Page 62 of Broken Bayou
“Do you know where I’m staying in town?”
Another nod, another bolt. So Eddie could’ve ridden his bike to Shadow Bluff to leave the last doll on the porch, but whoever left the license plate was driving a truck.
“Do you know about something else left for me? A license plate maybe?”
He stops rocking. “It’s a secret,” he repeats.
“Do you know where the license plate came from?” I say.
It happens so quickly I almost miss it, but I’m studying him, looking for it. And there it is. His eyes dart to the far window. He backs away from me, and I walk over to the window and look out. Across the dry, dead grass, several yards away, is the discarded play equipment and the shed I saw when I pulled in. And behind that, jutting from the ground in the wooded area surrounding their land, is a single white cross. Maybe for a pet, maybe a memorial for where Emily was found. I shiver.
Something creaks behind me, and I turn. Eddie sits on the small bed, the frame groaning under his weight. He shakes his head. “She don’t want to be alone,” he says in a soft mumble.
“It’s okay. I can help you, Eddie. I’m a doctor.”
His body sways. “No help.”
I study the metal dolls on the bed beside him, and an idea comes to me. Like the ones propped in the kitchen at Shadow Bluff, they remind me of a little family. And I’ve used dolls before in therapy with children who won’t speak about their abuse. It’s safer, less threatening. Play therapy is also very revealing. Children can only play things they know.
“Eddie.” I glance at the dolls. “Would you like to play something? Maybe we could play house and family.” I point to each individual doll. “One could be a boy. One could be the mother. One could be the brother.”
Eddie shakes his head and doubles over. I think he’s sobbing again until I see his hand fishing under the bed for something. I back up a step.
“Eddie?”
He falls to all fours on the floor and reaches deep under the bed, struggling to get to the darkest part. I bend over and watch. He drags a shoebox out and leans over and smells it. A deep, long inhale.
“What’s that?” My pulse quickens.
“A gift.”
I hand him another metal scrap. “Who gave it to you?”
“Brother.” That’s worth two bolts.
He opens the box, and I lean closer to see what’s inside. Eddie jerks his head up, slams the lid on, and shoves it back under the bed. He starts to moan and rock.
“Eddie?” I bend down next to him, and he strikes out so quickly I can’t avoid his hand. His open palm smacks the side of my face and knocks me to the ground. I’m used to patients slapping and lashing out when they get stressed or overstimulated, but they are children with small hands. Eddie is a very grown man, and his slap is something I’ve not experienced before. My cheek radiates pain, and I rub my jaw as I stand.
Eddie lumbers toward the bedroom door. “Hide.”
“Hide?”
He shoves me out of the way with a straight arm, blocking the exit and looking into the hall, then back at me. “You hide.”
“Me?”
“He won’t like you here.”
“Who?”
“Brother.”
The front door slams shut. A man’s voice carries to the back bedroom. “Looks like we got ourselves a visitor.”
I know that voice. The inflection. Doyle is home.
I hear an exchange of voices in the front room. Eddie looks at me, terrified. “Hide,” he says again. He leaps toward me, and the floorboards shake. He grabs my arms and tries to shove me behind the door. His fleshy paws dig into my shoulders.
