Atone (13 page)

I join her at my desk. “Is there anything you haven't told me that might help us find Marie? Maybe something that seems like nothing?”

“I've been going over and over everything. I was alone a lot of the time. When he moved me it was always at night and I was blindfolded so I couldn't see where I came from or where I was going.”

“I found four girls who came before you. They all have the same tattoo with different numbers.” I bring up the photos of the girls on my computer and point to each one in turn. “Barbara Moore, Kaley Riccio, Rosalyn Bauer, and Kiersten Paulie.”

She taps Kiersten Paulie's photo. “I know this girl. She had a different name, though. We were all given new names. Hers was Ariel like in
The Little Mermaid.
Probably because of her red hair. We worked together a few times.” She stares at the screen as she says this, so I can't read her expression.

“Tell me about her.”

“There's not much to tell. It's not like we sat around chatting and painting each other's nails. We fucked guys together.” She rubs her forehead and lets out a sigh. “I'm sorry. That's not helping.”

“Would you be more comfortable talking to Cora than me?”

“No.” She tears her gaze from the screen. “Why? You don't want to hear about all the twisted shit I had to do?”

“There's nothing you could tell me that would change my opinion of you.”

“Nothing?”

I shake my head.

She considers me for a moment, no doubt trying to decide if I'm bullshitting her or not. I'm not. We both had to do some fucked-up shit to survive.

“Keep going,” she finally says. “Tell me what else you found.”

I show her the info I've gathered so far about the other girls and the map with all the pins on it. I tell her my theory about a possibility of a connection to child services. When I'm done, she sits back in her seat. She looks weary, exhausted. I take her hand and run my thumb across her knuckles.

“We're going to find her,” I vow, hoping I'm right.

“Somehow I believe you will,” I tell Beau. If anyone can find Marie, it's him. “You're too damned stubborn to allow anything else to happen.”

He laughs and brings my hand to his lips to kiss the back of it. “If only I could've stubborned my way out of prison.”

“If anyone could have, it would've been you.”

“Thanks.” He stares down at our joined hands, his mood turning serious again. “I need to ask you more questions about your life before and during the time you met Javier.”

I expected this. In an odd way, I want it. I saw a counselor briefly, just after I first escaped. Talking about it helped, but I couldn't give too many specifics. Even though I was living under a different name at the time, it was still too great a risk. Javier has some
very
powerful allies.

That's why when I ran I had to run far and fast, and change everything about me from my looks to my name to my habits.

“What do you want to know?” I ask Beau.

“Everything you can think of. Where you went to school, who you lived with, who your friends were, who your social worker was, that sort of thing.”

“My social worker was Ramón Diaz. Before him I had Cindy Zimmerman. I don't remember who was before her. I got kicked out of high school for ditching, so I went to a continuation school. I lived in a group home that sucked, but it was better than the one I was in before. I moved around so much I didn't have any friends except for this guy named Jordan. We got moved to the group home at the same time. He was the first guy I ever kissed. We got caught and they moved him to another home. I had to go to pregnancy-prevention classes because I was suddenly ‘at risk.'

“My mother was a whore, so they were worried I was going to turn out like her. They were right. I turned out just like her.”

“It wasn't your choice.”

“No. But what's the difference? The result's the same. Do you feel less like an ex-con because you didn't actually commit the crime you went to prison for?”

“No.”

“See? There's no difference.”

“Wait a minute. You said something about pregnancy-prevention classes.”

“Yeah.”

He grips his mouse and clicks around until he finds what he's looking for. “Barbara Moore took classes like that.” He points to the screen. “She called them a joke, since she was still a virgin. And here…” He does some more clicking, bringing up a blog. “Kaley Riccio's boyfriend got caught with his hand up her shirt and she had to go to classes. The same with Rosalyn Bauer and Kiersten Paulie. All of you took pregnancy-prevention classes for at-risk girls. Where did you take your classes?”

“A room in the Family and Youth Center downtown. They even had a van that picked us up and took us there.”

His hands are wizard hands on the computer keys. Screens pop up and down like jackrabbits. I can't keep up with what he's doing, so I sit back and watch. Myriad microexpressions flicker across his face. He's probably not even aware he's doing it, he's concentrating so hard.

“Do you remember the names of any of the girls you took the classes with?” he asks, not taking his eyes off the screen.

“A few.”

He pushes a pad of paper toward me, still focused on the computer. “Write down their names for me.”

I flip through pages of notes he's made on my sister's case, mesmerized. He's taken tiny, nothing bits of information and turned them into real leads and threads to follow. How he found those other girls…amazing. And the map on the wall. He's finding patterns, connecting dots. I only hope we get to Marie in time.

I think back to those stupid pregnancy-prevention classes they made me take. If they only knew how pointless they'd end up being for me, they might not have wasted their time. I wonder if they kept any of the other girls from getting pregnant. There were eight of us in the class I went to, but I got friendly with only two of them—Carrie Bennett and Sasha Dixon. The others kept to themselves, mostly. Especially the twins. They didn't socialize with any of us. Tracy and Stacy Casey. I remember them because of their stupid names. Who makes their kids' names rhyme?

I write down the four names and concentrate hard on coming up with more, but I can't remember. It was a long time ago. So much has happened since then. I thought my life sucked when I was taking those classes. I had no idea how much worse it could get.

“What was the name of the organization that put on the classes?” Beau asks.

“Christian Youth Ministries or something like that.”

“Was it Youth Encounter Christian Ministry?”

“Yeah, that's the one. Why?”

He directs my attention to the computer. “ ‘Youth Encounter Christian Ministry helps young foster and refugee women see their potential, practice healthy behaviors, and prevent teen pregnancy by teaching life skills and giving the girls a sense of purpose.' ”

“Yeah, we sewed and did crafts and shit while they talked to us about making good life choices. Clearly, it worked.”

“Was this woman in charge when you were there?” He points to the photo of a woman with a lace-collared blouse, pearls, and tightly held-back hair. “Is she who you emulated your new look after?”

She's exactly who I was trying to look like, minus the long hair tied back into a tight bun. Emmaline Markham.

I nod. “She was the only woman who ever seemed to care about me. We talked a lot. She was the reason I started getting good grades and getting my shit together.”

“Did she spend the same kind of time with the other girls in the class?”

“She interviewed each of us when we first started the classes, but I was the one she talked to the most. I don't know. We just sort of hit it off. She was really nice. She made me feel less like a freak for being in foster care. A couple times she took me home after class when I stayed behind to help her prepare the materials for class the next day.”

He goes back to pounding the keyboard and clicking the mouse. There's a determined set to his mouth. He squints at the screen. Shakes his head. Does some more clicking, and up pops a photo of one of the girls he showed me earlier with Emmaline.

“She got close to Rosalyn Bauer too,” he says. “I found this photo on Rosalyn's Facebook page. I bet I could find a connection between Emmaline Markham and the other girls too. Emmaline took an interest in them, culled them from the group, and told Javier about them.”

“No. She wouldn't do that.”

“She and the classes are only link I can find between you and the other girls who had the tattoo and disappeared. That's not a coincidence.”

“She wouldn't do that.”

“I know you don't want to believe it, but how else do you explain it?”

I open my mouth, expecting my brain to come up with something—
anything
—that will prove Emmaline's innocence, but nothing comes out. He's right. It is too big a coincidence to be a fluke. My mind spins with the realization that the time I spent with Emmaline was all a lie. All of those questions she asked, making me think she was
so
interested in me, that she
liked
me, that I was worthwhile to
someone,
were all to steal my life from me and send me straight to hell. How could I have been so fucking gullible? I told her things I've never told anyone else. The only other person I've confided in to that extent is Beau.

He watches me work through it all, waiting patiently, never judging. No one was ever there for me the way he's there for me. No one ever got me the way he gets me. I don't know what he gets out of being with me, but I know it's nowhere near what I've gotten from being with him.

“I'm so sorry,” he says, squeezing my hand. “What she did was fucking cruel to you and the other girls.”

“A part of me wants to keep denying it, but the other part just can't. The evidence is too overwhelming. God, I was such a fucking idiot. I thought she was my friend. I thought he was in love with me. How could I have been so stupid?”

“You were young and needed someone to love and believe in you, and you had no one. You and the other girls were the perfect targets. Like shooting fish in a barrel. Those assholes took advantage of you. It's not your fault. They're pros. They knew what to say to get you and the others to believe them.”

“Still. I don't know. I thought I knew it all when I was fourteen. I didn't know shit.”

“None of us did. You're not supposed to. That's what the adults are for. To help us. Only the adults in your life failed you.”

“An understatement.”

“The thing that's been driving me bat-shit crazy during all this is why would Javier go after Marie? She doesn't fit with the type he seems to prefer. She's not white and she has a sibling—you—who might come looking for her. Emmaline didn't vet her. She breaks type. I can't see him taking a chance on her unless he had a damn good reason. I keep going back to—why her?”

“To get back at me for escaping? To replace me? Who the hell knows why?”

I know why. He's hoping to draw me out. He doesn't want her. He wants me.

“Something about it just doesn't sit right.” He goes back to working the keyboard.

I stand and pace away. I can't sit still. Beau is right. He's breaking type for a
very
specific reason. I was such an idiot to think I could find Marie and get away. I never should've come back here. I never should've told Javier about Marie. God, I was so,
so
stupid. I should disappear like I told Beau I might. Go back where it's safe, where no one will get hurt.

“You told Javier about Marie after you were together for a while, didn't you?” he asks. “Just before you got the tattoo.”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell Emmaline about her?”

“No.”

“By then it was too late.” He stands and comes toward me. “He was already prepping you. He probably didn't think a younger half sibling with a different last name could be much of a threat. He'd invested too much time to walk away.”

I take a step backward then two. “What point are you making?”

“He went after Marie specifically with a goal in mind.” He comes at me until I hit a bookshelf. “He's not the kind of asshole who would risk his whole operation for revenge. That's not what this is about.” He leans in as I lean back. “What
is
it about, Vera?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“What made you run when you did? Why didn't you take off sooner? Why did you escape at all?”

“I had to.” I put my hands on his chest and push at him. “I couldn't stand it anymore. I couldn't let one more stranger
fuck
me.”

Shaking his head, he eases up, but doesn't back off. “That's not the real reason.”

“Why do you care? What does it matter?”

“Because this has been about something else all along. Sure, it's about finding your sister, but it's also about you.” He cradles my face in his hands. “Tell me what it is that's got you so fucking terrified you're backing away from me like I'll hurt you.”

I break out of his hold and step around him. Rubbing my arms, I move to the other side of the room. He doesn't follow. He just watches me with that patient Beau gaze that tears at my defenses.

“The one thing I really like about you besides the sex is that you don't ask a lot of questions,” I say. “Why change?”

“Because I've gotten more info on this case from girls on the Internet than I have from you and I'm starting to get fucking sick of it.”

“I don't know anything else that will help find Marie. What does it matter
why
he's going after her? He's after her. That's all you need to know.”

“Cora thinks we should go to the police.”

“No. No way.”

“Why not? Give me something here, Vera.”

“You don't get it. One of my regulars was an asshole cop who liked to brag as he fucked about all the power he had, what a big man he was. He was a fucking sadist coward who could only get off when I screamed in pain. There were more. I don't know how many more, but there were rumors about someone in the district attorney's office, politicians, businessmen—powerful men—fucking underage girls. None of them came to our rescue so how can you expect me to believe they would now? That's one of the reasons I'm not safe and I never will be.”

“What are the other reasons?”

I don't answer.

“Why did we start this between us if you're going to bail any minute and I don't get to know why? So I just get left behind? I'm sick of getting left behind. Cassandra fucking left me and now you're going to do it too. I know it has something to do with Javier and the reason you ran, changed your name, and your appearance.
Why?
”

“I
can't.
Please stop asking me.”

“You're the only fucking person who gets me.” He pounds his fist over his heart. Misery grinds his voice, making the edges rough. “That means something to me.”

“You get me too. I know you do. Please try to understand. I'd give you more if I could. I'd give you fucking everything. But I can't give you this. Please. Let it go.”

Growling, he shoves his hands in his hair and presses his palms against his eyes. I hate seeing him like this. I hate that I brought him to this. I go to him and pull his arms down so I can see his face. Lacing my fingers with his, I try to get him to look at me. He's pissed at me, but that's not all he is. He's hurt. The anger and frustration I can handle. The thought that I cause him pain shames me. He's been nothing but good to me, even when he had no reason to be.

I kiss him. He doesn't respond right away, and then he wraps his arms around me, still holding my hands in his, and kisses me back. It's a conciliatory kiss. I won, but I don't feel like a winner.