The Jodi Picoult Collection #3 Read online

  This means that the prosecution has established a witness to tie Andrew to the abduction—and for reasons I’ve never understood, juries hang on the words of witnesses, even when their accounts aren’t accurate. I open my mouth to tell Emma that I could actually care less, that I’m excusing myself from this case starting immediately, but instead I only hang up the phone and walk back to where Delia is now standing alone.

  She looks like she has been stung, like she is still smarting. And why shouldn’t she? It’s not every day you find out that someone you trust has been lying behind your back; for Delia, this is becoming commonplace. “I told Fitz to go to hell,” she says quietly. “I said he could quote me on that in twenty-point type.” She turns to me. “I should have realized that if he came all the way out here, it was because he had an agenda.”

  “For what it’s worth,” I say, “I don’t think he wanted to write this story any more than you want to see it written.”

  “I told him things I haven’t even told you . . . God, Eric, I took him with me the last time I went to see my mother.” She pushes her hair off her face. “What else is wrong?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Fitz said you had something to tell me. Is there something wrong with my father’s case?”

  She is staring at me with those beautiful brown eyes, the same ones I remember from a thousand moments in my life: the summer Sunday when I showed off by jumping off the high dive at the town pool; the February vacation when I broke my leg skiing; the night I made love to her for the first time.

  To the left of her foot, the paper that had been beside Fitz’s glasses bursts into flame.

  “There’s nothing wrong with his case,” I lie, and I don’t tell her that I’m giving up, either.

  * * *

  Nighttime in Arizona is an embarrassment of riches. Sophie and I sit on the roof of the trailer, wrapped in a blanket. I show Sophie the Big Dipper, and Orion’s Belt, and a winking red star. She is more interested, though, in locating the alphabet. Just this morning I found one of my depositions on the kitchen table, covered with multiple streams of the letter B. “Daddy,” she says, pointing. “I see a W.”

  “Good for you.”

  “There’s another W, too.”

  The moon is full tonight, and when Sophie points at the stars I can clearly see the trio: W-O-W. To my surprise, when I spell out the letters, she tells me what the word is. “Ruthann taught me,” Sophie says. “I know wow and cat and dog and yes.”

  As she settles back in the V of my legs, I realize that if someone stole Sophie away from me, even if that person was Delia, I would search for her forever. I would turn over every single star, if that’s what it took to find her. But by the same token, if I knew that someone was going to steal her away from me, I guarantee you that I’d take her first and run.

  Suddenly Sophie stands up and bends over, so that her head is between her legs. She looks up at the sky from this vantage point while I panic about her falling off the top of the trailer. “Did you know,” she says, “that WOW, upside down, is MOM?”

  “I guess I never noticed.”

  Sophie leans against my heart. “I think it’s like that on purpose,” she says.

  * * *

  Sometime after midnight Delia climbs up to the roof of the trailer and sits down cross-legged behind me. “My father’s going to go to jail, isn’t he,” she says.

  I gently lay Sophie down on a bed of blankets; she’s fallen asleep against me. “You can’t ever tell in a jury trial—”

  “Eric.”

  I duck my head. “There’s a good chance.”

  She closes her eyes. “For how long?”

  “A maximum of ten years.”

  “In Arizona?”

  I slip my arm around her. “Let’s deal with that when and if it happens.”

  With the moon watching like a hawk, I run my hands over the river of her hair and the landscape of her shoulders. We slip into my sleeping bag together—a tight fit—and she slides over me, her legs pressed the length of mine and her skin slick. We are attentive to silence—Sophie is asleep a few feet away—and that changes the tenor of the act. Without words, the other sensations expand. Sex becomes desperate, secret, precise as a ballet.

  We move, while coyotes pace the desert and snakes write in code across the sand. We move, while the stars rain down on us like sparks. We move, and her body blooms.

  Then we turn onto our sides, still linked, too close for anything to come between us. “I love you,” I whisper against her skin. My words fall into the tiny divot at the base of her throat, the pockmark left behind after a sledding accident.

  But Delia has had that mark ever since I met her, at age four. The sledding accident would have occurred beforehand, when she was living in Phoenix.

  Where it doesn’t snow.

  “Dee,” I say urgently, but she is already asleep.

  That night I dream of running on the surface of the moon, where everything weighs less, even doubt.

  * * *

  Andrew enters the private attorney-client conference room. “I thought you quit.”

  “That was yesterday,” I reply. “Listen, that scar, on Delia’s neck . . . it didn’t come from a sledding accident, did it.”

  “No. It was a scorpion sting.”

  “She was stung by a scorpion on her throat?”

  “She got stung on the shoulder, but by the time Elise found her, she was already in bad shape. At the hospital, they tried to intubate her, but couldn’t do it the regular way, so they cut a hole in her windpipe and put her on a ventilator for three days until she could breathe on her own again.”

  “What hospital did you bring her to?”

  “Scottsdale Baptist,” Andrew says.

  If Delia had been brought into a hospital in 1976 for a scorpion bite, there will be records: written proof that in her mother’s solitary care, this child had been harmed. If it happened once, there was every chance it would happen again. And that might be enough justification for a jury to understand why a protective father might run off with his little girl.

  I gather up my papers and tell Andrew I’ll be in touch. Then I race into the parking lot behind the jail, where I turn the air-conditioning on full blast and call Delia on my cell phone. “Guess what,” I say when she answers. “I think I know why you’re afraid of bugs.”

  * * *

  Scottsdale Baptist Hospital is now Scottsdale Osborn. An administrative assistant who has been following the kidnapping on local news channels has given Delia her old hospital records in return for an autograph. We sit down together in an archive closet, surrounded by walls of files with the colorful confetti of routing tabs. Delia opens the folder, and the musty scent of the past rises up from the small stack of paperwork. I watch her scan the pages, and wonder if she realizes she’s fingering the dime-size hollow at the base of her throat.

  “You read it,” she says a moment later, shoving the folder at me.

  BETHANY MATTHEWS. Date of Visit: 11/24/76.

  History: 3 y/o WF brought in by mother following questionable scorpion sting to L shoulder approximately 1 h PTA. Pt c/o pain to L shoulder as well as difficulty breathing, nausea, and double vision. Mother reports patient has had intermittent “jerking” of her arms as well as two episodes of non-bloody, non-bilious emesis. No LOC, no chest pain, no bleeding.

  PMH: None

  Allergies: NKDA

  Tetanus: UTD

  PE: 128/88 177 34 99.8 98% on RA 20 kg. Anxious, agitated 3 y/o ♀ in moderate distress.

  HEENT: Horizontal nystagmus, PERRLA, copious salivation, OP clear

  Neck: Supple, non-tender, no LAD, no thyromegaly

  Lungs: Slight rhonchi bilaterally, slight incr. WOB, no retractions

  CV: Regular, tachy, no m,r,g

  Abd: s/nt/nd/+bs

  EXT: 2x3 area of erythema on posterior left shoulder, no ecchymoses, no bleeding. 2+ distal pulses x 4

  Neuro: Alert, anxious, horizontal nys