The Night Fire (Renée Ballard, #3)(29)

“I think so,” Ballard said. “Just in case.”

“You see something?”

“No, not yet.”

Ballard spent another twenty minutes in the room looking for a note or anything else that would explain why the eleven-year-old girl would take her life. She checked the girl’s phone, which was not password protected—probably a parental rule—and found nothing of note in it other than the record of a twelve-minute call to a contact labeled DAD.

She finally went downstairs and entered the living room. Robards stood up immediately, obviously eager to pass this nightmare call on to Ballard.

“This is Mrs. Winter,” she said.

Robards stepped around a coffee table to get out of the way so Ballard could move in and sit on the couch in her stead.

“Mrs. Winter, I’m very sorry for your loss,” Ballard began. “Can you tell us where your husband is right now? Have you tried to reach him?”

“He’s in Chicago on business. I haven’t tried to talk to him. I don’t even know what to say or how to tell him this.”

“Do you have any family in the area, someplace you can stay tonight?”

“No, I don’t want to leave. I want to be close.”

“I think it’s better for you to leave. I can call out a counselor to help you too. Our department has a crisis—”

“No, I don’t want any of that. I just want to be left alone. I’m staying here.”

Ballard had seen the child’s name on the jewelry box and schoolbooks she had looked through upstairs.

“Tell me about Cecilia. Was she having trouble at school or in the neighborhood?”

“No, she was fine. She was good. She would have told me if there was a problem.”

“Do you have any other children, Mrs. Winter?”

“No, only her.”

This brought a fresh burst of tears and a wrenching moan. Ballard let her slide into it while addressing Robards.

“You have any pamphlets on counseling we could give her? Numbers to call to talk to somebody?”

“Yes, in the car. I’ll be right back.”

Ballard turned her attention back to Mrs. Winter. She noticed that she was barefoot but the bottom edges of the one exposed foot were dirty.

“Are you sure your daughter didn’t leave a note or send a text about what she was planning to do?”

“Of course not! I would have stopped it. What kind of horrible mother do you think I am? This is the nightmare of my life.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to imply that. I’ll be right back.”

Ballard got up and signaled Dautre to follow her. They went through the front door and stopped on the porch, just as Robards was coming up the steps with a pamphlet. Ballard spoke in a low voice.

“Look around the neighborhood and check the trash cans for a note. Start with this house and do it quietly.”

“You got it,” Dautre said.

The two cops headed down the porch steps together and Ballard went back inside and returned to the couch. Mrs. Winter spoke before she could sit down.

“I don’t think she killed herself.”

The statement didn’t surprise Ballard. Denial was part of the mourning process.

“Why is that?”

“She wouldn’t have killed herself. I think it was an accident. She made a mistake. She was playing around and things went wrong.”

“How was she playing around?”

“You know, the way kids do in their rooms. When they are alone. She probably was waiting for me to come home and catch her in the act. You know, to get attention. I would catch her and rescue her just in time and then it would be all about her.”

“She was an only child and she didn’t think she got enough attention?”

“No child thinks she gets enough attention. I didn’t.”

Ballard knew that people beset by trauma and loss processed grief in myriad ways. She always tried to reserve judgment on what people said in the throes of a life catastrophe.

“Mrs. Winter, here is a pamphlet that outlines all the services available to you at this difficult time.”

“I told you. I don’t want that. I just want to be left alone.”

“I’ll leave it on the table in case you change your mind. They can be very helpful.”

“Please leave now. I want to be alone.”

“I’m concerned about leaving you by yourself.”

“Don’t be. Let me grieve for my daughter.”

Ballard didn’t respond or move. Soon the woman looked up from her hands and fixed her with red and watery eyes.

“Leave! What do I have to do to make you leave?”

Ballard nodded.

“Okay. I’ll leave. But I think it would be good to know why Cecilia did what she did.”

“You can’t ever know why a child decides to do something.”

Ballard walked through the living room to the entranceway. She looked back at the woman in the chair. Her face was again cradled in her hands.

Ballard left the house and joined Robards and Dautre at their car.

“Nothing,” Dautre said.

“We checked her cans and the neighbors on all sides,” Robards said. “You want us to do more?”