Chapter 5 - Diane's House Voice
Diane opens the door before Renata finishes knocking, like she's been standing behind it, watching through the peephole, composing her face.
"Ms. Cruz. Please, come in."
The house smells like bleach and cinnamon candles layered thin over each other, an odd, aggressive kind of clean.
"I want to say first," Diane says, settling onto the couch, crossing her ankles neatly, "that whatever Emily told you, she has a very active imagination. Her teacher's noted it before. Bit of an attention thing, honestly, since her mother passed."
"Emily's mother passed?"
"When she was four. Car accident. I've done my best, Ms. Cruz, but grief does things to a child. Makes them want extra attention. Sometimes in unhealthy ways."
Renata keeps her expression neutral, professional, the mask that costs more effort than anyone watching would guess.
"Can you tell me about the bruising on her arm?"
"She fell off her bike. Two weeks ago. I told her to be more careful."
"Bruising like that usually doesn't come from a single fall. It's consistent with grip pressure. Fingers."
Diane's smile doesn't move, but something behind her eyes recalculates.
"Children bruise easily. Emily especially — she's small for her age, always has been."
"She mentioned a kennel. Behind the garage."
"Old dog kennel. We haven't used it since Boone died."
"She says she's spent nights in it."
Diane laughs — a short, surprised sound, pitched exactly right, rehearsed enough that Renata clocks the rehearsal immediately.
"That's absurd. Why on earth would I put a child outside overnight? It's practically winter."
"That's what I'm here to understand."
Diane's ankles uncross and recross. A small tell, the kind Renata has learned to watch for over years of sitting across from people explaining away things that don't need explaining if they're true.
"Ms. Cruz, I love that girl like she's my own. I understand grief makes people say things. I understand it makes me say things I regret, some nights, when I'm exhausted and she won't listen and her father is three states away for work. But I have never — never — put that child in danger."
It is, Renata notes, the first honest sentence Diane has said. I say things I regret. Buried inside a denial, true anyway, the way confessions sometimes hide themselves inside the very sentences meant to bury them.
"I'd like to see the kennel," Renata says.
Diane's composure flickers, just barely, at the corner of her mouth.
May you like
"Of course," she says. "This way."
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