Josie Griffin Is Not a Vampire (17 page)

I texted back,
Not all of it. I’m at HAG now.

A minute later this popped up,
Don’t fall asleep on the job, ha-ha!

Very funny,
I texted back.
I’m freaking out!

In the dorm, all the beds were unmade, except for two, which must have meant that those two beds weren’t occupied the night before. I poked my head into the hall. No one was around so I started snooping to confirm my theory. Quietly I riffled through the top drawer of the nightstands beside the made-up beds. In one I found a tattered copy of
Pride and Prejudice and Zombies
, the book Kayla had been reading. Beside the nightstand was a cheap particle board wardrobe. I opened the door and saw jeans, sweatshirts, and blue and green Pumas
neatly stowed away. On the top shelf was a duffle bag with Kayla’s name on the luggage tag.

In the other nightstand, I found a bunch of trashy magazines but under that I found Sadie’s ID card from Bean Blossom High School. I felt queasy looking at her picture. She was so young and sweet. How could anyone ever hurt her? I opened her wardrobe, but it was empty. Only a few wire hangers and a pink sock remained. Everything else, no doubt, had been hauled out to the Dumpster, erasing any evidence that Sadie had ever been here. On impulse, I grabbed the school ID and shoved it in my back pocket. Then I gathered all the linens into a giant laundry bag and dragged it to the washer.

On my way to find sheets to put on the beds, I heard someone cleaning the toilet stalls. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Maron wasn’t watching then I ducked into the bathroom. “Hey there. Who’s that?” I called out as I rounded the stall. A pale brunette girl my height peeked around the edge of the stall. She had that same frightened look that Sadie had the last time I saw her, like a little kid in a haunted house. “How’s it going?” I asked.

“Fine,” she said with no emotion, then she pushed her hair out of her face with the back of her hand and I saw a small tattoo on her wrist.

I gasped and reached for her hand. She instinctively stepped back, but not quickly enough. I pulled her arm straight and looked at the tattoo—a small butterfly. “Is your name Eleanor? Are you from Elkhart?”

The girl stared at me and I thought I saw the slightest glimmer of recognition in her eyes. It reminded me of how my grandfather with Alzheimer’s would become lucid for a minute then disappear again into his own lost world.

I stepped closer to her and said quietly, “Do you need help?” but before she could answer, there was a commotion in the hall. I saw Maron pulling Ms. Babineaux past the door toward the reception area.

“A reporter?” Ms. Babineaux asked.

“Some alternative paper,” Maron told her.

“Why didn’t you get rid of him?” Ms. Babineaux said, but then they were down the hall, so I didn’t hear the answer.

As much as I wanted to grill the girl on whether she was the person I saw on the Missing Children website or if she knew Sadie or Rhonda or how she ended up at HAG, I was more interested in knowing what reporter was there. I dropped her arm. “Wait here. I’ll be back.” Then I headed for the front.

I slipped into the day lounge beside the reception area. The ugly brown plaid couch faced away from the front desk, so I crawled onto it and hid. I could hear whoever was with Ms. Babineaux and Maron, but they couldn’t see me. Peeking over the top of the couch, I saw Ms. Babineaux. She looked withered and old again, like she did when I first met her. She was so skinny I could see her pale hip bones poking out from the top of her slacks.

“This is a private facility, buddy,” Maron said.

I peeked a little bit higher and saw a man in wire-rimmed glasses and an army jacket. I nearly popped up and shouted,
Graham Goren!
I couldn’t believe that my idol from
Nuevo Indy
was standing right there. But I refrained and instead ducked down so I could listen without being detected.

“You receive public funding, don’t you?” he asked.

“We’re not going to say anything about confidential cases,” Ms. Babineaux told him. “That would betray the trust of our girls.”

My jaw dropped. Their girls! Barfity barf barf. More like their victims.

“How many facilities do you run?” he asked.

This seemed to catch both of them off guard. Maron stammered then said, “Just this one.”

“What about the other Helping American Girls in Fort Wayne and Terre Haute?” he asked.

Maron sputtered, “Oh those? That was a confusing question…I didn’t know what you meant…”

I couldn’t help but smile. For me, listening to a good journalist work was like a sports nut watching a slam dunk. Goren kept grilling them. “And about how many girls go missing from each facility a month?”

“Hey look, buddy,” Maron said. “The girls who come here are a mess. And this is voluntary. Girls are free to come and go as they please.”

“We wish they would all stay until the dedicated staff could get them straightened out but the truth is,
many of these girls are on drugs or engage in prostitution or theft,” Ms. Babineaux said.

I popped up from the couch. What a crock! Kayla, Rhonda, Sadie, and the other girls didn’t do those things. Drey said so. I realized that I was about to blow my cover and I ducked down again.

Maron went on. “I love them all like a mother, but sometimes they decide life on the street is what they want. I can’t stop them.”

She needed a shovel for all the manure she was slinging! Like a good reporter, Goren seemed skeptical.

“I spoke with several other halfway house facilities in the state and they said they have less than one girl a month take off without informing the staff. But my sources tell me that your average is much higher. Why do you think that is?”

“Your sources?” Ms. Babineaux’s voice was stiff. “And just who are these sources?”

There was part of me that wanted to jump over the back of the couch and scream,
ME! I’m the source and I’m on to you, you evil hags
. Then I’d poke my finger into their chests and throw questions at them like a super journalist. Wear them down. Catch one of them in a lie and make her admit the truth. But I remembered what Charles always said about staying calm and assessing the situation before acting. Jumping over a couch would probably not be the best lead-in to questioning. Plus I was such a spaz that I would probably fall over the couch
and break my arm, so I sat tight, but oh, my blood was beginning to boil.

“My sources are confidential,” Graham Goren said. “But I can say that it’s someone who is familiar with your facility from the inside.”

“A client or a worker?” Maron asked. Her voice was so ominous. I imagined her cracking her knuckles and rolling her head from left to right, ready to tear the squealer limb from limb. And since that squealer was me, my stomach went all queasy.

“I can’t say,” Goren told her. Then he changed tacks. “I’d like to talk with some of the girls here,” he said, as if it was the most reasonable request in the world.

Ms. Babineaux scoffed. “You most certainly may not. And we have to get back to work so you’ll need to go now.”

“That’s fine,” Goren said, all professional and polite. “Thank you for your time.”

Whoa. I could never be that calm in a million years. But obviously I was going to have to learn if I want a job like his. I waited until I heard the front door open, then close. I strained my ears to catch what Atonia and Maron were saying, but I heard nothing. Did they leave? Were they following him? Would they unleash an evil succubus to feast on his brain then drag his carcass to the Dumpster? Slowly I rose up from the couch and peered over the edge. I saw them, standing close, whispering, but not before Maron saw me.

“What do you think you’re doing here?”

I stood up and said loudly, “I finished the beds!” I grabbed some throw pillows and fluffed them as Atonia and Maron stared at me. “Just straightening up in here now.” I tossed the pillows onto the couch. I did an exaggerated glance at the clock. “Wow! Have two hours passed already? I’ve got to get going. Can’t stay long today. I have to leave early. I mentioned that, didn’t I?” I babbled on and on as I made a beeline past them straight for the front door. “That was a good productive work day. Doing laundry. All in a good day’s work. See you again soon!”

“Hold on just a second,” Maron barked right as I reached the door.

I paused with my hand pressed against the glass.

“What’s going on here?” Ms. Babineaux asked, as if she was trying to put all the pieces together. Her eyes widened, then they narrowed. If she could shoot fire from her retinas, I would have been a smoking lump of ashes.

I decided I didn’t want to be a part of that jigsaw puzzle. “Have to go! Uh, um, dentist appointment. Can’t be late!” I said and ran through the door before they could stop me.

I ran down the block and around the corner toward Tarren’s house, looking back over my shoulder the whole time in case they unleashed a fury of wraiths to come after me. Which meant I didn’t see where I was going and I ran smack into someone in the middle of the
sidewalk. I stumbled to the side, caught a glimpse of the army jacket, and fell over into the grass.

“Hey,” I said, pointing up from my awkward spot on the ground. “You’re Graham Goren.”

Goren smiled, a little too self-satisfied. Then he offered me his hand. “That’s me.”

He pulled me up and I dusted off my butt. “I’m Josie,” I told him. When this didn’t seem to register, I said with more emphasis, “Josie Griffin!”

“Ahhh,” he said. “So you’re Josie Griffin—my tipster. Now this makes more sense.” He held out his hand again, this time to shake mine. “Nice to meet you in person, Josie.”

“Oh wow,” I said like a starstruck fool. “I’m really excited to meet you.” Then I looked over my shoulder again and I grabbed his elbow. “But I have to get out of here!” I looked around and spotted Gladys where I’d parked her earlier that day. “Come on. My car is right here.”

g
et in,” I told Goren when we got to Gladys. I shut and locked the doors, looking all around to make sure I wasn’t being followed.

“Um,” Goren said. “Mind if I roll down a window? It’s a bit warm.”

“But someone might hear us,” I said. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of my face because it was about ten thousand degrees in the car.

He laughed a little. “I think we’re safe.”

“Suit yourself,” I said and started cranking. “So much for having a discreet meeting inside a parked car.”

“Were you just in Helping American Girls?” he asked.

“Yes and I heard your whole conversation. You’re good.”

He cocked his head to the side as if he was a little confused. “Thanks, I guess.”

“I want to be a journalist, too.”

“Ah.” He pulled out his notepad. “So you know the first rule of being a good reporter.”

“Don’t bury the lede?”

“Nope. First, get all your facts straight.”

I nodded, probably too enthusiastically. “Okay, here’s what I’ve figured out so far…” but I stopped because obviously I couldn’t tell him everything I knew. I tried to stick to the human-world facts. “Those two were lying. Those girls aren’t out on the streets. I know a guy whose uncle runs the hood and he said the missing girls haven’t been around.”

Goren jotted a note but he didn’t look convinced. “That doesn’t mean they’re not in a different neighborhood.”

I hadn’t thought of that, but still. “Yeah, only I know those girls and they aren’t the type.”

“You know them?” he asked. “Personally?”

“Yes, we’re online together.”

He frowned. “People can be different online. Computers depersonalize things so people feel free to make stuff up.” He looked at me with raised eyebrows.

“Not us. We talked about all kinds of personal stuff. And also each of the girls who left were getting their lives together. Jobs. GEDs. Stuff like that. They had no motivation to take off without telling anyone. Not even their friends? Come on! Girls aren’t like that. They tell each other everything.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But a boyfriend could have
showed up unexpectedly. Or a family member tracked them down. Did you contact anyone from the girls’ lives and ask if they’d gone home?”

I sat back and bit my lip. “Well, no,” I said. “The girls were hiding. They didn’t want anyone to know where they were. They were running from terrible situations.”

“Exactly,” he said with a shrug. “They’re runaways, so maybe they just kept on running.”

“Without their stuff? What teenage girl would leave her favorite shoes and her cell phone behind?” I touched my back pocket where Sadie’s ID card was nestled against my phone.

“You’ve got a point.” He adjusted his glasses and wrote more notes. “Still, doesn’t mean they wouldn’t change their minds about being in a shelter. Teens get pissed off; do rash things they might regret.” He looked up at me. “You know something about that, don’t you, Josie?”

I shrugged, not sure what he was getting at.

“Tell me about anger management,” he said.

My mouth dropped open. How did he know that? He saved me the trouble of asking. “Your trial was public record, you know.”

“Oh,” I squeaked. “That.”

“Tell me about your blog.”

“It’s just something I do,” I said, feeling cagey now. “Why? Have you seen it? Were you researching me?”

He raised one eyebrow. “Rule number two, Josie: Check out your sources.”

“My blog is just a way to blow off steam.” Despite the open windows, my palms began to sweat. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I didn’t say there was.” He scratched the side of his head and thought for a moment. Then he said, “Tell me about your friends.”

“The girls from the shelter, you mean?”

He shook his head. “The other ones.”

“The cheerleaders?” I asked.

He shook his head again. “No, the other
other
ones.”

My heart pounded in my chest and my underarms prickled in the heat as I realized that I had never gotten around to taking down my post about the paras. “Look,” I said, trying to laugh it off. “If you’re talking about my blog post from a few weeks ago, that was just silly. I was playing around. I mean, how many times can you post about a bad break up before it’s just boring, boring, boring? I was trying to liven things up. It was stupid. Like you said, one of those rash things teens do online and regret…”