God help the poor girl.

What will Elsie’s mother see every time she looks at that face? Will it reflect her own guilt? Will it make her want to be a better person and stay clean? I already know the answer.

Elsie whispers, “I’ve got a secret.”

“What’s that?” I ask in a hushed voice.

She leans in and whispers, “Dr. Peter was asking about you. I think he likes you.”

Dr. Peter? “He’s a very nice man, Elsie. I think he likes everyone.” He was one of Elsie’s pediatricians and I’d spoken to him once or twice. He’s the rare kind of doctor who can talk to kids without talking down to them.

Elsie reaches out and grabs a lock of my black hair and squeezes the strands between her fingers. “I want to be like you when I grow up.”

“An FBI agent?”

Elsie lets go of my hair and shakes her head. “A magician,” she replies. My real job is of little interest to her. The dark-haired woman who can do miracles is more fascinating to her than the lady FBI agent. Sometimes she looks at one of the Disney princesses on the wall and then back at me.

My visits are magic for her. For a little girl so badly treated by reality, I can’t blame her for wanting to believe magic is real.

I take her hand. “You can be anything you want when you grow up.”

Her eyes light up and the tooth bites the lip. “Anything?”

“Of course,” I tell her.

Her eyes widen like she’s about to see another magic trick. “Can I be beautiful like you?”

My heart stops.

The nurse in the corner looks up at me. I notice for the first time that she’s been crying as she watches us. From her angle, all she can see is Elsie’s scarred side. Unconsciously, I’ve positioned myself by the unharmed part of her face.

My phone rings. It stops Elsie from seeing the look in my eye. I’ve promised myself that I will never let her see me cry.

I pull the phone out and check the number. The office is calling on a Saturday. A voice on the other end asks if I can make it there in thirty minutes.

I don’t want to leave Elsie right now, but I have to. Not for work’s sake, but for hers. I put my mind into practical matters away from my emotions. If I can’t even see past that scar, how will the rest of the world?

Getting to the office will be tight. No time to go home. I’m dressed in my casuals; sneakers, jeans, a T-shirt and a hoodie. My backpack contains my yoga clothes and some deodorant. I don’t look FBI proper, but I get the feeling that this is an exceptional situation.

I can’t imagine what, though. I’ve been spending the last four months away from the D.C. headquarters and in a cubicle in Quantico, doing forensic accounting and answering to a supervisor with all the charisma of a library card.