A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

LEO
NOW
Dad takes you to a shrink. The shrink came recommended by the
lady cop, because she’s worked with trauma victims before.
I go because Dad needs my help getting you to the car. The
reporters are hungry, and the walk to our garage, where the car is
parked, is long.
We leave out the back door. We make a run for it, but the reporters
are ready and waiting. They’re like vultures. They close in on us the
second we’re out the door. They call out questions. Dad tells them,
“Your first amendment rights don’t give you permission to trample our
lawn.”
He’s cheesed off, but trying not to fly off the handle because the
reporters would only get that on video and show it on TV.
Still, Dad threatens to press trespassing charges. It takes a while
for the two fat cops to get out of their car, shut down the reporters’
inquisition and get them off our lawn.
Between Dad and me, you shake. You’re not used to the
pandemonium, to the sunlight, to the noise. Dad’s got his hooded
parka on you, and you hide beneath the hood like Little Red Riding
Hood, looking scared as hell ’cause the wolf is about to eat you alive.
You’ve got my blanket with you, which makes me feel all sorts of
things I’ve never felt inside. But I don’t point it out because I don’t
want you to feel weirded out. And besides, externalizing feelings isn’t
my thing. So instead I pretend that I don’t see the blanket.
When we get to the shrink’s office, Dad and I stay in the waiting
room, much to his chagrin. He planned to go in with you. But the
shrink says no, that it would be better if Dad stays put. We never
know what you talk about or don’t talk about with her. She’s got a
white noise machine on the floor, so Dad and I can’t hear what you
say. I see Dad looking at it. I read his mind. He’s thinking about
pulling the plug, but he never does.