Clint fidgets in his seat. Not getting answers is likely killing him. “You met him at a party and didn’t see him again until he showed up at your school. Anything more to that?”
“I met someone else at the party.” She picks at the polish on one of her fingers.
“Who?”
“Just a guy. My age.” She bites down on the last two words. “I sent some messages—”
“That picture.” Clint bolts straight up in his seat.
“No! No.” Erika shakes her head hard. “See, I don’t know how to talk to you about this.”
“Well, it’s either us or the police,” Clint spits out.
I lay my hand on his leg under the round table. Doesn’t he remember I’m usually bad cop? As hard as this is to go through, I’m not sad about our reversed roles. But I do need him to calm down if we are going to make progress with her.
Erika lowers her chin to her chest and is crying now. It takes everything in me not to go to her, wrap her in my arms, and bring us both back to beating on drums in Mommy and Me music class. When the biggest concern was another child snagging the bongo with the leopard-print strap. But now, I know if I go over to her, we’ll lose her.
She grabs a tissue and mops her face. Shaking her head at both of us, she begins again. “I started talking to a guy online. He’d been at the, uh, you know, party, and he stood up to Danny, who we all now know to be Mr. Doward.” She sighs. “I know he couldn’t have anything to do with this. Never mind.”
“What’s his name? Does he go to your school? Who is this boy?” Clint asks in rapid succession.
Our daughter tucks her head in like she is trying to escape down her own neck.
The muscles in Clint’s jaw pulse.
I remember the first time I saw what protective Clint looked like. His long strides through the ranger station as he discovered that my roommate and I’d been left alone on the side of a mountain without proper equipment.
“Honey.” I try to speak as gently as possible. “Why don’t you think the garage is him?”
“Because he’s great. He would never do anything like this. That’s not what... It’s just that we haven’t snapped since this weekend, and then Dad took my phone—”
“A phone you never should have had. Did he give you that phone?” Clint can only see the paint. I need him to see our daughter.
Erika’s eyes widen for a moment. “No. I got it from you.”
“What?”
“It’s your old phone. New cover. I’ve had it for months.” She looks almost pleased with herself.
“You took my phone,” Clint snarls.
“You gave it to me, Dad. Remember? When we were diagnosing what was up with the Wi-Fi?” She rolls her eyes like a champ. “You never asked for it back. Can I have it now, maybe if...”
“No,” Clint roars. Obviously she’s asked many times before.
I say a silent plea for peace as they glare across the table at each other.
“Okay, thanks for telling us about this boy. If you don’t think he did this, but you mentioned him for a reason...” I soften my face and try smiling with my eyes, although I’ve never understood the description. Instead, I look at her with all the love that often overwhelms me. “Is it possible this isn’t about you at all?”
Clint starts to talk, but I continue. I want to speak to what I’m hoping. “No, hear me out. Could someone have gotten the wrong house? I know things have been weird for Erika, but maybe this is not anything to do with her.” I sit straighter in my seat. This could not be about either one of us. Just some stupid kids who tagged the wrong house.
“Mom.” Erika leans forward. “Dad showed you what was spray-painted inside the garage.”
I nod. The words have seared a brand on my brain. I yearn to scratch them out.
“Buttercup is what he calls me,” Erika says.
“Buttercup?” My voice falters.
