Chapter 6 - What Maya Remembered
The pediatric clinic was nearly empty by the time we arrived.
David refused to let anyone photograph Maya for social media or contact reporters about his return.
The Army had not announced details yet.
For Maya, he wanted the night to remain small.
A doctor examined her while Dana Bell remained nearby.
I stayed with Eli in the waiting area.
David sat beside me.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then I said, “I’m sorry.”
He looked ahead.
“I know.”
“That isn’t enough.”
“No.”
I deserved that.
I stared at Eli sleeping in my arms.
“When Sarah told me Marcus moved in, she said he was helping because you were deployed.”
“How long did you know?”
“Four months.”
David closed his eyes.
“You didn’t tell me.”
“You were overseas.”
“I had email.”
“She said you knew.”
David looked at me.
“She said you approved?”
I nodded.
His jaw tightened.
“She told me Marcus used the guest room.”
David laughed bitterly.
“I guess my bedroom became the guest room.”
“I should have checked.”
“Yes.”
No cruelty.
No comfort.
Only truth.
The doctor eventually asked David to come inside.
When he returned twenty minutes later, his eyes were red.
“Maya says Marcus struck her yesterday.”
I swallowed.
“Will she be okay?”
“The doctor expects the swelling to improve.”
David nodded toward Eli.
“He’s mildly dehydrated but otherwise stable.”
I looked down at the baby.
“Why?”
“Maya says sometimes Marcus told her not to wake Sarah when he cried.”
The sentence sat between us.
A six-year-old had been responsible for knowing when a nine-month-old baby needed help.
David pressed both hands over his face.
“I was four miles away last night.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Motel off Wilma Rudolph Boulevard.”
The guilt in his voice was unbearable.
“You couldn’t know.”
“I drove past the house.”
“David—”
“I saw lights.”
He looked at me.
“I sat across the street for eleven minutes.”
“Why didn’t you go in?”
“Because Mercer told me if this was financial fraud, we needed records before anyone destroyed them.”
He looked toward the examination-room door.
“I thought Sarah was stealing from me.”
His voice broke.
“I didn’t know my daughter needed me.”
Dana Bell stepped into the hallway.
“Mr. Hale?”
David stood immediately.
“Maya wants to tell you something.”
Inside, Maya sat beneath a blanket.
Her hair had been washed.
Without kitchen grease on her face, she looked younger.
Six.
Just six.
David sat beside her.
“What is it?”
She looked at Dana.
Dana nodded.
Maya whispered, “I kept secrets.”
David’s expression softened.
“You don’t have to protect anybody.”
“I wasn’t protecting.”
She looked embarrassed.
“I wrote things.”
“What things?”
“Numbers.”
David frowned.
“What numbers?”
“Cars.”
I remembered Marcus often had visitors.
Maya continued.
“When men came at night, Marcus made me take Eli upstairs.”
“Did you know who they were?”
She shook her head.
“But one had a blue car.”
David waited.
Maya held up six fingers, then four.
“I wrote six-four.”
Dana asked, “Do you mean part of a license plate?”
Maya nodded.
“Did somebody tell you to write it?”
“No.”
“Why did you?”
Maya looked at David.
“Grandpa Thomas taught me.”
David froze.
His father had died when Maya was four.
“What did Grandpa teach you?”
“When I got lost at the fair.”
David remembered.
Maya had wandered behind a vendor booth for six minutes during a county fair.
Thomas had found her and later taught her to notice landmarks, colors, numbers, uniforms.
“Grandpa said if something feels wrong, remember little things.”
David’s eyes filled.
Maya looked toward me.
“I remembered.”
“You did good,” I whispered.
David asked, “Where did you write them?”
“In my green book.”
“Where is it?”
She looked frightened.
“Marcus found it.”
“When?”
“Three days ago.”
David leaned forward.
“What happened?”
“He got mad.”
Her fingers touched the blanket.
“Mom took it.”
Sarah had the notebook.
Maya continued.
“But I made another.”
David blinked.
“Another what?”
“A secret page.”
“Where?”
She looked at Dana.
“Can I tell Daddy?”
“Yes.”
Maya leaned close to David’s ear.
She whispered.
He looked at her.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded.
Twenty minutes later, with Dana’s permission and Mercer coordinating from the house, we returned with an officer to retrieve Maya’s belongings.
She directed us to the bedroom.
Pink curtains.
A small bed.
A crib.
Too many responsibilities packed into one room.
David stood in the doorway as Maya pointed toward a stuffed rabbit on a shelf.
“Inside.”
David squeezed its fabric.
Something crackled.
The officer carefully opened a loose seam.
Inside was a folded sheet of paper.
Childish handwriting covered both sides.
Dates.
Partial license plates.
Names she had heard.
BLUE TRUCK — 82K.
WHITE CAR — VINCE.
MAN SAID WEST BRIDGE.
MOM CRIED.
MARCUS SAID “BEFORE RANGER COMES BACK.”
And at the bottom, written in larger letters:
BLUE STORAGE 214.
David stared at it.
Mercer, now standing behind us, read over his shoulder.
“Bluebird Storage?”
David looked at him.
“There’s one eight miles from here.”
Mercer immediately reached for his phone.
Maya tugged David’s sleeve.
“There’s one more thing.”
He crouched.
“What?”
May you like
She whispered,
“The man named Vince knew Grandpa.”
