Chapter Six Ana
Chapter Six
Ana
Now
I lie in bed early in the morning, staring at the ceiling as the memories play.
I see the ice at The Palace, the way it was in the summer months, softer, slower.
How my blades would disappear through the shallow puddles that remained after it was cleaned.
I hear Mio explaining about the humidity in the air and how the water takes longer to freeze again after the Zamboni melts the top layer, evening out the grooves.
I see Avery Hall and the other Orphans. Jolene with her red hair and pink warm-up jacket. Pink lip gloss. Pink everything. A girlie girl, Kayla would call her, sometimes with affection. Other times like an accusation.
And Indy. She comes to me in flashes of bright eyes and long, powerful legs that stroke around the bend of the rink like they’re separate from the rest of her. Like her upper body is attached to an engine.
Flashes, too, of her sadness and the defiance it bred. How I could feel it rise and fall in her chest as I lay beside her while she slept. Heaving in and out, breath that sometimes carried a faint moan. A cry. A longing to leave this place.
But it is Emile who steals this show that plays in my mind.
Emile—standing by the boards next to Dawn. I can almost see him here, in this room I’ve never been in before. And then, finally, lying in the field on a slab of frozen blood. Four strikes to his head from the heel of a blade.
I shake it off—grab a sweater and wool socks, and go to the kitchen.
No—I won’t let the past break through walls I built long ago. I won’t. I’m stronger than that.
My thoughts turn to my work, to the other children and crimes that have crept beneath my skin. The most tragic. The most preventable. The most shocking transformations from innocence to violence. Young lives hobbled before they could begin. There’s always a reason. Abused, misused, neglected.
The clock is ticking, I remind myself. I need to focus. Be strategic. Treat this like any other case.
I shake off what’s left of the memories and think about the next twenty-four hours.
Jolene told me she never saw any signs of change in Grace.
But then there’s that video. Grace attacking another skater at Avery Hall.
The housemother there, a former skater named Shannon Finch, witnessed the altercation.
She’s young and far more involved than Edie ever was—the old woman who ran the place in my day.
I have to get to Avery Hall, then The Palace, and Dawn. I feel bile churn in my gut, a small burst of adrenaline at this thought. But there’s no time for my own apprehension. This is what has to happen. We need more facts. And we need them quickly.
The local attorney, Artis Frauhn, has already been crucial to Grace’s defense. Making the deal with the prosecutor. Buying us these two days to come back with a statement before she decides about the charges.
I didn’t know Artis well when I lived in Echo.
But he remembered me from our eighth-grade science class, had followed my career after I left because he, too, had become a lawyer.
I remember when he reached out on Facebook, how I couldn’t place him until he spoke about a lab we were assigned to, as partners.
We were dissecting frogs, and I made him do the cutting of the skin and sorting of the organs while I hid behind pen and paper, taking notes and making drawings.
The skaters and the locals didn’t mix. Other than the few hours we spent at school with them, excused from all nonacademic classes and having no time to hang out, our lives rarely intersected.
But now he was a big fish in this little pond.
And the first call Shannon Finch made when Emile’s body was found and she knew the police would soon be at the steps of Avery Hall, looking for Grace.
Artis then called Jolene, who was still here after the holidays, staying in this condo until it was time to take Grace to Nationals.
Jolene tracked me down at the conference in Aspen.
In the kitchen, I make coffee, bring it to the living room, and sit in the chair with my back to the window, remembering what Grace said to me.
It’s not safe here.
It’s all your fault.
I close my eyes and see that blade striking Emile’s skull.
Emile is dead. This hasn’t reached the places inside me I know it will go as soon as this is over, this fight to save Grace.
Emile is dead.
This thought will go to those places. And make me feel good.
There’s a knock at the door, startling me away from the image of Emile’s crushed skull. I walk to the foyer, where a wall of cold slams into my face. Two men walk past me before I can close the door. We stand and shiver as snowflakes float to the ground.
“Hey,” Artis says, hanging his parka on a hook. He’s wearing a blue suit with a red tie and smells of aftershave.
“I thought you were going to court this morning,” I tell him, remembering that we’d made a plan.
He was supposed to be in court up in Denver on another case, using the opportunity to have a conversation with the state’s attorney.
Maybe lay some groundwork before we have to report back to the local prosecutor.
Face-to-face, leaning into personal relationships.
Trust. The intangible, often invaluable part of the legal system.
We had plans to meet later, after lunch. It’s barely eight. I haven’t heard a sound from upstairs, the two bedrooms where Jolene and Grace are staying.
“Canceled,” Artis says now. “Because of the storm.”
But his explanation is swallowed by the presence of the second man. The recognition crashing through me like a tsunami.
“You remember Dr. Westin, don’t you?” Artis says.
My eyes fall on his soft pale skin. The way it hangs looser from his cheekbones, framed by gray hair that was once sandy blond. Those sharp blue eyes, piercing through the lids that now weigh them down.
Yes, I know this man.
But I don’t speak. I can’t. There’s no air in my lungs.
“I thought he might be able to help,” Artis says as he kicks off his boots. Westin does the same, both men making themselves at home.
“Jolene said Grace is still not telling the truth about that night,” Artis continues.
I feel defensive now—like my skills are being questioned. But also, as if I’m a young girl sitting in a chair, across from Westin, in the office next to Dawn’s.
I make a note to myself about how Artis has framed things—that Grace is lying. A possibility, but we don’t know that yet. There’s still work to do.
Finally, words form and leave my mouth as I stand there in my sweats and a sweater, wool socks on my feet. “I didn’t realize you were still here,” I say to Westin.
Both men look confused now.
“Didn’t Jolene tell you?” Artis asks.
I shake my head. “Tell me what?”
The flesh around Westin’s mouth begins to pull up at the corners. The smile that is so familiar, and yet I see it now through a different lens. I see it for what it is. Condescension.
“Oh yes,” he says, tilting his head. “I’m still here!”
I look at Artis, but his eyes are fixed on the doctor.
“You still work with Dawn’s skaters?” I ask, feeling my feet on the ground. Finding my bearings.
Westin explains that he’s never left. He was here before I arrived, so, he laughs, that makes it over two decades, and how about that!
I remember the first day I saw him at The Palace. Walking from the offices in the arena, across from the snack bar. He was right behind Dawn. Indy followed behind them both, her head hung low. Face red. I was standing next to Kayla on the ice.
I remember what Kayla said. The exact tone of her voice and what it implied about this man.
“Mindfucker.” And then. “Poor Indy.”
Westin keeps talking as this memory plays.
“I’ve been seeing Grace for several months,” he explains. “She’s working on the quad.”
I steel my face as my heart pounds and the blood flushes to my cheeks.
“Let’s sit down,” he says, leading us into the living room. He knows the way. He’s been here before.
At the kitchen, he stops, smelling the coffee.
“Can I get you a cup?” he asks us.
I remember this about him. How calm he always seemed. How he normalized whatever it was we told him. Whatever it was that had happened. And the things he told us. About our fear, and what to do with it. How to channel it.
Fear into rage. Rage into action. Fight—not flight or freeze.
Christ.
Artis and Westin carry their white coffee mugs into the living room. Mine sits on the table, and I find my seat in the chair that faces the doorway. Westin and Artis sit on sofas, facing the window, facing me.
We used to call him Dr. Fear. That thought now fills my head as Westin continues with his casual chitchat, acting as if no time has passed since we last sat together in a room.
As if I haven’t rid myself of this place and the damage it did, and then gone on to help dozens of children out of situations like the one Grace is in.
“They say we’re getting a lot of snow. Maybe six feet.”
“That never stopped Echo before,” Artis chimes in. “The plows will clear the roads.”
Westin agrees. “Right—and the two of you are making the rounds. A couple of detectives.”
“If we had time, I’d recommend hiring someone,” Artis says. “I know a few guys. But with the storm . . .”
“Of course.” Westin nods. “I’m sure you two can handle it. First stop—Avery Hall? A stroll down memory lane, right, Ana?”
Mindfucker. Still at it.
I draw a long breath, nod, smile. “I’m afraid there’s not much time for strolling.” Like Grace last night, I dig my toes into the carpet.
“We need to speak to Shannon Finch.”
“Indeed,” he says. “I have to say—I found the video quite shocking. I’m curious to see if Shannon can provide more context.”
Westin takes out his phone and opens the video, turning it so we can all watch as it plays. The altercation between Grace and another skater, Tammy Theisen, recorded on a cell phone moments after it began.