"Don't worry about it, Detective Ryan, really. I'm used to it. A lot of girls don't like me. My mother says"-she ducked her head, embarrassed-"my mother says it's because they're jealous, but I don't see how that could be true."
"I do," I said, smiling down at her. "But I don't think that's the case with Detective Maddox. That had nothing to do with you. OK?"
"Did you have a fight?" she asked timidly, after a moment.
"Sort of," I said. "It's a long story."
I held the door open for her, and we crossed the cobbles towards the gardens. Rosalind's brow was furrowed thoughtfully. "I wish she didn't dislike me so much. I really admire her, you know. It can't be easy being a woman detective."
"It's not easy being a detective, period," I said. I did not want to talk about Cassie. "We manage."
"Yes, but it's different for women," she told me, a little reproachfully.
"How's that?" She was so young and earnest; I knew she would be offended if I laughed.
"Well, for example…Detective Maddox must be at least thirty, isn't she? She must want to get married soon, and have children, and things like that. Women can't afford to wait like men can, you know. And being a detective must make it hard to have a serious relationship, doesn't it? It must be a lot of pressure for her."
A vicious twist of unease caught at my stomach. "I don't think Detective Maddox is the broody type," I said.
Rosalind looked troubled, little white teeth catching at her bottom lip. "You're probably right," she said, carefully. "But you know, Detective Ryan…sometimes, when you're close to someone, you miss things. Other people can see them, but you can't."
That twist tightened. A part of me badly wanted to push her, to find out what exactly it was that she had seen in Cassie and I had missed; but the past week had brought it home to me, with considerable force, that there are some things in this life we are better off not knowing. "Detective Maddox's personal life isn't my problem," I said. "Rosalind…"
But she had darted off, down one of the carefully wild little pathways that ring the grass, calling back over her shoulder: "Oh, Detective Ryan-look! Isn't it lovely?"
Her hair danced in the sun coming through the leaves, and in spite of everything I smiled. I followed her down the pathway-we were going to need privacy anyway, for this conversation-and caught up with her at a secluded little bench overhung by branches, birds twittering in the bushes all around. "Yes," I said, "it's lovely. Would you like to talk here?"
She settled herself on the bench and gazed up at the trees with a happy little sigh. "Our secret garden."
It was idyllic, and I hated the thought of wrecking it. For a moment I let myself toy with the thought of ditching the whole purpose of this meeting, having a chat about how she was doing and what a beautiful day it was and then sending her home; of being, for a few minutes, just a guy sitting in the sunshine talking to a pretty girl.
"Rosalind," I said, "I need to ask you about something. This is going to be very difficult, and I wish I knew some way to make it easier on you, but I don't. I wouldn't be asking you if I had any other choice. I need you to help me. Will you try?"
Something crossed her face, a flash of some vivid emotion, but it was gone before I could pinpoint it. She clasped her hands around the rails of the bench on either side, bracing herself. "I'll do my best."
"Your father and mother," I said, keeping my voice very gentle and even. "Has either of them ever hurt you or your sisters?"
Rosalind gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth and she stared at me over it, eyes round and startled, until she realized what she had done, snatched her hand away and clasped it tightly around the rail again. "No," she said, in a strained, compressed little voice. "Of course not."
"I know you must be frightened. I can protect you. I promise."
"No." She shook her head, biting her lip, and I knew she was on the verge of tears. "No."
I leaned closer and put my hand over hers. She smelled of some flowery, musky scent decades too old for her. "Rosalind, if something's wrong, we need to know. You're in danger."
"I'll be all right."
"Jessica's in danger, too. I know you take care of her, but you can't keep doing that on your own forever. Please, let me help you."
"You don't understand," she whispered. Her hand was trembling under mine. "I can't, Detective Ryan. I just
She almost broke my heart. This fragile, indomitable slip of a girl: in a situation that would have crippled people twice her age, she was holding it together by the skin of her teeth, walking a slim tightrope twisted out of nothing but tenacity and pride and denial. That was all she had, and I, of all people, was trying to pull it out from under her.
"I'm sorry," I said, suddenly horribly ashamed of myself. "There may come a time when you're ready to talk about this, and when that happens, I'll be right here. But until then…I shouldn't have tried to push you. I'm sorry."
