When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(78)

Finally, the girl stopped playing with the lamp, inspecting the alarm clock. She sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at D.D. expectantly. She had a tilt to her chin. Defiance, D.D. thought. Or sheer determination not to give in to the terror and fatigue that had to be washing over her.

“Okay,” D.D. said out loud. “I guess I get to do the talking for both of us.”

Bonita nodded.

“First order of business. I think we should get you something to wear other than a maid’s uniform.”

Bonita looked down at her pale blue dress, plucked at her skirt.

“It’s late for shopping, and I have no idea where to go anyway. If you don’t mind looking like a detective, I have an extra BPD T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants you can use.”

Bonita simply gazed at her.

“Speaking for both of us, I’m going to say, ‘That’s an excellent plan, D.D.’ Now if only I had real luggage and not just my go bag.”

D.D. rose out of the chair in the corner of Bonita’s room, which was really Keith’s old room, and crossed through the adjoining door to Flora’s former space. Had Keith and Flora left the connecting door open when they’d stayed in neighboring rooms? Somehow, D.D. doubted it. Keith certainly wouldn’t have minded. But Flora? Only time would tell.

D.D. hefted her black travel case onto the bed. She rummaged through till she found a navy-blue T-shirt and gray sweatpants. When she turned, Bonita was standing right beside her.

“Clean clothes. They’ll be a bit big, but better than nothing. Do you want to take a shower, clean up first?”

Bonita didn’t immediately indicate a reply. She took the clothes from D.D., studying them much the way she had studied the room. Whatever was going on in the girl’s head, D.D. had no idea.

Bonita looked up again. Her dark eyes were so huge in her face. Sad, D.D. thought. Or maybe more like resigned. She had gone from the devil she knew to a complete unknown.

“You’re safe,” D.D. said softly. “I promise you.”

The girl turned and walked back into her room. A moment later, D.D. heard the sound of a shower running.

She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding and collapsed on the edge of the bed. Okay, shower and clothes. Food sounded like the next logical step. She could order pizza. Who didn’t like pizza? Then bedtime, most likely. Both she and Bonita were running on fumes. And in the morning?

Good God, she had no idea what she was doing.

She unearthed her phone and dialed home. Alex picked up on the second ring.

“How’s it going?” He sounded cheerful, even happy. In the background came barking. Kiko, playing with Jack. The sounds of family. For a moment, a pang of homesickness swept over D.D. She clutched the phone tighter, and was startled to discover tears in her eyes.

“Hey,” she said at last. Her voice came out rough. Her husband wasn’t fooled for a moment.

“That good, huh?”

“We now have a current murder to go with four cold cases. And some mystery man on the run, and a vanished evil cook, not to mention a possibly endangered young woman, and oh yeah, I have a new project. A teenage girl. She can’t speak or read or write. But I think she knows things that are very important. I think, right now, she needs someone she can trust.”

Pause, as Alex absorbed the news. “How can I help?” he asked at last.

“Do you know anyone at the Academy, or from your own days on the job, who might be an expert in interviewing nonverbal minors?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure that category exists. But what if we break it apart? What about an expert in a nonverbal child, or an expert in interviewing children?”

“I think the nonverbal part is the biggest hurdle,” D.D. said. She took a deep breath, released it. This was good. Alex had always been the calm to her storm.

“What about an expert in autism? Aren’t many autistic children nonverbal?”

“She’s not autistic. She suffered some kind of traumatic brain injury when she was young. It left her without communication skills, plus she has a few other physical issues.”

“But nonverbal is nonverbal, right? The cause doesn’t matter. It’s how to bridge the gap.”

“Fair enough.”

“Hang on. I’m Googling.”

D.D. could Google. But it felt nice to sit here and let Alex do it. She heard a crash in the background, then Alex muttering, “Slow down,” to their son. Based on the ensuing noise, no decrease in activity actually happened, which made it just like usual. God she was homesick. When had she, a proud workaholic, become such a sap? But yes, she’d give anything to be with her husband and son right now.

“Picture boards,” Alex announced abruptly. D.D. pulled herself together, hastily wiping at her eyes. “Or really, apps on iPhones and tablets with pictures grouped by category. Skimming quickly, it sounds like some people who can’t recognize or speak words can still identify pictures. So, just because your girl can’t say ‘apple’ doesn’t mean she can’t point at a picture of an apple.”

“Pictures,” D.D. murmured. She closed her eyes, feeling like an idiot. “Of course. She gave me a drawing of the demon. She can communicate with pictures. How do I get one of these apps?”

“You can order them, but the site I’m on wants you to log in as a speech pathologist or something like that. You know what, start with your smartphone. The emojis on the text screen.”