The Girl Before (5 page)

Standing at least three stories high, the house is twice the size of ours. Multiple balconies poke out from faux log cabin siding. Outbuildings dot the meticulously manicured grounds. As we park and exit the vehicle, barking fills the air from what must be an army of dogs, invisible right now, but clearly aware of our presence. More car doors slam shut behind us as the second vehicle in our small parade
joins us. The men Glen brought rode in that van, and they follow us up the stairs. My heart rate picks up as Glen pushes the small button by the door and chimes resonate within the large building.

I hear a quiet chuckle beside me. Joel covers his mouth with his hand when Glen shoots him a glare, but catches my eye and winks.

“Don't worry, Clare,” Joel whispers. “No one in here will bite.” He pauses, eyes twinkling. “Unless you ask nicely.”

I narrow my eyes at him. Joel has been more informal with me lately, and it makes me uncomfortable. He may be Glen's top guy, but I don't like the way he looks at me, or the girls. If I weren't afraid of Glen's anger, I would ask for Joel to be banned from the house.

The others around us are familiar, but I cannot place names and faces. I have had little contact with the other men, even on this trip. I spent most of the past day in the lodge, reading books about the history of the area. I was surprised when Glen invited me along this evening. He wants my opinion on something. I smile to myself. I feel important.

Rapid footsteps announce someone's approach on the other side of the door. It opens just wide enough for us to squeeze through, and we are ushered in.

“Hurry, please,” the man at the door says.

Inside, the air is stale. The entryway is tall, and sunlight streams in through high windows, cutting the clouds of dust. There are cloth-covered pieces of furniture in the rooms off the entry, and while outside the grounds were well-tended, the inside of the house looks abandoned.

The man who opened the door starts up the stairs. “Come,” he says, motioning for us to follow. I grip Glen's arm and he glances down at me, raising an eyebrow. I loosen my hold and give him a reassuring smile. I will not let on how anxious I am, though I sense he already knows.

At the top of the stairs, we are led to a large room. A small group is gathered there, and the air is thick with smoke. I cough and try to hide the action behind my hand. Glen shoots me a warning glance. My behavior must be perfect.

“Hello, and welcome!” says a large man, stepping out from the crowd with arms extended. He comes to Glen and clasps his shoulders, then kisses the air on each side of Glen's face. Glen looks startled at first, but covers his surprise with a genial smile.

“Mr. Harrison, thank you for meeting with me,” Glen says.

“Of course, of course,” Mr. Harrison says. His voice is deep, his tone welcoming. “I knew your father well. I was very sorry to hear of his passing.”

Glen nods. “He always spoke highly of you as well, Mr. Harrison. I hope you find your dealings with me to be just as pleasant.” I do not see this humble side of Glen very often. He is deferring to the other man. He has already begun negotiations.

Mr. Harrison chuckles. “I am quite sure I will, my boy.” He turns to me, looking me up and down in a way that makes my skin crawl. Glen's arm tenses against mine, but his face remains impassive. “And who is this?” Mr. Harrison asks.

Glen snakes an arm around me. “This is Clara,” he says. “She has come to help with the girls.”

What girls? Glen never told me the exact purpose of my presence. I try not to let my surprise show. Mr. Harrison steps forward and clasps my hand. His skin is dry and feels like tissue paper. He lifts my hand to his lips. “I am very pleased to meet you, my dear,” he says, his breath stirring the sparse hair on my arm. He presses his lips to my skin, and when he raises his head, a thin string of spittle stretches between us. My hand spasms. Mr. Harrison's eyes narrow, and I try to cover my reaction. I giggle.

“That tickles, sir,” I say, forcing my lips into a small smile. I can hear the fake tone of my voice, but it seems to appease him.

“Genevieve,” he barks, motioning someone from the crowd. A tall woman emerges from among the men. Her hair is a burnished auburn, and she is dressed in a frothy nightgown that leaves little to the imagination. She would be beautiful but for the thick layer of cakey makeup plastered over her face and the fine lines webbing out from her lips and eyes that no amount of cover-up can hide.

“Yes, my love,” she coos, resting her hand on Harrison's shoulder. Her long nails are painted black, and they dig into the fabric of the man's sport coat.

“Bring Clara to meet the other girls,” he says. He leans in and whispers something in her ear that only she can hear. Genevieve runs her hand down his arm as she leaves his side, and he swats her on the rear before she is out of range. She squeals, making the sound delighted rather than disgusted, as I would have.

“Come along, Clara,” Genevieve says, her eyes on Glen instead of me. “We will have tea with the girls.”

I cast Glen a questioning glance, and he inclines his head, indicating that I should go with Genevieve. I am not sure we should trust these men, but I go. I am nothing if not obedient.

There is an annoying shuffling in the room. A moment of silence, a cleared throat, then the shifting of papers. I want to sink back into the blackness, but the damn shuffling will not quit. I crack my eyes open, and the light stabs into my pupils. I take a sharp breath, and the
shuffling stops. Footsteps click across the room, and I sense the light dim behind my eyelids. I pry them open again and release a relieved breath when the soft light washes across my vision.

“Awake at last,” a voice says from my right. I turn my head to see Meredith pulling a chair closer to the side of the bed. The metal legs scrape across the tiled floor, and I wince at the noise. A piece of hair falls into my face, tickling my nose, and I move to brush it away, but my hands meet resistance. I look down, and chains rattle as I strain against the padded cuffs securing my wrists to the side of the bed. My heart beats faster as my brain becomes more alert.

“Calm down,” Meredith says, her tone mocking. “You don't want another sedative, do you?”

I stare at her with wide eyes. They drugged me. Memory flashes of my midnight panic attack assault me, and I close my eyes, my head falling back to my pillow. Tears well up behind my eyes, but I refuse to allow them. Not in front of her.

Meredith sighs. “We're not doing the silent act again, are we?” She crosses her legs and taps her pen on a sheaf of papers perched on her knee. “I thought we were past this.”

“Why am I tied up?”

She smiles. “You're not tied up, Diana, you're restrained. To keep from hurting yourself or others.”

“I'm not going to hurt anyone. And my name is Clara.”

“I'll decide whether you're a threat,” Meredith says, and turns her attention to her papers. “If our conversation goes well, and you are cooperative, I'll see about having the restraints removed.”

I glare at her. She has all the power. I have nothing for her. I am nothing to her. I do not understand why she is torturing me.

Meredith's foot wiggles and she studies the paper she is holding. It is an anxious movement. I realize that I do have something she wants. I have information that will help her. She thinks, they all think, that
I am the key to whatever case they are building against Glen. A sense of power rushes through me, and with it a feeling of supreme calm. I feel my lips curl into a smile, and my muscles relax.

Misinterpreting my sudden change in demeanor, Meredith returns my smile. “That's better,” she says, confidence in her tone. Her foot stills, and she uncrosses her legs, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. “Kidnapping is a very serious charge, Clara. Not as serious as some of the other charges against Glen, but still, stealing those girls away from their families seems almost worse somehow, doesn't it?”

Stealing
them away? She thinks that we
took
those girls? We gave them a better life. Their parents gave them up. I want to scream at her. If only they would talk to the parents, all this would be cleared up.

A sickening thought intrudes on my confidence. Would the parents lie? I knew it had to be done in secret. What if we were being punished for the choices these parents made? What were they saying to keep themselves out of trouble? And what else does she know about Glen? Certainly they can't know everything. Panic curls in my stomach, but I am determined not to let it show. I won't give Meredith the satisfaction.

“And refusing to answer our questions, well, that's obstruction of justice. You don't want to stop those little girls from getting justice, do you? A little cooperation will go a long way, Clara.” Meredith's smile is grim, and not at all reassuring, despite her words. “Now,” she says, eyes glued to my face. “Give me the names of your biggest clients.”

My mouth drops open in shock. She doesn't waste any time. Except she is wasting time. Glen never trusted me with any of that information. I only knew them by their code names. Mr. Harrison's face flashes through my mind. But Glen said South Dakota never happened. I stuff the face away and stare at Meredith, trying to decide how to respond.

“Names, Clara,” she says, leaning back in the chair. “Easy. Just some names, and we'll get you unhooked and back on track.”

She wants names. I don't have real names, but I can give her the ones I know. “Mr. White. Mr. Black. Mr. McDonald. Mr. Costello. Mr. Apple.”

The papers drop to the floor as she stands. “Is this a joke to you?” she hisses. “Do you even
care
where those girls ended up?” She begins to pace.

She is insulting my devotion to my daughters. Of course I care. Our clients were selected very carefully. “Those are the names I know,” I say.

“Those aren't real names,” she says, her heels clicking across the floor as she comes to sit by me again. Her face looms close, and I shrink away as much as the restraints will allow. “Tell me, so help me . . .”

I begin listing names again. “Mr. Marlboro. Mr. Busch . . .”

“I liked you better when you weren't talking,” Meredith says, and the spit from her angry words sprays my face.

“Maybe you should try it. People might like you better, too.”

Slap.

My cheek stings where her hand makes contact, and tears spring into my eyes. Meredith's chest is heaving, straining the buttons of her prim blouse.

The door flies open. “Meredith!” Connor strides in, his face twisted in fury. “Out,” he says, pointing to the door.

“But she—”

“Out!”

Connor keeps his voice quiet, though rage vibrates through every word. Meredith stomps toward the door and Connor catches her arm. “We will discuss this later. Take the rest of the day off.”

Meredith snarls something in response and stalks from the room. Connor moves to my side and uses gentle, efficient movements to
survey the damage. A guard comes in and unlocks the shackles. I sit up and bring my knees to my chest, rubbing my wrists.

“Are you all right?” Connor asks. His voice has regained its normal calming tone, and I nod. “Clara.” I look up at him. “Are you really okay?” There is genuine caring in his eyes, and I feel the tears creeping up again for different reasons than before. No one has shown me kindness like this in my entire life. Without the expectation of anything in return. Not Mama Mae. Not Papa G. Not even Glen.

Snap out of it,
I chide myself. He
does
want something from me. He wants the same thing Meredith wants. Names. Information. Something to use against Glen. I can't give in to my emotions now.

“I'm fine.”

Connor looks at me a little longer, then nods. “Okay.” He stands. “We'll skip the questions today,” he says. “I'll have them bring you your lunch, if you're hungry. “

I nod.

“Okay.” He is saying that a lot. “I'll see you tomorrow.” He walks to the door. I almost don't want him to go. I am growing weary of being alone. “Clara?” He stops and turns at the door. “I'm sorry about Meredith. And I'm glad you're okay.”

I smile slightly. He inclines his head toward me, and then he is gone.

I am walking through the hallway outside Papa G's study, arms full of linens to put away, when I hear raised voices coming from the cracked door.

“She is the one I want, Papa.”

“She's not available.”

“You said whichever I wanted! My pick!”

It is Papa G and Glen. I don't know what they are arguing about, but it is rare to hear Glen angry. Every time I have encountered him since dance class he has been laughing and teasing. Now he sounds like a spoiled child, rather than the seventeen-year-old boy he is. I roll my eyes and continue down the hall.

“Clara is meant for a very wealthy client, boy. I won't have you ruining that deal.”

I freeze. They're talking about
me
. I will be sixteen this year, and the end of my training is getting close. I am almost ready to move out. I had been excited until recently, when I began to look forward to my frequent run-ins with Glen. Has he been feeling the same? I haven't dared to dream that our time spent together meant as much to him as it does to me.

“You told me when I turn eighteen I could pick my girl. I will be eighteen in three weeks, and I pick her.”

“There are plenty of other options, boy.”

“Stop calling me boy, old man, I am almost an adult.”

The sound of flesh hitting flesh echoes through the empty hallway. “You will not show me that attitude, boy. She is not for you.” Papa G's voice is calm. “Now get out, and I don't want to hear about this again.”

“Father—”

“Go.”