The Girl Before by Rena Olsen

me tells me to keep my mouth shut.
    â€œClara,” Mama says evenly, “please finish up the dishes, but leave the broken plate. Macy will clean that up later. You may go to bed when everything has been put away.”
    I nod, still not trusting myself to speak.
    â€œMacy, please follow me.”
    Macy avoids eye contact as she follows Mama from the room. I stand, stunned, for a few minutes before mechanically returning to my job. I move as slowly as possible, waiting for her return, but when I finish, she is still gone. I tamp down feelings of dread as I tiptoe around the shards of china littering the floor and climb the stairs to our bedroom.
    I am almost asleep when Macy comes into the room later that night. Neither of us says a word as she goes about her bedtime routine and turns out the light. I know she’s not sleeping, and a short time later she rises from her bed, pads across the room, and climbs in next to me. I drape a careful arm over her shoulder, and her intake of breath is all the confirmation I need that her punishment was significant.
    We find a comfortable spot, and I begin to drift off when, almost as if from far away, I hear Macy whisper, “I’m sorry.”
    â€œMe too,” I say, and as unconsciousness finds me, I vow to protect Macy with everything I am from now on.
Now
    I have been writing in Dr. Mulligan’s office for half an hour when there is a knock on the door. “Keep going,” she says, standing to answer it. I bend my head back over my notebook and return to my sketch of Glen’s face. I am not a fantastic artist, but I do okay, and it’s important that I preserve the subtleties of his features. I am beginning to forget. It has only been a few days since I last saw him, but it feels much longer. I draw him so I can look back and remember, at least a little.
    Dr. Mulligan is conversing in urgent tones with whomever is at the door, and as their voices grow louder, I find it harder to concentrate.
    â€œIt’s not your decision,” Connor says, pushing past Dr. Mulligan as he strides into the room. I see anger flit across her face, a strange expression on her features. I do not picture Dr. Mulligan as an angry person.
    I look up at Connor, closing the cover of my notebook, covering Glen’s face. I squint my eyes at him to show my displeasure at his presence.
    â€œStill silent, I see,” he says. He looks rough, as if he hasn’t shaved for a couple of days, and his normally crisp clothing shows telltale wrinkles of being worn long hours.
    I open my notebook again, turning to a fresh page, and begin drawing swirls. Connor leans over to see what I’m doing, and instead of hiding my work, my scrawls turn into creative cuss words, just for Connor. Instead of getting angry, as I expect, Connor barks out a laugh. I make a face at him.
    â€œCan I see that?” he asks, reaching for my notebook. I slam the cover shut and shove it underneath me, so I am sitting on it.
    Dr. Mulligan has been watching the interaction with interest.“Can I ask what you’re doing here, Agent?” she says, her calm façade back in place.
    â€œI just wanted to check on her,” Connor says, watching me.
    â€œCheck on her?”
    â€œOn her progress, of course,” he stutters, standing up straight and looking at the doctor. “We need to get her back into questioning as soon as possible.”
    â€œLet’s step out in the hallway, Agent,” Dr. Mulligan says. “You’ll be okay, Clara?” she asks. I ignore her.
    As soon as the door closes, I creep closer until their muffled voices become clear enough for me to understand.
    â€œShe needs therapy,” Dr. Mulligan is saying.
    â€œI know. But we need answers. We were getting somewhere until—”
    â€œUntil you threw her in prison to scare her into talking? Yes, I can see that worked well for you.”
    Connor’s voice rises, tension radiating through