Maybe she had used the word “locked” because she was frightened and six years old.
But she had said, “They locked me in.”
Not “The door won’t open.”
Not “I can’t get out.”
They locked me in.
I gripped the steering wheel harder.
The last few times I had visited, Lizzy had seemed quieter than usual.
She used to run toward me as soon as I walked through the front door, carrying her stuffed bear under one arm and talking so quickly that half her words collided.
Lately, she had stayed near the stairs and watched my mother before answering even simple questions.
Her sleeves had covered most of her hands.
Her clothes had hung loosely around her shoulders.
Once, when Gloria went into the kitchen, Lizzy leaned close to me and whispered, “Aunt Nat, I want to live with you.”
Before I could ask why, my mother returned carrying coffee.
