The Mercy Line

Tessa was wedged between two vinyl chairs and a radiator cover, with her legs pulled up and her hands stuffed into the sleeves of a faded pink sweatshirt (the cuffs were now gray). Her aunt was arguing with someone at the reception window about copays in a soft-spoken tone that echoed throughout the waiting area. "They told me it would be covered," she said.

The fish tank in Waiting Room Three ticked and hummed. An angel fish was chewing on a plastic castle. The waiting room smelled faintly of lemon disinfectant and wet wool; someone had entered wearing a wet coat and placed it on the hook near the door where it dripped onto the cracked tray of river rocks below.

Mara crouched down so she could see Tessa's face. She kept her hands visible and relaxed at her sides. The brass nameplate above the door read DR. MARA LEVIN, but children respond to posture before they do to titles.

"Tessa?"

Tessa looked at Mara briefly and then quickly looked away. Not shy. Looking for ways out. The door to the hallway, the fish tank, the umbrella stand, Mara's shoes, back to the hallway.

"Tessa, I'm Mara. Would you like to come with me now?" There was no response.

Mara turned slightly to allow Tessa to continue seeing the rest of the room. "You can bring your fox."

It was then that Mara saw the fox - a small stuffed animal that was squished under Tessa's rib cage. One of its ears was missing. Tessa squeezed the fox tighter. Her aunt spun away from the reception window.

"Thank goodness. She doesn't do this with me. Tess, go ahead. Don't cause a scene." The words landed like coins thrown across the room. Tessa flinched but did not lift her head.

Mara looked at the aunt for a moment too long. It caused the woman to blush. She appeared to be mid-thirties, with a tight ponytail, a puffer vest over scrubs, and her cell phone was already back in her hand.

"You're Ms. Doyle?" Mara asked.

"Aunt. Temporary Guardian." The woman gave a quick smile that asked for approval and expected criticism. "Her mother is in treatment again."

"We'll talk later after I meet with Tessa." "Well, she won't talk to me. Or to school. Or to the lady from CPS. She just started wetting the bed. And she stopped going to boxing. Which is ridiculous because boxing was the only thing she enjoyed and Coach Larkin —"

Tessa let out a small whimper then. Not a word. More like a trapped breath, as if a rope had been tightened around her neck.

Mara said, "We'll talk later." The aunt's lips thinned. "Fine."

Mara looked back at Tessa. "We don't have to talk right away. We can simply sit in my office and determine if my rug is ugly." This elicited the slightest hesitation.

"It has squares," Mara explained. "Lots of them. Very committed to being squares." Tessa's eyes met Mara's again. This time they were wary rather than blank. Mara rose slowly and moved towards the hallway at an un-rushed pace. A few moments later she heard the faint sound of sneakers behind her.

Mara's office had previously served as a storage room. The window was small and faced the brick wall of the neighboring building. However, there was a lamp with a mica shade that provided sufficient lighting and a bookshelf that was low enough for children to reach. The rug was indeed ugly – brown and rust-colored squares worn down in the middle. Mara inherited both the rug and a basket full of plastic dinosaurs along with a rocking chair that creaked every third swing from the previous therapist.

Tessa stopped at the entrance.

"You get to pick," Mara said. "Chair, floor, beanbag, or under my desk. Last month one child referred to this option as the cave choice." Tessa peeked underneath the desk. There was plenty of space if she curled up. Instead, she chose to sit on the floor beside the bookshelf and arrange herself with her back against the wall and the fox cradled under one arm.

Mara sat in the chair closest to the door. Not behind the desk. Always avoid sitting behind the desk if possible.

For several minutes Mara remained silent. The radiator hissed. Down the hall somewhere a copier spit out sheets of paper. Tessa silently counted the books using only her eyes; she did not touch any of them. Positive sign: Curiosity remains.

Mara retrieved a yellow legal pad from the side table and wrote her name in large block letters. She then slid the pad along with a cup of markers across the rug. They were positioned far enough away to prevent crowding.

"You don't need to use words first," Mara said.

Tessa stared at the markers as though they could be deceptive.

"No rules apply to the page other than one. Nothing has to be good."

After another period of silence, Tessa leaned forward and selected the black marker. She carefully printed T E S S A in capital letters. Then she created a square beneath those letters. Not a house. Just a square. Within that square she created another square. And within that second square she created yet another square. Each time she pressed down hard enough to produce a squeaking noise.

Mara waited.

From outside Mara's aunt laughed too loudly at something the receptionist said. The laughter filtered through the wall in fragmented pieces.

Tessa capped the black marker and picked up the red marker. She rapidly made violent strokes across one corner of the square until the paper began to tear apart.

"Do you know why your aunt brought you here?" Mara asked.

Tessa nodded once.

"What did she tell you?" Mara continued.

"That you ask questions," Tessa responded.

"That's accurate," Mara replied. She folded one leg beneath her. "I ask questions. You can choose whether or not to answer."

Tessa placed the red marker back down. "If I tell you, it gets worse."

There it was. Flat tone. Learned law.

Mara maintained a calm demeanor. "Has something gotten worse before?"

A shrug. Not dismissal. Cost accounting.

"With whom?" Mara asked.

Tessa's hand traveled to the cuff of her sweatshirt. Her thumb rubbed the seam until the skin there turned pale. "People."

People. Plural because singular had failed her already.

Mara has learned not to rush the initial opening that a child provides. Adults rush because they seek relief: state it, identify it, provide me with something actionable. Children realize that identifying something does not equate to safety.

"Okay," Mara stated. "You don't have to tell me names right now." Tessa's shoulders dropped slightly.

Mara reached toward the low table and picked up the glass counters she uses during games. Green, blue, amber. "Can we create some rules instead?" Mara asked.

Tessa glanced over.

"You and I," Mara said. She placed one blue counter on the rug. "Rule number one: If I ask something silly, you can tell me it's silly."

No reaction.

She added a green counter. "Rule number two: If you wish me to stop speaking, raise your hand like this." Mara demonstrated.

Tessa observed Mara's demonstration and then mimicked it by raising two fingers barely above the surface.

"Great," Mara stated. "Rule number three: If I become concerned that someone is currently harming you, I may need to request assistance from other adults to ensure your safety. I dislike surprises therefore I inform children of this possibility at the beginning." That statement altered the atmosphere. Tessa's expression hardened into a fist.

"I'm not saying it," Tessa declared.

Mara allowed the words to settle. The typical response rose within her automatically – useless and robotic: I know. I know. Rather, she said, "You decide when to share information. My role is to listen intently when you do."

A police siren passed along Fayette Street below and faded away. Following its departure, Tessa asked, "Do you know Coach Ben?" The inquiry was so unexpected Mara felt it in her spine.

"Coach Ben Larkin?" Mara questioned.

Tessa nodded minimally.

"I know who he is," Mara confirmed.

"He shares information," Tessa whispered. Her voice had dropped significantly. Mara leaned closer to hear her. "Such as assisting individuals. Such as helping girls remain strong. And if you cry then you shame the gymnasium because people contribute money and he states girls from our neighborhood receive ample opportunities and cannot afford to waste them."

The language did not appear to originate from an eight-year-old. Rather, it seemed rehearsed under pressure and memorized from a person who spoke to children until his ideas became ingrained in their mouths.

"What occurs if someone shames the gymnasium?" Mara queried.

Tessa's eyes shifted toward the door.

Mara followed Tessa's gaze. "He is not present here."

"He discovers," Tessa replied.

"How?" Mara probed.

A shrug. Less pronounced than previously. "He simply does."

Mara considered institutions and their intricate networks of loyalty. The van driver who transports participants to events. The women who sell baked goods at fundraising activities. Parents who appreciate free programs, gloves and wraps and hot meals following practices. Individuals such as Larkin do not require magic to learn what is occurring. They rely upon the ordinary mechanisms of other adults desiring not to know.

"Did something occur at the gymnasium?" Mara questioned.

Tessa squeezed the fox so forcefully its stitched eye sank beneath her thumb. Her breathing pattern changed. Rapid now, high in the chest.

"Observe the lamp," Mara whispered. "Not me. The lamp."

Initially Tessa did not comply. Mara waited. Eventually Tessa's gaze became fixated upon the mica shade.

"Identify five items in this room that are not living beings," Mara instructed quietly.

Tessa swallowed. "Lamp."

"Correct," Mara affirmed.

"Books," Tessa continued.

"Correct," Mara agreed.

"Rug," Tessa added.

Mara nodded. "Two remaining."

"Fish sticker," Tessa identified. A faded one on the filing cabinet, peeling at one fin.

"One additional," Mara prompted.

Tessa's voice emerged hoarsely. "Fox."

"Exactly correct," Mara affirmed.

The girl drew in a series of shallow breaths. Then another.

Mara stated, "You don't need to enter the memory to indicate where the door exists." Tessa frowned attempting to comprehend.

"You can point to the exterior of it," Mara clarified.

An extended pause ensued.

"He requests that I remain after practice when everyone else departs," Tessa whispered. "For additional training. For champions." She rubbed the damaged ear of the fox between her thumb and index finger. "Music plays loudly."

Mara remained motionless. Her pulse pounded vigorously in her throat.

"Where is this location?" Mara queried.

"In his office. Sometimes storage," Tessa responded. Her complexion had paled. "I detest the odor."

"What odor?" Mara pressed.

"Tiger Balm and stale water," Tessa elaborated.

The description resonated with certainty. Not fantasy. The body remembers through objects.

"What transpires in his office?" Mara queried and immediately regretted the phrasing of the question due to its blunt nature.

Tessa ceased rubbing the fox. "He locks."

"Understood," Mara acknowledged.

"And informs me that if I create problems my mother loses her bed," Tessa's eyes met Mara's then, fierce and immediate. "He understands the location. He delivered food there once. Everyone loves him."

Mara had to suppress her tongue against the roof of her mouth prior to responding. "Thank you for informing me of this."

"I didn't disclose the worst aspect," Tessa countered.

"You disclosed sufficient information," Mara countered.

Tessa appeared skeptical again. Children frequently exhibit skepticism when adults attempt to soften potentially painful realities.

"Will you inform my aunt?" Tessa questioned.

"I will inform her that I'm concerned and that you require support to avoid interacting with him," Mara articulated each word cautiously as if placing glass onto tile. "Unless you prefer otherwise, I won't disclose every word you've shared with me."

"She'll notify others regardless," Tessa asserted.

"Perhaps," Mara conceded. "However, I can assist in determining who receives notification and how." That appeared significant. Not trust, not presently. But some modification in mathematics.

Jolene from reception knocked on the frame of the doorway. One hand covered the mouthpiece of her cordless telephone.

Mara rose immediately and exited the office prior to Tessa hearing her departure. Jolene's penciled eyebrows arched upward.

"School social worker on line two," Jolene announced. "And Ms. Doyle wishes to know how long it will take. She has a shift."

"Fifteen minutes," Mara replied. Into the telephone: "Levin."

A female voice introduced herself from Barclay Elementary School; her voice sounded weary and tinny through the speaker. She expressed concern regarding Tessa Doyle's recent behaviors including withdrawal, exaggerated startle responses, refusal to wear clothing appropriate for physical education classes, and involvement in a dispute on the playground involving a male student striking a tetherball causing the chain attached to the pole to strike the pole with a metallic clang.

"Has she identified a source?" Mara inquired.

"Not clearly. Aunt believes it is likely familial chaos," the caller answered. A pause ensued. "Off the record, Dr. Levin? We all recognize Coach Larkin can be demanding. However, he employs traditional disciplinary methods. That does not constitute abuse."

Mara gazed vacantly at the cinder block wall. Someone had affixed a flyer promoting a coat drive to it; however, one corner had detached and curled similar to a dead leaf.

"What constitutes 'demanding'?" Mara queried.

"Push-ups, shouting. He grew up in that era," the caller explained.

"Has a child ever revealed anything more serious than shouting?" Mara questioned.

Silence prevailed momentarily permitting Mara to hear the hum emanating from a ventilation fan located at the other end of the school. "Nothing I can verify, Dr. Levin. The coach has been employed by East Harbor for fifteen years. Parents trust him."

Not "no." Nothing I can verify.

"Thank you," Mara responded and terminated the call prior to allowing her own voice to reveal anything further.

Upon returning to her office, Tessa had relocated to the beanbag chair. She appeared diminutive there, nearly submerged by the blue vinyl.

"I need to converse with your aunt presently," Mara informed Tessa. "Would you prefer to remain here or accompany Jolene outside?" Tessa opted to remain.

"Here," Tessa responded.

"Okay. Should the door remain open or closed?" Mara continued.

"Open," Tessa answered.

Mara opened the door widely.

Ms. Doyle entered the room with irritation clearly etched onto her features. "I truly must depart."

"We shall maintain brevity," Mara assured her. She positioned herself on the edge of her desk, refusing to offer the chair nearest Tessa to the aunt. "Tessa cannot attend East Harbor Boxing beginning today."

The aunt emitted a short burst of laughter. "Due to anxiety? She experiences anxiety everywhere."

"Due to something occurring at the gymnasium that frightens her," Mara countered.

"Children experience fear when they are pressured. That is sport," the aunt retorted.

"Tessa indicated that she is being isolated by an adult at the gymnasium," Mara elaborated.

The aunt's eyes darted toward Tessa and then away. "How is she being isolated?"

Mara maintained eye contact with the aunt. "To the degree that I am concerned for her safety."

For an instant something raw surfaced on the aunt's face. Not surprise. Recognition followed swiftly by dread.

"That is a considerable allegation against Ben Larkin," she stated. "Do you realize how many girls he prevents from competing in tournaments? My brother would have perished if he had not taken him in when they were children."

Mara refrained from providing a response.

Ms. Doyle crossed her arms. "You people hear one thing and destroy lives. There was another mother last year alleging numerous falsehoods regarding her daughter being excluded from a tournament."

Tessa had become completely still within the beanbag chair. Mara could sense the oppressive silence pressing against Tessa's ears.

"I am not discussing other children," Mara stated. "I am stating that Tessa cannot return to East Harbor Boxing."

"And subsequently what? Who supervises her after school when I am working at Sinai until eleven o'clock?" Ms. Doyle inquired.

"Can she reside with a neighbor? A relative?" Mara proposed.

"My relatives are the issue, Doctor," Ms. Doyle countered.

At least that sounded authentic.

Mara reached into her desk drawer and removed a business card. She inscribed a telephone number on the reverse side. "This represents a community-based program in Remington. Girls engage in martial arts; staff members are trauma-informed; no interactions occur behind closed doors. Contact them utilizing my name. Scholarships are available."

Ms. Doyle examined the card but declined to accept it. "Are you contacting CPS?"

"I am filing a mandatory report based upon safety concerns," Mara clarified.

Ms. Doyle offered a brief, bitter smile. "And subsequently they will conduct business as usual."

Mara detected a challenge underlying her comment: Pretend your system functions. Proceed.

"What transpired with the report last year?" Mara questioned.

Ms. Doyle clenched her jaw. "Nothing. Initial assessment, home visit, numerous inquiries. Ben communicated with them; they communicated with the pastor; they communicated with two mothers who would crawl through broken glass for him. Case closed. Happy?"

Not "no." Not the word.

"You were aware of the existence of a report," Mara asserted.

"There are always reports. People become angry; children lie; ex-spouses instigate conflict," Ms. Doyle rebutted.

"And yet you permitted Tessa to continue attending there," Mara countered.

The aunt's facial expression hardened. "Do you believe options abound on a silver platter? Do you believe I lack knowledge regarding what males represent? I work nights applying bloody bandages to women who claim they fell down stairs. I comprehend precisely what males represent." Her voice broke only once and she stifled it. "However, comprehending is not synonymous with possessing rent money."

Tessa was observing them with an unyielding, ancient focus.

Mara lowered her voice. "Accept the card."

After a brief interval, Ms. Doyle snatched the card from Mara's desk and slipped it into her vest pocket.

"I will schedule Tessa for an appointment on Thursday," Mara informed her. "She requires continuity. If transportation presents difficulties, advise us."

The aunt emitted a humorless laugh. "Transportation is always problematic."

Once they departed, the office retained their absence as if it bore a bruise. Mara sat motionless. On the rug, Tessa had left behind the piece of paper featuring three nested squares; the red ink had penetrated deeply into one corner creating a potential hole in the page.

Jolene leaned into the doorway. "Are you alright?"

Mara glanced up. "Did they establish a follow-up for Thursday?"

"They did," Jolene reported. She hesitated. "Would you like me to call upstairs and flag this case?"

Upstairs referred to administration. Compliance. Risk Management encapsulated in neutral paint and brushed steel signage.

"Not at this juncture," Mara stated.

Jolene comprehended sufficiently not to inquire further. She merely nodded briefly and withdrew.

Despite this decision, Mara proceeded to complete the hotline report nonetheless. She included the child's name, age, guardian, disclosure concerning fear of a program administrator, reference to prior report documented by caregiver. Upon receiving Mara's submission, the intake worker sounded disinterested initially, then attentive upon learning of prior allegations; however, she reverted to apathy when Mara indicated she did not possess detailed forensic data at present. Case accepted; timeframe ranging from twenty-four to seventy-two hours; thank you for calling.

Thank you for calling.

Mara gently placed the telephone back onto its cradle. Her palm had left a moist imprint upon the receiver.

At four o'clock she conducted a session with a twelve-year-old boy who refused to remove his winter coat. At five o'clock she responded to three messages; one originated from a foster parent requesting whether nightmares constituted an emergency. At six fifteen she found herself standing in the staff kitchenette holding a paper cup containing coffee that she could not recall pouring.

The kitchenette provided views of a parking lot enclosed by chain-link fencing and a mural depicting blue herons painted on the exterior wall of the adjoining building. Dusk rendered the automobiles indistinguishable from dark lozenges. Within the sink, someone had abandoned a fork resting atop the rim of a cereal bowl wherein milk had dried forming a skin.

Naomi Pike entered the kitchenette buttoning her coat; her scarf trailed from one sleeve. Naomi supervised the outpatient team and had developed expertise in managing fatigue compassionately.

"You're still here," Naomi commented.

Mara lifted her cup. "Evidently."

Naomi opened the refrigerator door seeking yogurt; she closed the refrigerator without removing it. "Jolene informed me that you experienced a challenging intake."

"A girl from East Harbor Boxing," Mara explained.

That garnered Naomi's attention. "Larkin's establishment?"

Mara nodded affirmatively.

Naomi rested one hip against the counter. "Whispers have circulated."

"We received a report last year," Mara clarified.

"We received rumors concerning a report last year," Naomi corrected. "Those are two distinct concepts."

"Not to the child," Mara emphasized.

Naomi rubbed the bridge of her nose. "What did she say?"

"Enough," Mara replied tersely.

"Are you documenting?" Naomi inquired.

"Of course I'm documenting," Mara retorted.

"That's not what I asked," Naomi interjected.

Mara placed her coffee cup down. Its surface had developed an oily film. "I contacted the hotline."

Naomi scrutinized Mara. "And?"

"And nothing. They accepted the intake. They'll proceed at the rate of wallpaper," Mara reported.

Naomi's lips tightened. "Mara."

"Don't," Mara instructed.

"Don't adopt that expression," Naomi implored.

"What expression?" Mara queried.

"The one where the room ceases to exist and transforms into a target," Naomi described.

Mara turned away from Naomi toward the window. Outside in the parking lot a man wearing a delivery cap attempted to coax a dented van into operating; his key turned futilely within the ignition.

Naomi spoke softly. "You understand the rule."

"Yes," Mara concurred.

"State it nevertheless," Naomi urged.

Mara emitted a humorless chuckle that failed to materialize as laughter. "I am not law enforcement. I am not an investigator. I am not a vigilante."

"Good," Naomi approved.

"They introduced that one in graduate school shortly after attachment theory," Mara recalled.

Naomi refrained from smiling. "I mean it."

Mara did likewise; however, she was contemplating Tessa stating "he locks" and the aunt's reaction when the prior report surfaced – recognition versus shock. How many adults does it take to transform a child's fear into background noise?

Naomi retrieved her scarf. "Go home. Write your note prior to departing. Do not contact the gym. Do not contact the pastor. Do not initiate retrieval of records to which you do not possess authorization."

Mara remained silent.

"That silence is precisely why I'm advising you," Naomi reiterated.

Subsequent to Naomi's departure, Mara returned to her office and composed the note while the specifics remained vivid. Child situated in defensive posture. Child reports fear associated with designated coach. Child reports isolation following practice, locked spaces, coercive statements linked to mother's access to treatment. Mara ensured her language was devoid of embellishment capable of surviving subpoena. The computer screen mirrored Mara's face in faint ghostlight: dark hair escaping from its knot, two vertical lines bisecting her forehead, lipstick absent since morning.

At the conclusion of the note Mara hovered over the field designated Collateral Contacts. School Social Worker. Caregiver. Hotline Intake.

A line should have existed for all those who had glanced sideways previously. Women occupying folding chairs at fundraisers. Janitors noting which girls departed last. Boys making jokes they did not comprehend. Receptionists at the gym listening to one child cry longer than seemed reasonable and deciding not to become problematic.

Mara saved the note and closed her laptop.

By the time Mara exited the clinic, the homes lining Eager Street had transformed into window-lit dwellings illuminated by dinner-time lights behind curtains. She drove eastward with the radio off passing liquor stores resembling cages, green neon advertisements for carry-out establishments, and the remnants of a church whose lower windows were obscured by plywood. At a red light on North Avenue she watched two girls clad in school uniforms compete against each other while riding scooters; their ties fluttered behind them.

Mara resided in a second-floor apartment above a tax preparation firm in Canton. The hallway perpetually smelled faintly of toner emanating from the office next door and fried onions cooked at the Salvadoran restaurant directly adjacent. Once inside her apartment she removed her shoes near the radiator, placed her bag on the kitchen table, and stood in the dimly lit environment longer than necessary.

Her apartment was orderly primarily because she disliked arriving home to evidence of herself. A bowl of Clementines occupied the counter. A stack of case journals rested beside the couch. Three mugs resided in the dish rack although she lived alone. She activated the lamp positioned above the sink and opened the freezer. Ice cubes clattered into a glass. Rye whiskey filled the glass two fingers deep.

Her telephone vibrated prior to her consuming the beverage.

Unknown Number.

She almost disregarded the call. Ultimately she answered. "Dr. Levin."

A woman responded. "You likely don't recall me."

The woman's voice was gravelly possibly attributable to smoking or working night shifts or both.

"I apologize —"

"Keisha Mercer. My niece was at Harbor House two years ago. Aaliyah."

Mara immediately recognized her. Thirteen years old; green barrettes; refused eye contact for five sessions; subsequently drew anatomically accurate knives utilizing blue crayon. Case resolved after placement disruption.

"Yes," Mara confirmed. "I recall."

Traffic noise accompanied the woman's voice possibly originating from a bus descending curbside; doors opened releasing passengers. "You spoke to me once outside juvenile court. Stated if I heard anything regarding Darnell Pike violating probationary terms involving minors, I should report it."

Mara positioned the glass down. Darnell Pike. Unrelated to Naomi. Thirty-eight. Mother's boyfriend. Disclosure made by Aaliyah resulted in no charges being filed due to poor handling of the interview and defense counsel exposing inconsistencies in Aaliyah's timeline ultimately leading everyone to assume inconsistencies equated to deception.

"Yes," Mara replied carefully.

Keisha chuckled once lacking any humor. "Well. Don't need to report him now."

Mara straightened. "What occurred?"

"News hasn't hit yet?" Keisha questioned.

"No," Mara replied.

"He's dead," Keisha declared. The kitchen diminished around those words.

"Where?" Mara inquired.

"Alley off Monument near the tire store," Keisha exhaled. "Someone did a number on him according to what my cousin reports."

"How do you know your cousin knows?" Mara inquired.

"He tows vehicles for the county. Heard it on the scanner first," Keisha explained.

Mara applied pressure to the cold side of the glass until it produced pain. "I'm sorry."

"No you're not," Keisha stated without accusation merely accurately. "Neither am I."

A siren blared through her end of the line drawing closer.

"Why are you contacting me?" Mara inquired.

"Because when that man exited last year laughing, you appeared as though you intended to ram your automobile through the courthouse wall," Keisha paused. "And because if something begins occurring to men like him, people will inquire who possessed justification."

Mara comprehended then. Not warning per se. Not information per se. A line cast into murky waters to ascertain what moves.

"I possessed justification," Mara stated. "So did approximately half of the city."

"Mm," Keisha responded. Another bus sighed. "Good night, Doctor."

The connection terminated.

Mara remained stationary; phone clutched in one hand; beverage untouched. Subsequently she activated the television and tuned in to local news just in time to hear the anchor announce that a man had been discovered deceased behind a closed auto repair shop in East Baltimore. Name withheld until family notification occurs. Police conducting investigation. No threat posed to public.

No threat posed to public.

Those words stirred something unpleasant within Mara's chest. A child is never regarded as part of the general populace. A child is a footnote, a service gap, a grant application.

Mara muted the television. Screen displayed yellow caution tape fluttering under floodlights; behind it a body concealed beneath a white sheet transported by two uniformed officers. One corner of the sheet rose and fell.

Mara's telephone remained warm in her hand. She could contact Naomi. She could document: collateral contact reporting death of prior alleged perpetrator. She could perform what professionals do with anger – contain it, define it, channel it into containers.

Alternatively she positioned her telephone face-down and proceeded to the hall closet.

The banker's box situated atop the highest shelf weighed heavier than Mara remembered. Contents included intake forms, old conference folders, a defunct printer cable, and beneath these items lay a manila folder Mara had carried home several months ago and never returned because nobody had requested it. EAST HARBOR COMMUNITY ATHLETICS. Brochures distributed publicly; printouts from their donor gala website; event schedules; newspaper articles. Mara had initiated collecting materials related to the organization after another child – not Tessa; not last year's child either – exhibited reluctance to discuss practice and subsequently underwent a transfer to a new counselor by a guardian who stated the current arrangement "wasn't working."

Mara carried the folder to the kitchen table and seated herself.

Top article featured Ben Larkin wearing a navy track suit; grinning broadly while encircling a group of girls who held medals between their teeth. Caption read Community Hero Provides Discipline and Hope to Youth Living on East Side. Another article depicted Larkin standing beside a city council member and a large check presented to him. Broad face; closely cropped beard with silver hairs visible along chin line; thick forearms indicative of a man who enjoys being viewed for strength.

Beneath that lay a printout listing the nonprofit's board members. Two local businessmen; pastor from Highlandtown; assistant principal; liaison responsible for soliciting donations from a hospital foundation. Telephone numbers belonging to three of those individuals were handwritten by Mara months ago when she told herself she was merely being thorough.

Mara's laptop remained inside her bag. She extracted it; powered it on; and did not connect to the clinic's virtual private network. Rather, she utilized her personal web browser. Public records; property tax databases; Maryland business filings; charity registrations. She searched East Harbor Community Athletics; then Benjamin Larkin; then the shell corporation identified as owning the building housing the gymnasium. Director's mailing address corresponded to a row house located in Dundalk. Emergency contact listed on an older tournament flyer matched an office belonging to a church located in Canton.

Mara generated a document titled Notes and left it untitled.

At eleven twenty-two Mara's phone lit up. Message received from Naomi.

Did you go home?

Mara glanced at her phone screen and typed, Yes.

Three dots appeared indicating Naomi was typing. Then: Leave it there tonight.

Mara placed her phone face-down on the pine table without responding. Her fingers carried the chill of the tumbler; moisture from the tumbler formed a damp ring on the varnish.

On television news, Darnell Pike's name finally appeared scrolling across the bottom of the screen below a commercial advertising mesothelioma litigation attorneys. Darnell Pike, 38. Previous convictions. Police seeking information.

Photograph of Pike filled the corner inset on television. Booking shot taken during prior arrest. Hard eyes reflecting combination of resentment and contempt; as if world had misidentified him as type of individual accountable to others.

Somewhere elsewhere in city someone waited until Pike entered alley or forced him to enter alley. Someone closed proximity. Someone determined channels were not channels but rather drainage systems.

Mara closed tab displaying business filings and opened another. East Harbor Boxing. Staff directory. Cached webpage displayed volunteer assistants; former competitors; donor committee chairpersons. One young trainer's social media linked to images taken inside gym office. Corkboard on wall. Trophies. Key rack by door containing tags hanging from hooks.

She expanded image until pixels became visible.

Five tags. Possibly six.

Her rye had become diluted with melted ice. Nonetheless she consumed it while continuing to stare at screen. Subsequently she reached for legal pad; tore off page containing grocery list; commenced writing names; addresses; dates of tournaments; exact wording used by school social worker; pause preceding denial by aunt; scent provided by Tessa because children communicate truths via nouns long before they can articulate them sequentially.

Upon completing first page she began second.

Outside sirens Dopplered along Boston Street and disappeared. Apartment held breath alongside Mara. Onscreen Ben Larkin smiled from fundraiser photograph beneath banner proclaiming protection of girls; Mara continued writing until legal pad was exhausted and purpose behind her actions could no longer be misconstrued as documentation.