Her jaw dropped at the headline: COURTNEY PEARSON 15-YEAR SEX SLAVE.
It was a confirmation of the fear that had shadowed her all these years. There was a brutal predator out there, and he was a monster.
Woodcock pointed to the screen. “The police think Courtney spent the last fifteen years as a prisoner. Someone’s sex slave, right here in our own backyard. Ha!” He swiveled his chair toward Ruth, causing her to take a step back. “That’s a story if there ever was one.”
“That’s absolutely horrific.” Ruth found his enjoyment despicable.
“A terrible thing,” he agreed, “but tragedy sells papers. I was just polishing off this draft to get it online. I’ll fill out the story for tomorrow morning’s edition of the paper.”
“What are the police basing their theory on?”
“Some wounds and long-term scarring around the wrists and ankles. The girl was kept shackled up. Some malnutrition, too. Some of her teeth went bad.” He shook his head. “Did you know her, back in the day?”
“I knew who she was. She seemed so tough and determined. When she disappeared, I wanted to believe that she went to Vegas or Dallas and found the excitement she craved.”
“Well, isn’t that a sunny point of view,” he said with a flirtatious grin.
Ruth frowned, kicking herself for opening up to him at all. “That’s highly disturbing news, but I stopped in for something else. I tried to book some advertising on your website, but I couldn’t find any way to do it.”
“Yeah, well, we’re not as tech savvy as those bigger papers over in California. It’s just me here at the helm. But I can do that for you. Have a seat,” he said, turning his computer monitor back toward the corner as she sat down on a hard wooden chair and found the notes in her bag.
“I want to run some advertising for my hotline.” She handed him a typed sheet with the details, and they discussed the logistics. When he gave her the price, she bit her lower lip.
“Any chance you could do it as a donation? We’re a non-profit, and need to keep our overhead low. Doc Farley is donating his service, and I’m not compensated for my time.”
He was shaking his head. “Sorry. I’m a businessman, not a philanthropist.”
“Then how about a discount?”
“I’ll think on it and get back to you.” He found a pen amid the cluttered mound of papers, protein bar wrappers, and dirty mugs that consumed his desk. “What’s your cell phone number?”
She reluctantly gave it to him. She’d rather not, but this was business.
He punched her number in on the keyboard and clicked a few items. “There we go. I’ll text you the information. In the meantime, let me get you a printed form.” He rose from the computer, stroking his mustache. “I think they’re in the back. Hold on.” He grabbed something from a shelf in the hall and continued into the darkness.
As he disappeared into the dank, narrow hallway, Ruth got out of the chair and paced toward the front of the office, eager to get out of there. She had appointments, and her instincts told her that it wasn’t wise to be alone with Jimmy Woodcock. There was something feral about him, like a hungry animal ready to snap. Was it any surprise that all these desks were empty? This man did not breed employee loyalty.
“Jimmy?” she called, walking toward the back. “I need to get going.”
No answer.
She moved toward the hallway and listened. There was a whirring sound. A bathroom fan?
A narrow shelf that lined the hallway was stacked with magazines. She assumed that they were some sort of reference material for the newspaper, but a provocative cover at the top of the stack caught her eye. Moving a bit closer, she was glad she hadn’t touched any of them. The shelf was filled, floor to ceiling, with pornography.
Her pulse was hammering in her ears, her senses on alert. Maybe she was being overly cautious, but she had learned not to ignore these warnings. Fear was a gift, instinct a guidepost.
Time to leave.
As she turned toward the door, she caught a glimpse of Woodcock’s computer monitor displaying a photo of a well-endowed brunette with her legs spread. The next photo was a blonde in an even more compromising position.
Her throat knotted as beads of sweat broke out on her brow. A porn screen saver?
What a guy.
Without another word, she escaped to the heat of the street, grateful for her instincts.
*
The first client of the day was a referral from Doc Farley, a sullen fortyish woman named Maureen Everly. She sat down on the couch without a smile, her hair tied back and concealed under a cowboy hat with a long scarf trailing behind her.
“Would you like to take your hat off?” Ruth offered.
Maureen declined. It turned out that the hat was covering her dirty, badly matted dark hair, which had been neglected for weeks. “It’s embarrassing, but I can’t get to it,” Maureen admitted. “I can’t get anything done. I can barely get out of bed in the morning, let alone get anyplace on time.” Soon after she began talking, tears began to roll down her cheeks.
Ruth handed her a box of tissues and listened.
Maureen had lost her job and friends, and what little family she had was on the verge of disowning her. “My mother was the one who made me come here. She got together with Doc Farley and tricked me. Told me the appointment was an hour ago so I’d be on time. I hate being tricked.”
“I understand that, but your mom was just trying to help.” Ruth talked about the need for a few sessions to introduce Maureen to Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. “CBT is a process, but in a nutshell, it gives us a chance to change our behavior to improve our mind-set.”
Through her tears, Maureen agreed to give it a try, and she would start by keeping a journal of her daily moods, diet, and sleep patterns. Before she left, Ruth gave her a worksheet on unhelpful thinking styles, such as jumping to conclusions and all-or-nothing thinking. She also made a note to check with Doc Farley about prescribing antidepressants.
Maureen was still crying as she went to the door. “Tears of relief,” she said.
“Crying is a part of healing,” Ruth told her, giving her a few tissues for the road.
In the reception area, Ruth closed the door behind her patient and considered Maureen’s treatment plan. If Maureen stayed in therapy, she had a chance to transform her life.
Just as I transformed mine, Ruth thought, recalling Dr. Boden, the therapist who had pulled her out of the pit of fear. And one of the first things she had told Ruth was that crying was a part of healing.
Ruth went to the window and watched the woman maneuver gingerly across the street. It was people like Maureen who reminded Ruth of why she had come home. Ruth could make a difference here.
She wanted to stay.