Chapter 5 - WHAT CECILY CALLED “THE TOY HOUSE”That night Cecily slept in my bed.
Molly lay on a towel over the bathroom vent.
Her painted face had run slightly.
Cecily said:
“Can you fix her?”
“I’ll try.”
Then:
“Are my other babies coming home?”
I sat beside her.
“What other babies?”
She named them.
A stuffed fox.
Two dolls.
A plastic veterinary set.
A wooden puzzle.
A toy camera.
A stuffed rabbit named Pip.
Seven things.
I knew some had been missing.
I thought:
School.
Closet.
Under the couch.
Children lose toys.
Apparently Harlan knew exactly where they were.
“Why are they in Grandpa’s shed?”
Cecily became quiet.
I stopped myself from asking more.
My instinct wanted details.
Dates.
Words.
Everything.
But the child-protection worker had already called and told me:
Do not conduct your own interview.
So I said:
“You don’t have to explain tonight.”
She moved closer.
“Grandpa says toys make me whiny.”
My hand tightened around the blanket.
I asked only:
“Do you feel safe right now?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Then she said:
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“Daddy says Grandpa is old-fashioned.”
There are sentences a five-year-old should never have to decode.
