“The war? You mean World War Two?” Mel said, breaking in though she’s promised herself she wouldn’t do that.
“Yes, that one.”
Mel couldn’t stop herself from asking the next question. It was too strong, right there at the tip of her tongue. “But you would have been what, twenty years old? Thirty? Older than that? How could you stay with Raymond like that?”
Baby smiled rather sadly and Mel wished she wouldn’t have asked such a stupid question. This story was made up, a fantasy, but Mel’s question broke the cardinal rule of all Special Victims cases: It implied that the victim had a choice.
“Never mind that question, Baby. It was a stupid question and not important. Just go on talking and I’ll try very hard not to interrupt.”
“No,” Baby answered, shaking her head. “It’s not a stupid question. It’s a vital one. You’re right. I was well over thirty by then and had the mind of almost any other person that age. I was even educated to a certain extent and I’d probably read more books than most people. The problem wasn’t that I didn’t understand. The problem was that I was in the body of an eight-year-old child. No one takes an eight-year-old seriously. Well, they didn’t then. They barely do now.”
Eight. If she’d been eight then, and could be as old as twelve now, that changed the dynamic a little. It pushed around the timeline. That meant that Serena would have been murdered as many as five years prior. Without knowing Baby’s true age with any medical certainty, they’d have to give it a wide allowance. Of course, that also didn’t match what she said about her size, unless she was in some way stunted that the doctors hadn’t yet discovered in her physical. Her medical results were definitely on the odd side. The confused doctors wanted more tests.
“Baby,” she began, keeping her tone as unchallenging as possible. “I don’t understand that part. Did you say that Serena died when you were about the size you are now?”
She nodded.
“But that doesn’t quite fit, does it, if you were smaller later.”
The girl leaned forward, her pixie hair gleaming under the bright sunshine and her eyes bright and wide. She was the picture of innocence, but her words never matched that exterior. A chill brushed the nape of Mel’s neck.
“I told you, Mel. I shrank. I went back. And I could go back further too, but Raymond got the most for me when I was somewhere in the eight- to nine-year-old range. He understood the magic long before I did and he worked it to keep me right where he wanted me.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t. Not yet.” Baby sighed and looked around at the people in the park. It was getting crowded with people unable to resist the siren call of spring after a long and bleak winter. Her eyes narrowed suddenly, her gaze going sharp and hawk-like.
Mel followed her gaze but all she saw were parents and children at the little play area where swings were creaking and bright laughter bubbled into the air.
“What is it, Baby? Is something wrong?” she asked, concerned as always that she would see someone who had once abused her.
The sharpness was gone and the cheeks rounded in a smile when she turned back to Mel. “Oh, nothing at all. I just haven’t been on a swing in such a long time.”
Mel’s brow creased at the answer. Something was off about it. It was too glib, too bright. Glancing over the playground again, she saw nothing amiss. And there was a larger swing set on the playground, the kind with wider swings for older kids. Perhaps that’s all it was, a longing for something she’d missed in her childhood.
Also, Mel understood this was probably Baby’s way of ending the conversation. Perhaps they were entering into painful territory. As hard as it was not to challenge her and ask pointed questions, it was the last thing this girl needed. She still needed her fairy story and Mel had patience.
“Did you want to go over there? Do you want to swing?”
Baby nodded, her smile spreading into a delighted grin. “Yes, very much.” Mel made as if to stand, but the girl said, “Oh, don’t come over there. That would be embarrassing. You can see me from here and I won’t swing for long. I promise.”
Mel was about to break the news that she could, under no circumstances, let Baby go anywhere on her own when the girl pointed behind them. “And I would love a frozen lemonade more than anything. Fresh and sweet.”
Mel glanced over her shoulder and sure enough, there was a frozen lemonade cart jostling for premium space against a hot dog cart. “Wow, they’re starting early. We’re still in long sleeves and jackets.”
“Maybe so, but I’d love to have one.” Baby said, giving her a pleading look.
Laughing, Mel stood and grabbed her jacket from the table. “Alright, then. I’ll get your lemonade and walk over to the swings very, very slowly. Will that do?”
Baby nodded eagerly, then leapt up and ran in the way only children could. Smooth joints and unpolluted lungs. Mel sighed and went for the frozen lemonade cart.
By the time she’d managed to buy two of the treats and recovered from a truly epic brain-freeze after sucking too hard on her straw, she spotted Baby swinging with enthusiasm, kicking her sparkly sneakers high to get more lift. Mel should have considered the difficulty of carrying two drinks while wearing a giant plastic splint.
Perhaps Baby saw Mel approaching, because on her next swing she leapt off the seat and flew to land in the dirt. Mel used to do the same thing. She was surprised at how alarming it looked from an adult’s point of view.
Baby was none the worse for wear, because she leapt up, smacked dirt off her jeans and then raced in
