Before She Was Found - Heather Gudenkauf Page 0,90

came by again yesterday,” Cora said as I tucked the blanket around her shoulders. A vaguely sweet, foul odor emanated from Cora. “I think the policeman was mad at me.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked, thinking about what John Dover said about Cora being hypersensitive about what people say to her and taking things the wrong way.

“Because I can’t remember anything. He kept asking me what I saw and who I saw and what happened and I couldn’t tell him,” Cora said with annoyance.

“I’m sure he wasn’t mad at you,” I said. “Maybe just frustrated because he can’t find the person who did this awful thing.”

“No, he was definitely mad,” Cora insisted. “I could tell. He was practically yelling at me and then I started crying and my mom made him leave.” I could see that Cora was getting worked up again but she kept talking. “Violet’s been saying that Joseph Wither was the one who attacked me.”

Violet had told me the same thing and I wanted to continue the conversation with Cora that we had the other day, about ghosts and conversations with Joseph Wither, but didn’t want to force the topic. I was happy Cora brought it up.

“Why do you think Violet is saying this?” I asked.

Cora shrugged and winced in pain at the sudden movement. “I guess because she thinks that Joseph Wither is real,” she said.

I knew I had to be careful as to how I responded here. I needed to be noncommittal, nonjudgmental, so as to not interject any personal perspectives. “You mentioned the other day when you gave me the picture of Skittles that Joseph Wither was contacting you online...” I let the sentence hang, hoping that Cora would fill in the blanks. She didn’t.

“Why do you think Violet thinks he’s real?” I asked instead.

Cora sat in silence for a long time, her forehead creased as if trying to work out something in her mind. “What do you think?” I asked. “Do you believe that Joseph Wither is real?”

When she finally met my eye, she hesitated before speaking. “What if I believe two crazy things?”

“I would say that people believe all kinds of things and that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re crazy. Sometimes people just need to talk through what they are thinking and then things make better sense. Do you want to share your two things with me?”

“What if I believe in Joseph Wither and what if I believe that Violet and Jordyn were the ones who hurt me?”

My blood ran cold. Had Cora been hiding the fact that her best friend was the one who stabbed her? Had a twelve-year-old girl really tried to kill her best friend? In my few sessions with Violet I hadn’t got the sense that she was the perpetrator. Was I wrong? My first impression of Violet was that of a very frightened, confused little girl, which was perfectly understandable given the circumstances. But what I wasn’t clear about was the source of Violet’s fear. Was she afraid of the attacker or was she afraid of being caught?

“Was Violet the one who hurt you, Cora? Is that what you are saying?”

She didn’t respond and I noticed that her face had gone a shade paler and a thin sheen of sweat had appeared above her lip and her eyes had a glassy glint.

“Cora, are you feeling okay?” I leaned forward and laid the back of my hand against her forehead and was met with surprising heat. “You have a bit of fever,” I told her, though I was worried that it could be much more than that. “Let me go get your nurse and have her take your temperature.”

“Okay,” Cora said as she closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. It’s easy to forget how exhausting it can be carrying on a conversation after a significant injury.

I stepped out into the hallway and flagged down a nurse. “I think Cora Landry may have a fever. Could someone check her temperature?”

After a few minutes, a young woman wearing pink scrubs breezed in. Cora’s nurse. “Hey there, Cora,” she said. “I hear you’re feeling pretty crummy. Let’s check you out.” She smoothly pressed a thermometer into her ear and after a few seconds it beeped. “One hundred and three. You don’t mess around, do you?” Cora managed to open her eyes to narrow slits but they fluttered shut.

“Infection?” I asked.

“It looks that way. I’ll call the doctor and I imagine she’ll order another course of antibiotics.” To Cora