Page 80 of The Vanishing Place
Nothing.
For a few seconds, it was silent, just the quiet tap of Anya’s right foot.
“May I?” asked Effie.
The detective signaled for her to go ahead.
“Anya, would you be willing to answer yes or no to the detective’s questions?”
She nodded.
“Are you six?” asked Morrow.
A shake.
“Seven?”
Another shake.
“Eight?”
Anya nodded.
For the next five minutes, the detective asked questions about the bush and the hut, painting a picture of the girl’s life. Nothing hard. Nothing about that day. Sometimes Anya answered. Sometimes she didn’t.
“And you lived in the hut with your Uncle Four?” asked Morrow.
Anya shook her head.
“So you lived alone?”
Another shake.
“Who did you live with?”
Silence.
“Sorry.” Morrow shook her head. “I mean—”
“How about…” Effie turned, searching the kitchen bench, then reached over and grabbed a few sheets of paper and a pencil. “Maybe you could draw some of your answers. That way, you don’t have to talk to us.”
Anya eyed Effie. Thinking. Then she lifted the pencil and started drawing.
The adults sat in silence as the child scratched the pencil back and forth, leaking pain and memory out onto paper. Anya hunched over the table, her face centimeters from the drawing, with her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth. It was the same picture that she’d drawn for Effie—two bodies withXs for eyes. The man had a cross carved into his torso, and the woman was lying in a pool of blood.
Morrow looked over at Effie, then back at Anya. “And the man,” she said, pointing at the picture, “that’s Four?”
The girl nodded.
“Did Four ever hurt you?”
Anya shook her head.
“Did Four chain you up?”
She nodded, her face calm, and Effie winced.
“Was Four punishing you for something?”
