The Girl Before (31 page)

I nod. “I'll do whatever I need to.”

“We are also hoping to find documentation of all the businesses,” Jay says, and Connor shoots him a look. “What? She might know something.”

“Papers?” I ask. I think for a moment. “I got very good at listening and storing information,” I say. “I didn't ask a lot of questions, but many were answered if I stayed quiet.”

Connor looks eager. I know this is what he has been waiting for since they brought me here. At this point I am willing to do whatever I need to in order to make up for everything I have done. Or at least begin to atone for my sins, and the sins of the family who raised me.

“I might be able to help find what you are looking for. But you will have to take me back to the house.”

Connor frowns. “I'll have to check on that. Let's focus on Mae first, and we'll go from there.”

I know Connor wants to protect me, but I am done being protected. He wants answers, but I refuse to give them passively. I'm standing up for myself. Starting with Mama.

“How soon can you get her to visit?”

Jay grins. “We'll call and invite her as soon as we're done here. Tell her you've had a change of heart and want to see her.”

I nod. “Good.”

They watch me, gauging how much more I'm willing to give today.

Leaning back in my chair, I cross my arms, my mind wandering back to our original conversation. “So finding Mundy's mark on some of Glen's girls led to all of this?”

“Sort of.” Connor clears his throat. “We were onto the brothel already, but we had no idea how deep it went when we were making those early plans. If we can get those records, we might have enough evidence to shut down more organizations like Glen's, and make more connections to Mundy. We're trying to trace back his dealings to figure out who turned on him, though right now that's secondary to Glen's case.”

I tap my fingers on my arms and purse my lips, then lean forward. “What if it isn't secondary?” I ask.

Connor's brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“I can tell you exactly how Mundy died.”

Joel drives up to the lodge in one of the rented SUVs. I climb in the back as Glen takes the seat next to Joel. They speak in hushed tones, and Joel glances back at me, but I pretend to be absorbed in the bright starlight filling the sky. This may be the last time I have such an unobstructed view of the night sky, and I want to enjoy it.

Soon the starlight is dimmed by the bright spotlights surrounding Mr. Harrison's mansion. The gate is already open, and we continue to the front of his house. It looks dark, but for a crack of light shining through heavy curtains upstairs. The curtains twitch, and I know we are being watched. We exit the car, and I immediately glue myself to Glen's side, remembering my promise not to leave his sight. The door opens as we reach the bottom steps leading to it.

A sallow-faced man I do not remember seeing earlier holds the door open for us, not speaking a word, only casting furtive glances between us and the floor. The door clicks shut behind us, and the man engages the lock.

“Never know who's lurking in the dark,” he says, his voice rasping through a mucus-filled throat. “Can't be too careful.” He says nothing more as he leads us up the familiar staircase. The room we enter is the same as before, but only Mr. Harrison sits within, Genevieve perched on the edge of his chair. I can see now that the room is lined with bookcases and appears to be a study of some sort. There are many chairs scattered throughout the large room, and Mr. Harrison sits behind a large desk, writing as Genevieve runs a finger back and forth across his shoulders in lazy movements.

The man who let us in clears his throat, and Harrison looks up. He is not startled, and I sense that he was only pretending not to notice that we had entered. Genevieve's mouth curls into a smile as she watches us, and there are rocks in the pit of my stomach.

“Hello again, Glen,” Harrison says, standing and walking around the desk. Genevieve is dethroned, and I can't help but smirk as she rights herself. Harrison looks at me, his small eyes scrutinizing. “A pleasure to see you again, Clara.”

I incline my head in his direction, but say nothing.

“What is the reason for this meeting, Mr. Harrison, sir?” Glen
asks, his voice calm. “I was under the impression that we had concluded our business earlier.”

“Yes, yes, well, my boy,” Harrison begins, and Glen bristles at the term. He handled it with grace earlier, but I can tell he is struggling to keep his cool this time. “I was going over our deal after your man”—he indicates Joel with a tip of his head—“left with the girls, and I have to say, I don't feel like the deal we struck was quite fair.”

Glen clenches and unclenches his fists, the movement subtle enough that it escapes the attention of Mr. Harrison, but not Genevieve. She raises an eyebrow at me. I ignore her and watch Glen.

“I understood that you were happy with the terms.” This time anger creeps into Glen's voice. I brush my fingers across his back, willing him to calm down. He releases a silent breath.

“But the girls you chose . . . Clara chose,” Harrison corrects, “they were some of my best.”

“Yes, I understand that,” Glen says. “I gave you more than a fair price.”

“I'm not so sure.”

Glen takes a breath. “Given the history between you and my father, I am willing to give you a little more, sir, as a gesture of good faith. Tell me your price.”

“It is not money I want, son.” There is a gleam in Mr. Harrison's eyes. “In fact, if you give me what I want, I will throw in two more girls.”

I do not like where this is going.

“What is your price?” Glen asks, and I feel his arm tremble.

“Her.”

Glen turns horrified eyes to me, and I tear my gaze from his to look at Mr. Harrison, who is pointing a gnarled finger at me.

“You're fucking joking,” Glen says, his voice strangled. “She is not on the bargaining table.”

Harrison drops his hand. “So put her there. She is well-spoken, is nice to look at, and my girls were gushing over her. I think she could be an asset to my operation.”

“She is not for sale.”
Rage creeps into Glen's voice.

The door opens behind us. Harrison sighs. “I was afraid you would take that stance, my boy.” A click, and I turn to see a gun pointed at us. “I will just have to take what I desire.”

Glen swallows hard, his throat bobbing. He exchanges a look with Joel, and Joel nods, almost imperceptibly. They have their own language, their own way of communicating that does not require words. They have grown up together. There are times when I am jealous of their bond, but in this moment I am grateful.

“Genevieve, take Clara to her new quarters.” Genevieve walks around the table and grasps my arm, her long, talon-like nails digging into my skin. She tries to pull me toward the door, but I resist. I promised Glen I would not leave his side, and there are consequences for broken promises.

I am surprised when large hands plant themselves in the middle of my back and I am shoved from behind. Unable to stop my forward motion, I topple into Genevieve, and we both collapse to the floor. I hear a loud grunt and a crack, and when I look up, the sallow-faced man is dead, staring at the ceiling with blank eyes and a neat hole in his forehead, and Joel has Mr. Harrison by the arms. Glen is holding the gun.

I hear a whimper beneath me and look down to see Genevieve, her eyes wide, staring at Harrison. I jump up and back away from her, fitting myself into a corner, but she makes no move to stop me. She has forgotten I exist.

“My apologies, Mr. Lawson,” Mr. Harrison says, his tone pleading. “I tried to take advantage. Please . . .”

“You underestimate me, just like my father always did,” Glen says through clenched teeth. “But for you there will be consequences.”

Joel forces Harrison to his knees. Harrison begins sputtering, his words incoherent. I watch Glen, astonished. Will he really go through with it?

And he does. The gunshot echoes through the large room, and Harrison slumps to the ground. Genevieve shrieks and backs into a bookcase behind her. Glen turns the gun on her. A quick pop and she slumps to the floor, tears still leaking from unseeing eyes.

Glen doesn't pause. He holds his hand out for me, and I take it without hesitation. Joel is rifling through the desk, shoving things into a bag I hadn't noticed before. “Let's go, Joel,” Glen says, his voice urgent.

We flee from the house, and Joel takes us on a nightmare ride through the unfamiliar back roads. As we rush to the interstate, freedom, and home, I try to erase the images of the last thirty minutes from my mind. One thing I hold on to.

Glen will protect me with his life.

I am in a new room today, a small lounge of sorts, with large windows and comfortable couches. It reminds me of Dr. Mulligan's office, except there is no desk or file cabinet and the frames on the walls are filled with flowery pictures instead of certificates and diplomas. My mother sits in the chair perpendicular to the couch I am on. It is just the two of us today. My father is working, and Charlotte had to take one of her boys to the dentist. But I'm grateful for this time alone with the woman who would have raised me, had things turned out as they were supposed to.

She fidgets in the chair, and I realize she is just as nervous as I am.
The realization calms me, and I smile at her. “I'm sorry . . . I'm not sure what to call you.”

Laughing, she relaxes a bit. “Whatever you're comfortable with. Maybe you could start with Jane.” She moves her hand to cover mine. “Not that I don't want you to call me Mom, but I thought maybe it would be easier . . .”

“Jane is good.” I hadn't been sure what I wanted to call her until she suggested Jane. It feels right, for now.

“And . . .” Jane sounds hesitant. “Would you like me to call you Clara? I know that's what you've gone by since . . .”

Surprised, I take a moment to think. I assumed they would call me by the name they knew. It hadn't occurred to me that they would consider calling me by the name given to me by the people who took me. What do I want? How often have I even considered that question?

“Of course you'll want to go by Clara,” Jane says when I do not respond. “It was silly of me to ask.” She digs in the bag she brought. “I was wondering if you might want to paint your fingernails?” She sounds uncertain, treading such an unfamiliar situation. “I guess I thought it would be nice to have something to do instead of just staring at each other. Or we could just talk.” She spills a handful of polish bottles onto the coffee table. “Whatever you like.”

I reach forward and run my fingers over the rainbow of colors on display. I find a pale yellow that reminds me of the fields of flowers where I used to play with my daughters at the compound. The memory stings only a little. Dr. Mulligan has encouraged me to hold on to the happy memories, despite the sadness and pain that might be attached. After all, as she pointed out, I don't want to lose seventeen years' worth of memories.

“Would you paint them for me?” I ask, extending the bottle toward Jane. Her entire face lifts with her smile, and the uncertainty vanishes from her eyes.

“I would be happy to, D—” She clears her throat. “. . . dear. Right hand first, I think.”

Her palms are smooth and dry as she holds my hand steady. The skin is soft and warm, and even though we have very little contact, that safe feeling comes over me again. We sit in silence for a few minutes, both concentrating on the shiny yellow polish sliding over the surface of my nails. The coolness of the liquid is a contrast to the warmth of the woman applying it.

“Jane,” I begin, and there is a small tremor in my voice that causes her to look up, a question in her eyes. “I was wondering . . . could you tell me what I was like as a little girl? I don't remember much before . . .”

Pain slices through her eyes, but they clear almost at once, and the corners of her mouth quirk up before she returns to her task.

“Of course.” She takes a deep breath. “Where to begin . . . You were always an individual. From the time you were born, you wouldn't let Charlotte boss you around. All my friends said you would walk later, talk later, do everything later than Charlotte, because she would be around to do them for you. But you weren't having any of that.” She laughs. “You took your first steps at ten months. And you were smart, but not smart enough to be walking so young!” Her hand leaves mine for a moment and travels up to my face. I flinch as she brushes her fingers across my hairline. “This scar is from when you were eleven months old and tried to run after our cat, Freckles.” She traces the thin white line that has always been a part of my features, so much so that I hardly noticed it. “The top half of your body got ahead of your little legs, and you toppled right into the piano bench. It was the first of many bumps and bruises, but you learned.” She returns to her task, bending over my fingernails once again.

I bring my free hand to the scar, feeling the raised line that I had wondered about from time to time, but never given much thought. The enormity of what I've missed out on threatens to crush me. Had
I grown up with Jane and Doug and Charlotte, the story of my scar would have been repeated, year after year, on holidays, on birthdays, whenever I was being particularly clumsy. Perhaps it would have become a family joke, a warning to others. “Don't pull a Dee-Dee!” But instead, I am twenty-three years old and learning about it for the first time. A tear escapes, and I brush it away before Jane notices.

“What else?” I am hungry for more information, more clues about the girl I was before I was Clara.

Jane places my hand on the table to let my nails dry and reaches for the other. “You had quite the imagination. You drove your sister
crazy
with your stories.” A small laugh escapes. “She would trade you play time for quiet time, but she would spend most of the play time ‘setting up' her area. Of course, you didn't much follow her quiet time rules, either.”