"The names fit," I said gently.

I reached across to pat her, and without sound, she began to cry, chest heaving with muffled sobs. I put my arm around her shoulder, and she leaned in and collapsed against my chest. "I hate being cold."

"You hate being held?"

"No, I hate being cold." she said between labored breaths. "I always have, but I never knew why. It's that doghouse. This is why Lauren killed herself. That's what you came to tell me, isn't it?"

"Not exactly."

"It can't be coincidence she chose the same day, her thirty-fifth birthday."

"Probably not."

"She did it to send a message, didn't she?" Her moist eyes hardened. "To me, the lone survivor of the Fairchild family. You've found the answer, right?"

"I'm not sure I have," I said delicately. "I never met your sister, but from what I know, I don't think she'd choose a date and kill herself to intentionally hurt you. I'd like to continue investigating."

"What could you find that would top this?"

"Nothing, I hope. But maybe I'll discover a more simple explanation."

"Like what?"

"Lauren might have been ill. Her calendar is filled with appointments with a Dr. W, and I'm working on that lead. Also, Nicole swears she was having an affair, so maybe that's it."

"She's one to talk. Nicole was probably cheating on her."

"Exactly. See what I mean? There could be a thousand reasons."

"I still think she might have been murdered," she said, hope creeping into her voice.

"Patrice, don't start that again. You know Lauren committed suicide."

"But not necessarily because my mother killed my brother?"

"Not necessarily." I rose and stretched, then leaned against the side of the porch. "If I'm going to continue with the case, I need to ask a few questions about Ashley."

"What does my daughter have to do with this?" she asked, hands tightening into fists.

"From everything I've gathered, Lauren loved Ashley more than anything or anyone."

She relaxed. "That's true, and the feeling was mutual. I think Ashley misses my sister more than she would miss me or Stephen if we died."

"I doubt that," I said softly.

"No, honestly, there was a bond there, a spirit they both had when they were together. Lauren had an infinite amount of patience with Ashley. A few years back, I saw her sit for three hours, waiting for Ashley to come out of a tantrum."

"What happened?"

"Ashley had misbehaved somehow, I can't remember what she did, but Lauren reprimanded her. This made Ashley mad, so she scrunched down on her hands and knees in the middle of the kitchen floor. Lauren sat down next to her and stayed until she was ready to get up. She stroked her back and kept repeating she loved her until Ashley finally came out of it."

Patrice started to cry again. "I miss my sister so much. I don't know what I'm going to do without her. Lauren practically raised Ashley."

"Nicole told me Ashley had spinal meningitis when she was an infant, and that the infection caused brain damage. Is that true?

Patrice nodded. "But I'd rather not talk about it. No one understands about disabilities."

"I do." I studied my fingernails. "My brother's had epilepsy since he was four. Right now, he's in a coma because he had so many seizures in a row."

She blinked rapidly, lips quivering. "I had no idea. I'm sorry."

"I know what it's like to wonder when he'll fall or what else will go wrong with his body," I said in a monotone.

"Does it ever end?"

"What?"

"The fear."

"I don't know," I said, fighting tears.

"Last month, the doctors told us to watch for puberty in Ashley. That's the latest thing."

"How? She's only five years old."

"They're worried this thing in her brain, the master gland, might be damaged. I guess it's happened with other babies who had meningitis. Every day I have to check her for signs of pubic hair or breasts."

I felt sick. "And if you find any?"

"What else," she said, straining, "more medicine. Even with it, though, she'd probably have a spurt of growth, then stop growing altogether. She'd start out too big for her age, then she'd end up too small. I can't think about it. All I can do is pray it won't happen. If it does, we'll face it like we do everything else, one problem at a time. Is that what you do with your brother?"

"Something like that," I said, unable to make eye contact.

"I can't remember what it's like to live without worry. We've been doing this since she was eight months old, and there's no end in sight."

"That's when she contracted the meningitis?"

Patrice nodded. "On a Wednesday. I've gone over it in my head a million times, trying to think what else I could have done. She had a fever and was vomiting, and I took her into the clinic, but a careless doctor looked at her for less than two minutes and said she had an ear infection. He sent me away with a prescription.

"I gave her the medicine, but it didn't seem to help. Friday night, Stephen and I were supposed to go out, and Lauren was going to babysit. I tried to cancel, but Lauren wouldn't hear of it. She said she could handle her, even though Ashley was crying almost nonstop. What an awful weekend. Saturday, Ashley seemed to be worse. In the afternoon, I paged the doctor, and while I was on hold, Ashley had her first seizure."

My stomach tightened. "What did you do?"

"I called an ambulance, and they rushed her to Children's Hospital. They put her on IV medications and a cardiac monitor, and she was there for two days before anyone told me she had bacterial meningitis. She stayed two weeks, getting a little better each day. The fever went down, and she wasn't as fussy, so I thought she was cured."

"You didn't know about the brain damage?"

"Not then. There was no way to tell. By the time they discharged her, she seemed normal, but the nurse who gave homecare instructions told us the meningitis might have caused slight brain damage. Actually, her exact words were 'neurological deficit,' which I didn't understand, and she had to explain. She said Ashley might develop at a slower rate than other kids, and that even if she seemed to be okay, just as a precaution, we should have her checked at eighteen months. She gave us the name of a developmental specialist. Over and over, the nurse kept insisting what she told us was standard procedure, and it didn't mean anything was wrong."

"But you were worried?"

"A little. I tried to put it out of my mind, but I never really could. I waited until she was eighteen months before I took her for the evaluation, but by then, I knew something was wrong. Ashley could barely crawl, much less walk, and sure enough, the specialist said there were significant delays and referred us to a neurologist, Dr. Pamela Brock. That's when my whole world fell apart."

"What did the neurologist find?"

"Lots of things, but the thing that stuck with me most was mild mental retardation. Stephen went ballistic when he heard those words. He didn't even care about the hearing loss. As soon as we left the doctor's office, he told me not to tell anyone we had a 'deformed' child."

"Oh, no."

"He's better now, but he was really upset. Fortunately, I didn't listen to him. I called Lauren and asked her to come over. I told her everything."

"How did she react?"

"She didn't. Not in front of me, anyway. I remember she stared out the window and wouldn't say a word."

"Did she ever talk about it?"

"The next time we got together, she did. She wanted to devise an action plan, and that's how she was until she died, always thinking of solutions. She's the one who taught me to trust myself, instead of depending on other people, like experts who don't know my daughter."

"You must really miss Lauren."

"I do! I can barely cope without her. She always calmed me down when I'd think about Ashley's future and panic. Ashley has support now, at her school, but what about in ten years, or twenty, or fifty, when Stephen and I are gone? I wish we could afford to do more.

We're saving for a special computer, but the raise Stephen expected hasn't come through yet."

I glanced toward the house. "Is Ashley around? I'd love to meet her."

Patrice shook her head. "Stephen took her to the zoo."

"Some other time." I reached into a front pocket and pulled out car keys. "I'd better get going."

She grabbed my arm. "What are you doing Wednesday morning?"

"Just work, but I can do that anytime. What did you have in mind?"

"You could come with me to Ashley's school." She smiled shyly. "I go there every week. Lauren and I used to do it together."

"Sure, what time?"

"Eight o'clock. We can meet outside and go in together. Wait here, and I'll get the address."

Patrice ran inside and returned with a slip of paper. "I drew you a map."

"Thanks." I folded the directions. "By the way, I thought of something else, but it might be too late."

Patrice's brow furrowed with concern. "What?"

"Did you ever consider suing the doctor who thought the meningitis was an ear infection, to get money for Ashley's care?"

She groaned. "It's all I used to think about."

"But you never did?"

"No. It would have been impossible to prove, and it was more important for me to accept Ashley for who she was and move on. At least that's what she told me after she researched it."

"Who, Dr. Brock, the neurologist?"

"No, Lauren."

11.

The rectangular brick building, playground, and parking lot of Children First occupied half a city block in north Denver. On Wednesday, as I waited near the driveway in front of the special education preschool, a full-size, yellow school bus eased to a halt.

The sixty-six seater was empty except for two occupants: a child who sat halfway back and a driver who activated the flashing lights and opened the door.

He lowered the child to the ground, a pigtailed girl in a red dress, pink socks, and green plastic sunglasses. She made a beeline for the entrance, her gallop unbalanced and awkward.

A lump formed in my throat as I watched the driver jump back into his seat, put the bus into gear, wave good-bye, and pull out into traffic, having safely deposited his lone passenger.

A tap on the shoulder broke through my thoughts, and I turned to see Patrice proudly smiling. "That's my daughter."

"Ashley?" I said, whirling to catch another glimpse. "Why didn't she come with you?"

"She has a routine, and I try not to throw her off. Plus, she loves to ride the bus. She and Harry, the driver, are inseparable."

"Does she always sit in the middle?"

"Always. Harry's tried her in just about every other seat, but that's her favorite. Unless it snows, then she likes to sit up front, right behind him. I think bad weather scares her."

"Where did she get the cool shades?"

Patrice looked perplexed until I pointed to my own glasses.

"Oh, those!" She let out a laugh. "I forgot she was wearing them. They were a surprise in her Happy Meal. Come on in, and you can meet her."

Side by side, we headed toward the building.

"I have to tell you: Ashley's a little shy, and it takes her awhile to trust people, so I don't want you to feel bad if you don't get a response."

"That's okay," I said, holding open the door. "I don't have any expectations."

"Please, don't take it personally."