bruise pattern documented at the clinic, the grip mark on the forearm and the bilateral knee contusions."
I covered my mouth for a second. The bruises weren't from falling. They weren't from being clumsy. They were from hands.
"Can I see him?" I said.
"In just a minute. We're finishing the documentation."
Ms. Patel leaned forward. "Diane, this gives us probable cause for Elias. It's also enough to upgrade the safety plan. We spoke with the sheriff while you were waiting. Instead of a voluntary plan, we're moving to protective custody with you as the protective placement. That means legally he stays with you, and Elias has no contact unless the court says so. No more drop-offs, no visits alone."
I stared at her. "He stays with me? Tonight?"
"Tonight and going forward," she said. "You and he together, not separated. We'll file today."
Lauren touched my shoulder lightly. "He asked if you were still in the waiting room. He's ready."
She opened the hallway door and I stood. My legs felt strange, like I'd been sitting too long. At the end of the hall, his little sneakers were still lined up neatly by the interview room door where he'd left them. He was at a low table, a crayon in his hand, a drawing half-colored. When he saw me he slid off the chair and came to me fast.
I knelt and he came into my arms. He smelled like markers. I held the back of his head and breathed.
May you like
"You did good," I whispered.
He nodded against my shirt. Behind him, through the open door, I could see the two dolls still on the table, one lying on its side, one sitting up, and the camera lens small and black in the corner of the room, its red light off now.
