Chapter 2 - The Man From My Childhood
The second person through the door was a woman carrying an identification wallet and a winter coat darkened by rain.
The man did not move farther into the kitchen.
“Gary.”
Gary straightened.
“You need to leave.”
The man looked at the belt still hanging from Gary's hand.
“Put that down.”
Gary dropped it.
Not because the command was loud.
Because he obeyed.
That bothered me.
I had spent years believing Gary didn't obey anybody.
The woman introduced herself.
“Rachel Dunn. Massachusetts Department of Children and Families.”
My stomach dropped.
Ethan tightened his fingers around my shirt.
“No.”
Rachel looked at him.
“Hey, Ethan. Nobody's taking you anywhere this second.”
That sentence did not help.
Children hear the word nobody differently once adults start making promises.
I looked at the man.
“And you?”
His eyes stayed on Gary.
“Daniel Holloway.”
The name meant nothing.
Then he added:
“Boston Police. Family Justice Unit.”
Something moved at the back of my memory.
Blue shirt.
A paper cup of cocoa.
Someone crouching instead of standing over me.
Gary laughed.
It sounded wrong.
“This is unbelievable.”
Holloway finally looked at him.
“What happened?”
“She assaulted me.”
Gary pointed at me.
“She kicked me in my own home.”
“After he was hitting Ethan.”
My voice came out too fast.
Rachel raised one hand.
“We're going to separate everyone.”
Gary scoffed.
“Of course.”
Mom still hadn't moved.
Holloway looked at her.
“Marianne.”
Her face changed.
Not surprise at being known.
Shame.
I stared.
“You know him.”
She said nothing.
Holloway did.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Brooke.”
Mom finally moved.
“Not tonight.”
I turned toward her.
“What?”
“Ethan is scared.”
“He was scared before they came.”
She flinched.
Good.
I wanted it to hurt.
Rachel guided Ethan toward the living room.
He wouldn't release me.
“I’m going with him.”
She nodded.
Gary immediately said:
“She can't.”
Everybody turned.
He recovered.
“I mean she's part of what happened.”
Holloway looked at me.
“Did you strike Gary?”
“Yes.”
Mom's head snapped toward me.
I continued.
“He came at us.”
Gary laughed.
“She admits it.”
Holloway looked at him.
“No one asked you.”
Gary actually stopped.
I stared at Holloway.
Then I remembered.
Not the name.
The voice.
Fourteen years old.
Me sitting on our old front steps with a police officer who kept asking whether I felt safe sleeping inside.
I had told him yes.
Over and over.
Because Mom was standing in the kitchen window.
Because Ethan was a baby.
Because Gary had said children who got taken by the state didn't always come home together.
My stomach turned.
“Holloway.”
His face softened.
“You remember.”
I stepped backward.
“No.”
Mom whispered:
“Brooke.”
“Don't say my name.”
Ethan began crying.
Immediately the entire room stopped mattering.
I crouched.
“Hey.”
He grabbed me.
“I don't want to go away.”
My heart stopped.
“Why would you say that?”
He buried his face against me.
I looked over him at Gary.
Then Mom.
“Who told him that?”
Nobody answered.
Holloway's expression changed.
He crouched too, several feet away.
“Ethan.”
My brother wouldn't look at him.
“You're not in trouble.”
Gary said:
“He's been fed garbage by his sister.”
Rachel turned.
“Mr. Hale, please go into the dining room.”
“This is my—”
“Now.”
He looked at Holloway.
Holloway didn't move.
Gary went.
That was the second time he'd obeyed.
I hated how much that frightened me.
Rachel took Ethan into the living room.
I stayed close enough that he could see me.
Holloway asked:
“Did you know I was coming?”
“No.”
“Did Marianne?”
I looked at Mom.
Her face was unreadable.
“I don't know.”
Holloway looked at her.
“You didn't tell her.”
Mom whispered:
“I wasn't sure you'd actually come.”
My head snapped toward her.
“You called him?”
“No.”
Holloway said:
“She didn't.”
“Then why would she think he was coming?”
Mom said nothing.
Holloway answered carefully.
“We contacted this house yesterday.”
I stared at my mother.
She had known there was an investigation.
She had watched Gary lift a belt anyway.
I asked:
“Why?”
Holloway didn't answer immediately.
Then he said:
“Ethan's school made a report.”
I looked toward my brother.
A report.
Not tonight.
Before tonight.
“How long?”
“Brooke.”
“How long has somebody known?”
Holloway looked at Mom.
“That's one of the things we're going to determine.”
I walked toward her.
“You knew.”
She backed away.
“Brooke, don't.”
“Again?”
Her mouth tightened.
I pointed toward the broken glass.
“You stood there.”
“You don't understand.”
“Then explain.”
Holloway stepped between us—not protecting her, just stopping the room from exploding again.
“Not now.”
I almost screamed at him.
Then saw his face.
He looked at me the way he had fourteen years earlier.
Like he already knew this wasn't the first night.
And maybe knew more about my childhood than I did.
I lowered my voice.
“Why does Gary know you?”
Holloway looked toward the dining room.
Gary was speaking to someone on his cellphone.
Probably an attorney.
Holloway said:
“Because I was here in 2016.”
I stared.
“You came once.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“I came five times.”
I looked at Mom.
She looked away.
Five.
I remembered one.
Holloway continued:
“And the last time I came, your mother told me Gary had never laid a hand on a child in this house.”
I felt something cold move through me.
Because that wasn't what I remembered.
I remembered Mom saying the bruise on my shoulder happened at volleyball.
I remembered repeating it.
What I did not remember was Holloway asking about Ethan.
He must have seen my confusion.
His voice lowered.
“You weren't the only reason we were here.”
I stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
Holloway looked toward the living room where Ethan sat.
May you like
Then back at me.
“It means when you were fourteen, somebody else had already made a report about Gary.”
