Under Her Care(10)
“Dr. Lee Winslow”—Genevieve nodded her head with approval—“now, she’s the best of the best.” She locked eyes with me while she said it and refused to look away even after she was finished, like a dog trying to establish some weird form of dominance. “Was she unavailable?”
“I guess so.” I forced a smile and looked away, trying to hide my embarrassment.
A few beats of awkward silence stretched between us, and it was a few more seconds before she suddenly threw her arms around me and squealed, “Oh well, I’m glad I got you anyways!”
Her dramatic moods are understandable given everything she’s going through and what she’s been through before. I googled everything I could find on her last night. I watched the news clips from after her husband, John, died six years ago. She looked completely wrecked. It’s been less than that since my husband left me, so I know what it’s like to have the ground fall out from underneath you, when you’re suddenly faced with raising a child with unique challenges on your own. The level of responsibility is almost crippling.
I felt it strong when Davis walked out on me and Harper three years ago. We’d been together since my first year of graduate school at Tulane. I fell in love with his sleepy blue eyes and his lips, which were always turned up in a half grin, by our third date. He was a good southern boy raised on cornbread and biscuits whose family had roots three states deep, so there was no way I was getting him out of the South. At least that’s what I thought. Until the day he left and never came back. He said he didn’t want to live where he’d known everyone since kindergarten. I felt like I’d gotten thrown off a cliff. I never saw it coming. Probably the same way Genevieve felt when her husband dropped dead at the dinner table while they were having a glass of wine.
I’ve heard her share the story more than once. I could tell she didn’t recognize me when I walked into the room, but I recognized her immediately. She’s a local celebrity and social media queen. Her face is everywhere and has been for years, ever since Mason was mistreated at Laurel Elementary School by his second-grade teacher. She went public with her allegations, and it thrust her into the national spotlight. She used her platform to create support and build awareness for the autism community. But her fame doesn’t stop there.
She’s always popping up on the local news in other ways, too, because she’s so active in other charitable foundations in the community. Her calendar has to be filled with hundreds of luncheons and banquets, since the list of causes she supports is incredible and she throws herself wholeheartedly into serving all of them. She’s done everything from raising money for local families dealing with cancer to heading the Saint Joseph’s food drive over the holidays every year. The camera loves her. She has one of those bubbly southern personalities with the matching pretty face. The perfect honey-coated drawl.
WDYM features her every year during their heart disease and prevention month in February. John had the widow-maker heart attack, and it’s as awful as it sounds. He was in the middle of an exciting story about the Crimson Tide game when he just stopped midsentence and fell over. That was it.
“What about the kids? Did you talk about the kids?” Detective Layne’s voice interrupts my thoughts.
“She never asked about Harper after I brought her up and mentioned her diagnosis.” That struck me as unusual. People usually have a slew of questions when they find out about Harper’s autism diagnosis, especially if it’s a parent whose child has similar difficulties, but that wasn’t the case with Genevieve. I’m not sure it even registered with her. Nothing I said really did. She was too traumatized with everything happening to take anything in. “She didn’t have any interest in finding out how I was faring with my kid. She barely talked about hers.”
“Why do you think that is?” he asks.
“She’s terrified.” How is he missing how frightened she is? People aren’t that scared without a reason. He keeps saying he wants to get to the bottom of what happened, and she keeps telling him what she saw, but he isn’t listening because it doesn’t fit with his explanation. I clear my throat, hesitant to step on his toes. “Earlier you said that y’all like Mason for the assault, but you’re still looking at other leads and possibilities, right?”
“Of course we’re examining all leads.” His face hardens. So does his voice. “Did you ask her about the assault specifically?”
“I didn’t.” He makes no effort to hide his disapproval, but he wasn’t in the room with us. There was no way to work that question into our conversation in a natural way. I’m not sure I’d call it a conversation. More like her dumping everything that had been swirling around in her head for days because she couldn’t keep the thoughts in any longer. And besides, I’m a psychologist—not a cop. “How do you know it wasn’t an accident? Annabelle could’ve just slipped and hit her head on rocks.”
He narrows his eyes. Maybe he’s second-guessing his decision to bring me on. He folds his arms across his chest. “It wasn’t an accident, trust me.”
I cock my head to the side, unsatisfied. “But how can you be so sure?” I’m not sure what I think about any of this, especially after meeting Genevieve and Mason.
Detective Layne’s back straightens with anger. He runs his tongue along his teeth like he’s trying to lick the leftover sugar from the Red Vines. “Okay, you want me to tell you how I know Annabelle was assaulted?” He leans forward and locks eyes with me. My stomach drops. “It’s pretty tough to fall and smack both sides of your head, and guess what? Both the front and the back of Annabelle’s skull were bashed in with a rock. And do you know why I know that?” He peers at me. I swallow hard. “Because I was at the scene. Me.” He methodically points to his chest. “I was there. And guess what I saw?” He doesn’t wait for me to respond, and I’m not sure I want to know anymore. “I saw the back of her skull crushed in and her forehead split open with parts of her brain leaking out like pink hamburger meat. Injuries like that don’t happen by accident. So yeah, that’s why we’re calling it an assault.”