“Is this a therapy other people know about?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Social workers and the like?”
“Yes, sir, but they don’t know what it does to you. They just think she’s doing the right thing. She says she’s helping kids. But she’s not, sir.”
“I’m not sure what I can do.”
“Just take a look, sir.”
“All right.”
“Don’t tell her I was the one who came here, sir.”
“I won’t.”
Driving up the mountain, Constable Roberts reflected on how not once, in all his years driving patrol and eventually being elected constable, had he ever been called to Brightwood. The grounds looked nice enough, he thought as he reached the gate and was buzzed in.
“I’m here for the director,” he told the bald man at the door.
“Hold on.”
The smell coming from inside was distinctive, a mixture of rich cooking, sweaty socks, and bleach. It wasn’t necessarily bad, but it was compelling.
“I’m Martha King.”
He took in a tall, well-built woman with auburn hair and a measured smile. She looked exactly like a director should, he thought. Capable and kind.
“Constable Roberts.”
“How can I help you?”
“I got an anonymous report,” he said. “Someone concerned about the children here.”
“Well, that’s not good. Please, do come in.”
The boys were lining up in the hall for lunch, and the constable took in their silent faces. Martha gave him a tour. He saw the bedrooms, the dining room, the classrooms, and, finally, the treatment ward.
He was surprised by the isolation rooms.
“I don’t like these,” Martha said, with a look of distaste. “My understanding is the last director relied almost exclusively on them for discipline.”
“And you?”
“I’m interested in helping these boys.”
“How do you do that?”
“With therapy.”
He stopped at the final room.
“This is our attachment therapy room,” she said.
“Holding time?”
“You know of it?” She looked surprised.
