She didn't (or rather, couldn't) speak, but she watched. She was as smart as she was silent and haunted and in her head, she formulated. She memorized the slow, slightly dopey bowlegged way he walked, wondering how it went that someone so empty could have so much popularity, so many friends. She memorized the way she flipped her hair, the way she hung off his arm, the way she giggled and whispered to her friends about him. She memorized the upset in her voice one morning and the way he gripped and shoved her. She memorized the empty space outside of his locker two mornings later, because while he was there, she wasn't. She memorized his bragging words, his "I got rid of that little problem", and memorized the way his movements were now proud, bold.
She memorized the way the police came, the way they talked and wrote without realizing she'd been writing the same things for months. She watched them closely, wanting to tell them. She knew.
After 8 months, they gave up. No more leads, no more anything. They put it in a cardboard box, slid it into a file, marked it, "Collins, T. Jan 1973" and never thought about it again. Nobody even thought to ask the silent, haunted ten-year-old. Nobody thought she'd know anything.