When the Bough Breaks by Jonathan Kellerman

fat woman held out a handful of napkins.
    “Thanks.”
    “You know kids.” She looked down at Melody. “You enjoy yourself now, hon.”
    We carried the food off the pier and found a quiet spot on the beach, not far from the Pritikin Longevity Center. We ate our greasy fare watching middle-aged men attempt to jog around the block, fueled by whatever heartless menu the center was serving nowadays.
    She ate like a trucker. It was getting close to noon, which meant that normally she’d be ready for her second dose of amphetamine. Her mother hadn’t offered the medication to me, and I hadn’t thought—or wanted—to ask.
    The change in her behavior became evident halfway through lunch, and grew more obvious each minute.
    She began to move more. She was more alert. Her face became more animated. She fidgeted, as if waking from a long, confusing sleep. She looked around, newly in touch with her environment.
    “Look at them.” She pointed to a covey of wet-suited surfers riding waves in the distant.
    “They look like seals, don’t they?”
    She giggled.
    “Could I go in the water, Alex?”
    “Take your shoes off and wade near the shoreline—where the water touches the sand. Try not to get your dress wet.”
    I popped shrimp in my mouth, leaned back and watched her run along the tideline, skinny legs kicking up the water. Once she turned in my direction and waved.
    I watched her play that way for twenty minutes or so, and then I rolled up my pants legs, took off my shoes and socks and joined her.
    We ran together. Her legs worked better with every passing moment; soon she was a gazelle. She whooped and splashed and kept going until we were both out of breath. We walked back to our picnic site and collapsed on the sand. Her hair was a mess so I loosened the barettes and re-fastened them for her. Her small chest heaved. Her feet were crusted with grit from the ankle down. When she finally caught her breath she asked me:
    “I—I’ve been a good girl, haven’t I?”
    “You’ve been great.”
    She looked unsure.
    “Don’t you think so, Melody?”
    “I don’t know. Sometimes I think I am and Mama gets mad or Mrs. Brookhouse says I’m bad.”
    “You’re always a good girl. Even if someone thinks you’ve done something wrong. Do you understand that?”
    “I guess so.”
    “Not sure, huh?”
    “I—I get mixed up.”
    “Everyone gets mixed up. Kids and moms and dads. And doctors.”
    “Dr. Towle, too?”
    “Even Dr. Towle.”
    She digested that for a while. The large, dark eyes darted around, moving from the water, to my face, to the sky, and back to me.
    “Mama said you were going to hypnotize me.” She pronounced it hip-mo-tize.
    “Only if you want me to. Do you understand why we think it might be helpful?”
    “Sort of. To make me think better?”
    “No. You think just fine. This—” I patted her head—“works fine. We want to try hypnosis—hypnotizing—so that you can do us a favor. So that you can remember something.”
    “About when the other doctor was hurt.”
    I hesitated. My habit was to be honest with children, but if she hadn’t been told about Handler and Gutierrez being dead I wasn’t going to be the one to break the news. Not without the chance to be around to help pick up the pieces.
    “Yes. About that.”
    “I told the policeman I didn’t remember anything. It was all dark and everything.”
    “Sometimes people remember better after being hypnotized.”
    She looked at me, frightened.
    “Are you scared of being hypnotized?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “That’s okay. It’s okay to be scared of new things. But there really isn’t anything scary about hypnotizing. It’s really kind of fun. Have you ever seen anyone hypnotized before?”
    “Nope.”
    “Never? Even in a cartoon?”
    She lit up. “Yeah, when the guy in the pointy hat hypnotized Popeye and the waves came out his hands and Popeye walked out of the window into the air and he didn’t fall.”
    “Right. I’ve seen