You have thoroughly cleaned her room. Dusted, vacuumed. Evidence, you think. There can’t be any evidence. You think you can fool the police. All signs of life, of her life, will be gone from your house. It’s her word against yours. A quiet librarian. Your psychiatrist will vouch for you. He’ll say you’ve been so sad over the death of your wife. He’ll say you’ve been stressed about 9/11. He’ll say that you couldn’t possibly have let the girl come live with you.
You realize you are crying. You wipe the tears from your cheeks.
“It wasn’t your fault,” you say aloud – to Gibson, to the vacuum – “she came here to get clean. You were good. She left because she was ready. It isn’t your fault. She told you that her father abused her. She told you these things and she screamed hysterically in the
