“If you left Northbridge two years ago, why are you here now?”
Maya stared at the pavement.
For the first time, embarrassment reached her face.
“Because I thought maybe they’d let me come back.”
“Have you spoken to anyone?”
“No.”
“Why?”
A bitter little smile appeared.
“Look at me.”
I did.
And I understood what she meant.
The worn jacket.
The taped backpack.
The shoes.
The certainty that everyone inside those stone buildings would notice those things before noticing her.
Sophie spoke before I could.
“She comes here on Tuesdays.”
My head turned.
“What?”
Sophie’s eyes widened.
Maya closed hers briefly.
“Sophie.”
“You said I shouldn’t lie.”
“I didn’t say tell everything in thirty seconds.”
I stared at my daughter.
“How long have you known Maya?”
Sophie studied her shoes.
“Three weeks.”
Three weeks.
I felt an immediate surge of alarm.
Not anger.
Something more uncomfortable.
The realization that my eight-year-old daughter had an entire corner of her life I knew nothing about.
“How?”
“She was sitting near the library entrance.”
Maya quickly added, “I never approached her.”
“I approached her,” Sophie said.
That sounded exactly like the daughter I remembered from before Claire died.
Curious.
Fearless.
Forever asking strangers what they were reading and dogs what their names were.
“She had a calculus book,” Sophie continued.
I looked at Maya.
“Calculus?”
“Library copy.”
“She was doing problems, so I asked if she could help with fractions.”
Maya almost smiled.
“She asked why anyone needed fractions if calculators existed.”
“I still think that’s a reasonable question.”
Despite myself, I nearly smiled too.
Then I remembered something.
“Sophie, Tuesdays are piano.”
Her expression fell.
“I know.”
“Your driver takes you straight home.”
Silence.
I looked at the school entrance.
Then at Sophie.
“How are you meeting Maya?”
“Our teacher lets us wait in the supervised courtyard after clubs.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Sophie swallowed.
“I stopped going to piano.”
I stared at her.
“For three weeks?”
She nodded.
“And no one told me?”
“I told Ms. Bennett I didn’t want lessons anymore.”
“And the driver?”
“He thinks piano is at school now.”
I closed my eyes for a second.
It was an impressively organized deception for an eight-year-old.
Then I realized what bothered me more.
She had needed to organize it because she expected that simply telling me what she wanted would change nothing.
