Before She Was Found

“A lady walking her dog found the Landry girl and called for help.” Officer Wilson shakes his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Jordyn comes out of the bathroom. Her face is splotchy, eyes red.

“I’ll meet you and Jordyn at the station in an hour,” Officer Wilson says and Jordyn’s eyes fill again with tears.

“I don’t want to—” she begins but Officer Wilson stops her.

“This isn’t a request, Jordyn. Someone messed those girls up pretty bad,” she says and moves toward the exit. “See you soon.”

“Come on, Jordyn,” Thomas says. “You need to get dressed and then we’ll head over to the station. You got things covered here, Kevin?”

Kevin assures them that he’s got things under control and Thomas and Jordyn walk next door in silence. Once inside Jordyn runs up the stairs to her bedroom. The smell of freshly brewed coffee beckons, and Thomas, aching for the rush of caffeine, lifts the carafe too quickly, sending searing liquid down the front of his shirt. Cursing, he quickly sheds the soaked shirt, makes his way to their small laundry room and tosses it in the basket overflowing with dirty clothes. Ever since Tess has been in the hospital the daily chores of laundry, dusting and sweeping have gotten away from him.

Thomas pulls a wrinkled but clean plaid shirt from the dryer. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to press his own clothes—he did—but Tess always said she didn’t mind and he had gotten spoiled that way. Thomas looks at his watch. There was no time for ironing right now; Officer Wilson was expecting them soon. He pulls on the rumpled shirt and tries to smooth out the creases with his fingers.

A pair of Jordyn’s tennis shoes and her jacket are lying in a jumble next to the stacked washer and dryer. No matter how many times Thomas reminds Jordyn to pick up after herself it just doesn’t seem to stick. He has resorted to piling all of Jordyn’s scattered belongings into a laundry basket and dumping them onto her bed, thinking they will be impossible for Jordyn to ignore.

No such luck. With a sigh he reaches down and retrieves the jacket, a light blue fleece that cost about fifty dollars more than it should have. To think that even in the dinky town of Pitch labels matter. Thomas finds it ridiculous, but Tess says that it’s important for Jordyn to fit in, especially with not having her mom and dad around.

Thomas drops the jacket and tennis shoes into a laundry basket filled with more of Jordyn’s wayward possessions when a dark stain on the sleeve of the fleece catches his eye. He fishes it from the pile and examines the three-inch splotch on the cuff. His first thought is that chocolate is a bear to get out of fabric but this stain is more red than brown. He lifts it to his nose and instead of a sweet sugary scent his nose is met with the smell of copper.

He scratches at it experimentally and a rusty patina is left behind on his fingertip. Blood. Thomas searches for any other drops of blood on the jacket but it only seems to be in that one spot, just below where the palm of the hand meets the wrist. Jordyn didn’t say anything about getting hurt, didn’t complain of a recent injury. There wasn’t a lot of blood. Barely enough to mention. But still. He thinks of Cora Landry lying in a hospital bed with her terrible injuries.

Thomas turns away from the basket filled with Jordyn’s shoes, a hairbrush, a pair of socks, a soccer ball and an array of books and magazines and carries the jacket to the sink and turns on the cold water. He reaches into the cupboard for a stain stick and plastic jug of ammonia. It would be a shame, he thinks, scrubbing vigorously at the stubborn spot, if the jacket ended up being ruined.

Dr. Madeline Gideon (#ua3ed6f61-7119-5cc6-9d58-5878148b90d7)

September 14, 2018

I got the call about Cora Landry last April. I had rushed into my office to check my messages and to catch up on some paperwork before my next appointment. I had four voice mails. One from the parent of a patient hoping to reschedule their session, two from pharmaceutical reps and one from a fellow doctor at the hospital—Leo Soto, an ER doc with a smooth, timbered voice and a soothing bedside manner. He wanted me to stop down if I had time. A young girl had been brought in by ambulance early that morning with stab wounds. She was heading into surgery soon to repair the wounds from an attack. Extensive reconstructive work to her face was expected.

Due to the violent attack, Dr. Soto anticipated a need for psychological support for the girl and her family. I remember looking at my watch. I was buried beneath paperwork and my next appointment was due to arrive shortly. It sounded like an interesting case.

After getting the call from Dr. Soto, I made my way through the hospital’s maze of corridors and skywalks that admitted over twenty thousand patients per year and had more than thirty thousand ER visits. I was only one of about seven hundred physicians employed by the hospital but I loved the bustle, brainpower and the diversity the hospital had to offer. Plus, as a divorcee with no children it housed the only family I have left in the world. To get from the psychiatric tower to the emergency department I took an elevator down three floors and walked what felt like a mile.

“Thank you for coming down, Madeline,” Dr. Soto said, greeting me. He was tall and slender. A dark-skinned man, with neatly trimmed silver hair and a matching mustache. At six-feet tall he and I, in my one-inch heels, were the same height. “I’ll take you to see Cora and her parents,” he said. “Cora is heavily sedated right now but if you can just say a few words to the mother and father about the resources available to them, I know it will be helpful.”

“Of course,” I agreed. Once assessed, each patient in the emergency room has a private room that shields them from the craziness of the ER. Behind the sliding Plexiglas door was a preteen girl lying in the hospital bed. Her facial wounds were hidden beneath swaths of gauze, but even so, I could see that significant damage had been done.

“We didn’t dare try to stitch her up,” Dr. Soto told me. “If there ever is a case for a plastic surgeon, this is it. All we are doing at this point is treating her collapsed lung and giving her antibiotics. My biggest concern is saving her left eye. They’ll be taking her to surgery momentarily. Frankly, I’m very worried about the parents. The mother is understandably distraught but the father is incredibly angry.” Dr. Soto paused as if hesitating to speak further.

“Anger is understandable,” I said, feeling like a voyeur. Through the glass door, the mother sat next to the bedside holding her daughter’s hand, weeping. The father stood with his back against a wall, his arms folded across his chest. Not a tall man, he was broad-chested, powerfully built and looked ready to leap from his skin.

“Do they know who did this to her yet?” I asked and Dr. Soto shook his head. “Are the parents suspects?” I hated to ask, but had to. I’d seen too many children hurt in too many ways to count by the people who are supposed to love them most in the world. Dr. Soto didn’t know. Didn’t know much more than the little girl had been viciously attacked.

“Well,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Let’s go find out if and how I can help.”

Case #92-10945 (#ua3ed6f61-7119-5cc6-9d58-5878148b90d7)

Excerpt from the journal of Cora E. Landry

Oct. 31, 2017

In social studies class Mr. Dover assigned us a really cool project. At first I thought he was going to tell us we were going to have to write the same old Halloween essay like we do every year. Instead of writing about our favorite candy or the best costume ever, Mr. Dover is having us work with partners on a research project.

He came into the classroom yesterday dressed as some guy from the olden times. He had on a white shirt and vest, these short pants, long socks and shoes with buckles on them. He even had on one of those hats they wore back during Colonial times. Mr. Dover carried a lantern and a silver cup. By now we all knew that he wasn’t going to just tell us what he was up to, so after we stopped laughing Andrew shouted, “Hey, it’s George Washington.” And Gabe said, “No, it’s Alexander Hamilton!” and then started rapping a song from the musical.

Jordyn laughed real loud like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. She and Gabe were going out last year but he must have figured out what Jordyn is really like because now Gabe pretty much ignores her. Gabe is one of those guys who can get away with acting like a show-off. All the kids think he’s cool because he plays baseball and can play three different instruments and sing. He also always wears one of those old-fashioned hats with the brim around it, which manages to look cool on him. If anyone else wore it they’d just look stupid. Plus, he’s cute. The teachers like him because he knows when to stop.

And Gabe did stop singing as soon as Mr. Dover raised his eyebrows at him. “Right century,” Mr. Dover said once it was quiet. “Let me give you another hint.” He set the lantern on top of his desk, put one leg up on a chair and in a deep voice said, “Listen, my children, and you shall hear of the midnight ride of...” and we all shouted, “Paul Revere!”

Mr. Dover talked about how that poem was written nearly one hundred years after the actual ride and the ride wasn’t all that big of a deal. Mr. Dover likes to talk so it took him about half the class period to get to the point. We talked about all the fake news that went on throughout the last presidential election and that it was important to know what was true and what wasn’t.

Two minutes before the bell rang he gave us the assignment. We have to do a group research project about an urban legend—what’s real about it and what’s made up. Then we have to get up in front of the class and give a presentation about what we learned.

I wanted to throw up when I heard the details of the assignment. I don’t mind working in a group but there is nothing I hate more than getting up in front of the class and having to talk. I loathe it. My face turns bright red and my voice shakes. It makes me sick just thinking about it.

In middle school, there are three ways we get put into groups: the teacher picks, you number off or first-come-first-serve where we get to pick our own partners. I hoped Mr. Dover would pick for us—it was less stressful that way—but just before the bell rang he said in this old-fashioned voice: “Chooseth thy partn’r, mine own scholars.”

Luckily I caught on to what he was saying and right away turned to Violet and asked her if she wanted to be my partner and she said yes! When Mr. Dover assigns projects it isn’t just some one-or two-day thing; they usually last weeks, so it will be good to not have to worry about picking partners for a while.

I looked over at Jordyn and she was whispering in Deanna’s ear and they were staring at us. I know they’re talking about me and Violet but for once I don’t care. Violet’s my partner and I think she’s going to be really nice. Usually I do whatever I can not to get on Jordyn’s radar. She somehow always makes me feel like an idiot. I’ll have to make sure to tell Violet to stay away from her. You just can’t trust her.

When we were in fourth grade Jordyn invited all the girls in the class to her birthday overnight except for me. My mom went insane and called Jordyn’s grandma, who said it must have been a mistake and drove over to our house and made Jordyn deliver the invitation in person. It was MORTIFYING! Jordyn looked like she wanted to vomit and I wanted to disappear. I was sick the day of the party and couldn’t go, anyway, which was just fine with me and with Jordyn, too, I’m sure.

Anyway, Violet and I already started a list of urban legends we could choose from: bigfoot, a twenty-foot alligator in the sewer or maybe Johnny Appleseed. After school some kids were talking about researching Bloody Mary or the Babysitter and the Clown Doll or the Mothman, who my sister says is this creepy seven-foot man with red eyes and wings like a moth who would show up just before something really bad happened.

Gabe asked me and Violet what we were going to do our project about and Jordyn butted in and said, “Probably something babyish.” I swear she loves embarrassing me. But then Gabe came to my defense and said to Jordyn, “What’s your genius idea, then?”

That shut Jordyn up and Violet and I told Gabe about our urban legend.

* * *

Me again... The weirdest thing just happened. My sister told me someone was on the phone for me and when I went to answer it no one was there. I kept saying hello but it was just quiet. I finally hung up and when I asked Kendall who it was she rolled her eyes and said she wasn’t my secretary. Like I said, weird.

Dr. Madeline Gideon (#ua3ed6f61-7119-5cc6-9d58-5878148b90d7)

September 14, 2018

“What do you think?” Dr. Soto asked. “Would you like to meet Cora?”

“Sure, why not?” I remember saying.

Dr. Soto rapped his knuckles gently against the window to announce our arrival and then slid the door open. “Mr. and Mrs. Landry, this is Dr. Gideon. She is the mental health professional I was speaking of. Dr. Gideon, this is Jim and Mara Landry, Cora’s parents.”

“Hello,” I said and extended my hand out to Mr. Landry. “I’m sorry to hear about what happened to Cora. How’s she doing?”

Jim clasped my hand and gave it a shake. His skin felt rough and dry against my own. Almost reptilian. “Not great. Look at her,” he said, voice shaking. “Some maniac stabbed her.”