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veway at midnight. A week later, Rachel told her mother that her daddy used to stick his finger inside her vagina.
    She has told me that one time, she was wearing a Little Mermaid nightgown and eating Froot Loops at the kitchen table. The second time, she was wear ing a pink Cinderella nightgown and watching a Franklin video in her paren ts' bedroom. Rachel's mother, Miriam, has verified that her daughter had a Little Mermaid nightgown, and a Cinderella nightgown, the summer she was three years old. She remembers borrowing the Franklin video from her siste r-in-law. Back then, she and her husband were still living together. Back then, there were times she left her husband alone with their little girl. There are a lot of people who'd wonder how on earth a five-year-old can rem ember what happened to her when she was three. God, Nathaniel can't even te ll me what he did yesterday. But then, they have not heard Rachel tell the same story over and over. They have not talked to psychiatrists, who say th at a traumatic event might stick like a thorn in the throat of a child. The y do not see, as I do, that since her father has moved out, Rachel has blos somed. And even without all that-how can I overlook the word of any child?
    What if the one I choose to discount is one who has been truly hurt?
    Today, Rachel sits on my swivel chair in my office, twirling in circles. Her braids reach the tops of her shoulders, and her legs are as skinny as matchst icks. This is not the optimal place to hold a quiet interview, but then again , my office never is. There are cops running in and out, and the secretary I share with the other district attorneys chooses this moment, of course, to pu t a file on my desk. “Is it going to take long?” Miriam asks, her eyes never veering from her daughter.
    “I hope not,” I tell her, and then greet Rachel's grandmother, who will be in the gallery for emotional support during the hearing. Because she is a witness herself, Miriam isn't allowed to be there. Yet another catch-22: The child on the stand, in most cases, doesn't even have the security of a m other close by.
    “Is this really necessary?” Miriam asks for the hundredth time.
    “Yes.” I say it flatly, staring her in the eye. “Your ex-husband has rejecte d our offer of a plea. That means Rachel's testimony is the only thing I've got to prove it even happened.” Kneeling in front of Rachel, I stop the moti on of the swivel chair. “You know what?” I confess. “Sometimes, when my door 's closed, I spin around too.”
    Rachel folds her arms around a stuffed animal. “Do you get dizzy?”
    “No. I pretend I'm flying.”
    The door opens. Patrick, my oldest friend, sticks his head inside. He's weari ng full dress blues, instead of his usual detective's street clothes. “Hey, N ina-did you hear that the post office had to recall its series of Famous Defe nse Attorney stamps? People didn't know which side to spit on.”
    “Detective Ducharme,” I say pointedly. “I'm a little busy now.” He blushes; it sets off his eyes. As kids, I used to tease him about those. I convinced him once, when we were about Rachel's age, that his were blue be cause there was no brain in his skull, just empty space and clouds. “Sorry-I didn't realize.” He has captivated all the women in the room just like that ; if he wanted to, he could suggest they do jumping jacks and they'd probabl y begin calisthenics right away. What makes Patrick Patrick is that he doesn 't want to; he never has.
    “Ms. Frost,” he says formally, “are we still on for our meeting this afternoon ?”
    Our meeting is a long-standing weekly luncheon date at a hole-in-the-wall ba r and grill in Sanford.
    “We are.” I'm dying to know why Patrick's dressed to the nines; what's broug ht him to the superior court-as a detective in Biddeford, his stomping groun ds are more often the district courthouse. But all this will have to wait. I hear the door close behind Patrick as I turn