Before She Was Found. Heather Gudenkauf

I got the feeling she had to do this often. “What I need—” Jim lowered his voice “—is a crowbar and five minutes alone with whoever did this to my daughter.”

      “Jim, stop,” Mara said, dissolving once again into tears.

      “I’m sorry,” Jim said as if surprised by the intensity of his own anger. “I’m going to go see if the police have any more information.” He brushed roughly past us and out of the room.

      “He’s scared,” Mara explained. “It’s just so hard seeing her like this. He hates that he wasn’t there to help her.”

      “Don’t be sorry. I understand.” I pressed my business card into Mara’s hand. “Please call me if you need anything or if I can answer any questions. I often work with children and families who have experienced traumatic events.”

      “Thank you.” Mara sniffed. “But I don’t think so.”

      “Is there someone I can call for you? A family member or friend to come sit with you during surgery?” I asked. Support systems are crucial during tragedies such as this.

      “My parents are on their way with our other daughter,” Mara said. “They should be here soon. But thank you.”

      I smiled and lightly touched Mara on the shoulder as Dr. Soto slid the door open.

      In silence we walked to the bank of elevators. “Maybe after the surgery the Landrys will be more open to visiting with you,” Dr. Soto said. “I worry about Mr. Landry. He’s a very angry man.”

      “Mrs. Landry does seem more approachable,” I agreed. “But I don’t expect a call from either of them. I can drop by Cora’s room later today and check on them.”

      “Thank you again, Madeline,” Dr. Soto said as he took his leave. “I owe you a favor.”

      I remember the elevator doors opening and inside was a young couple clutching hands. The man—a boy, really—held an empty car seat in his free hand and the girl pressed her face into his shoulder. He averted his gaze as if embarrassed by his red, swollen eyes.

      “I’ll grab the next one,” I said and turned away. Down the hallway, Mr. Landry was speaking to a police officer. Though I wasn’t able to see his face and couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, I could hear the frustration in his voice. The policeman stood placidly by, allowing him to say his piece. I knew that the father’s anger was understandable, normal even, but Jim Landry seemed to be becoming unhinged. Finally, the police officer held his hand up as if to silence Mr. Landry.

      “Do not tell me to calm down!” Mr. Landry’s voice filled the corridor, causing people to stop and stare.

      The elevator doors slid open and I reluctantly stepped inside. I had been in the presence of the Landrys for just a few minutes and already recognized the hallmarks of a family ready to implode. And there was something about Jim Landry that in my line of work had become much too familiar to me. Angry, aggressive men who liked to be in control, whatever the cost.

      I wish I had paid more attention to this—the family dynamics. Would things have turned out differently? Maybe not. I became so fixated on Cora and how she was dealing with the trauma of the attack and her injuries that I missed the bigger picture—what happened before they found her and why it all happened in the first place.

       Case #92-10945

      Excerpt from the journal of Cora E. Landry

       Nov. 4, 2017

       Violet came over to my house yesterday after school and we had so much fun! We jumped on the trampoline for a while and then I showed her my room. She told me she thought I had the best room she’d ever seen.

       We found out we actually have a lot in common. Cheese pizza is our favorite food and we both like to draw. Violet is really good but I’m just okay. She showed me some pictures she made in her notebook. I told her that she should write graphic novels when she grows up. Violet got all red when I said that but I could tell that she knew I meant it.

       I told Violet I hated volleyball and she said she did, too. I said that social studies was my favorite subject this year and that the only bad thing about it was that Jordyn is in the class.

       “She’s not that bad,” Violet said. “She helped me open my locker the other day. Plus, I’m going to her house this weekend. Did you know her grandpa owns a bar?”

      HA! I wanted to say. Jordyn has no problem screwing me up when I try to open my locker but she’s all nice when Violet needs the help.

       I wanted to tell Violet to be careful, that Jordyn was two-faced and sneaky. I wanted to tell her about the time in second grade when Jordyn put her brownie on my seat just before I sat down and it looked like I pooped my pants and I wanted to tell her about how mean she was to me in volleyball practice.

       But what I really wanted to tell Violet was how last year Jordyn stole Gabe from Gemma, who was supposedly her best friend. Gemma liked Gabe first and they were “going out,” which is really stupid because going out in fifth grade just means sitting by each other at the high school football games.

       Gemma got mono and when she came back to school a few weeks later, Gabe and Jordyn were dating. Gemma didn’t talk to Jordyn for like a week but then, like Jordyn does, she acted all innocent and hurt. Like it was Gemma’s fault. Of course Gemma ended up forgiving Jordyn.

       I guess if I was being honest, I probably would have done the same thing. No one likes having Jordyn on their bad side.

       So I wanted to tell Violet all this but then my sister pounded on my door and yelled that Violet’s mom was there to pick her up so I didn’t get the chance.

       Then the house phone started ringing and when I went to answer it whoever was on the other end just sat there and didn’t say anything so I just hung up.

       This happened like five times until my mom stepped in and answered the phone and told them that we had caller ID and she was going to call the police and report them for harassment. We don’t have caller ID but the phone calls stopped. I bet it was Jordyn.

       Thomas Petit

      Monday, April 16, 2018

      Thomas pulls Jordyn’s damp jacket from the washing machine. The blood appears to be completely washed away. He lifts it just inches from his face to get a better look. He’s tempted to douse it with bleach but quickly dismisses the idea. It was just a spot of blood. Kids bleed all the time. Hell, as youngsters his boys were plastered in Band-Aids on any given day from all the scrapes and scratches they collected.

      But niggling doubts keep crowding his head. As much as he loves his granddaughter, she has always had a bit of a devilish streak. A quick tongue and an even quicker temper. There was the time when Jordyn was about six and the school called saying that Jordyn pinched a girl in her class so hard it left a bruise. “Why?” Tess had asked, wanting to understand.

      Jordyn scowled and said, “She took my spot on the carpet. I told her to move but she wouldn’t.”

      There was the time when Jordyn was benched in soccer for purposely trying to trip her opponents. Jordyn promised she didn’t do it on purpose and Thomas wanted to believe her but there was also the incident last year when Jordyn slammed a locker door on a classmate’s hand, breaking two of her fingers. Again, Jordyn insisted it was an accident but the injured party disagreed and so did her mother. Jordyn was suspended for a day.

      But these examples are eons away from stabbing someone and Thomas pushes the doubts away. He tosses Jordyn’s damp jacket in the dryer, sets the dial