Chapter 9: What Thursday Became Instead
Nolan Pierce was formally charged on a Wednesday morning, forty-one hours after Avery walked into the substation.
Ethan was not present for the arraignment.
He was at the hospital, sitting in a chair outside Elsie's room, waiting while a child forensic specialist conducted a gentle, careful interview inside.
Diane sat beside him.
They didn't talk much.
There wasn't much to say that the last two days hadn't already said.
At 10:15, the specialist came out and closed the door softly behind her.
"She's doing well," she said.
"She's clear, she's communicating, and she remembers more than her father intended." She looked at Ethan.
"She remembered the name Voss.
She heard it through a door, approximately three weeks ago.
She didn't know what it meant, but she remembered it."
Diane pressed her lips together.
"She also said something I want to note for the record," the specialist continued.
"She said her sister told her, on the walk to the substation, that if anything happened to her, Avery would remember everything for both of them." She paused.
"That's a seven-year-old child making a deliberate decision to be her sister's witness."
Ethan looked at the floor.
"Can I see her?" Diane asked.
"She's asking for you."
Diane stood and went inside.
The door closed again.
Ethan's phone rang.
Greta Solis.
"Voss entered a plea this morning," she said.
"He's cooperating in exchange for a reduced charge on one count.
He's confirmed eleven other children over a period of four years.
The procedures were sedation-based memory suppression — experimental, unlicensed, and commissioned by parents who wanted their children to forget specific events."
Ethan sat up.
"Commissioned by parents."
"In every documented case, the commissioning parent was involved in a custody dispute.
The procedure was marketed as a way to make a child's testimony unreliable or to eliminate a child's memory of witnessing something the parent didn't want reported." Her voice was flat and precise.
"Pierce was not the only parent who used Voss.
He was the most recent."
"The other eleven families—"
"We're contacting them today.
Some of the children are older now.
Some may not remember what they've lost." A pause.
"The index cards go back four years, Ethan.
Voss kept records because he wanted leverage.
He never intended to be the only one who could be charged."
"He was insuring himself."
"Exactly.
Which means we have documentation on every parent who paid him.
Every one of them is being looked at today."
Ethan stood and walked to the window at the end of the hallway.
Cedar Ridge was gray and ordinary below — the grocery store Avery had walked past, the road she had followed in the rain.
"Pierce's attorney is already arguing diminished capacity," Greta said.
"I want you to know that argument is going nowhere.
The recording is clean.
The index card is in his handwriting.
And we have a seven-year-old who hid a syringe in her shoe."
"What's the likely outcome?"
"Felony child endangerment carries up to eight years in Ohio.
Conspiracy adds more.
Voss loses any chance of license reinstatement permanently.
Pierce loses his license as well — the medical board moved on that this morning, before the arraignment." She paused.
"He will not be practicing medicine again."
Ethan thanked her and put his phone away.
He stood at the window for a moment.
Then he walked back down the hallway and knocked lightly on Elsie's door.
Diane's voice: "Come in."
Elsie was sitting up in the hospital bed, her color better, an untouched cup of juice on the tray beside her.
Avery was cross-legged at the foot of the bed, the one-eyed stuffed rabbit in her lap — retrieved from the evidence bag once it had been cleared and photographed.
Elsie looked at Ethan.
"Are we going home?"
"Soon," he said.
"Is Dad coming?"
Diane answered before he could.
"No, sweetheart.
Dad isn't coming."
Elsie looked at the rabbit in Avery's lap.
Then she held out her hand, and Avery passed it across without a word.
"Okay," Elsie said.
She pulled the rabbit against her chest and leaned back against the pillow.
Outside the window, the sky was beginning to clear — the first thin light of a cold November morning pressing through the clouds.
May you like
Thursday was two days away.
It would come and go like any other day.
