When it all fell out, I told my story to a grand jury. I told the world, or at least my corner of it, what I did. The story never hit national media; the splash it made seemed large only to me and perhaps the eleven girls I helped to free, who may or may not ever thank me. Some of them seemed angry at their newfound freedom, but then again, at least under someone’s thumb they were fed and clothed and kept appropriately high.
I found out through the court proceedings, and the kind Richmond cop, that Mick was involved, which surprised me. Jared was the ringleader but Mick worked for him. Jared sold drugs and girls and Mick did his bidding. I couldn’t help but wonder if Evelyn knew the extent of his criminal activities. Doubtful. I felt dirty, like scum, like I’d helped. Like I’d let Evelyn down, somehow, yet again.
I was allowed to go home. To Evelyn’s crap apartment in San Pablo. I slept in her bed, with her nightgown and her blankets and her perfume and pillows. Drug and alcohol free. I had every intention of staying there. I even used my drug money to pay the rent. I wanted to find a job.
I thought about calling my friends. But college felt like a million years ago. I had grown into a whole other person, one capable of hurting people, hurting myself, rescuing people. For a week after the trial, I woke up every day at a normal hour and made coffee, got the newspaper, checked the classifieds. Like a real and decent human being.
Eight days later, they came back for me.
CHAPTER 4
APRIL 2014, NEW YORK CITY
When I wake up on Monday morning at eight, Henry is gone. His side of the bed is smooth and made, complete with cream brocade throw pillows. The tassels feather kiss my cheek. I stretch, a deep arch, and my fingertips brush a slip of paper. A note. I will be home for dinner tonight, please ask Penny to prepare something. There are croissants in the kitchen. I let the paper flutter back to the bed. I can prepare dinner and I have on occasion, but he always insists we ask Penny, which irritates me. I have all day in this echoing apartment, my own voice bouncing off the sterile, bare walls and marble floors. Sometimes I wonder if uselessness can kill a person.
I have a waiting text message from Cash Murray. How’s ten? I text back, See you there.
In the kitchen, I break off a piece of flaky pastry and let it roll around my tongue, melting smooth as butter. I have no idea where he got them. In my new life, I’ve grown quite accustomed to luxuries just appearing out of nowhere. This is what it is like to live with Henry. I once found a note and all it said was Paris, tomorrow, and when I woke the next day, the car was humming outside, the trunk packed with suitcases I didn’t know we owned and clothing that wasn’t mine. A black-and-white striped silk dress with wide-brim hats, and Hermès scarves. My grown-out bob flowing behind me in the breezy fog tumbling off the Seine. Henry’s dazzling smile across the chartered cruise boat. Are you happy? And my dodging reply, Who wouldn’t be happy? Because at least that part was true.
Later, I asked him, Why Paris? And he gave a casual, coy shrug. I’ve never been here. I wanted to see Paris. With you. It’s a city for lovers, you know. His fingertips twisted my curls, tugging gently, a silent approval of letting my pixie cut grow. Then, his hot mouth, his tongue on my neck, the gold-leafed ceiling dancing and flickering in the candlelight.
Then, after midnight, I pushed, as I always do. Under the cloak of blackness, my fingers finding his under the covers, half-asleep, I whispered the questions into the air, like a puff of smoke, and they hovered there, between us. Tara. His life before me. He lay there, so still and so quiet for so long I assumed he’d fallen asleep. When he got up, the cold air whooshed under the blankets like an arctic blast. He crossed the room, clicked the latch on the bathroom door. I fell asleep before he came back.
It wasn’t the first time I’d pushed him, my ideas of marriage formed by some hybrid of Lifetime Television and Disney movies. I longed for the intimate connection I felt sure was buried, beneath some surface hurt that only I could heal. I was the new wife consoling the widower, cajoling him into love again, almost against his will. There, in the most romantic city in the world, under the glittering lights of the Eiffel Tower, his rebuff didn’t feel like rejection. It felt like a challenge. A rom-com conflict, scripted to a Peter Gabriel sound track.
My phone rings, jostling me out of the memory.
“G’morning, love.” Henry’s voice rolls through the line like a rumbling locomotive, and I close my eyes.
“Hey, you. How’s your day?” I press my fingers to the white-and-black marble countertop and lick off the sticking crumbs.
“Busy, but I wanted to hear your voice. What are you doing?”
“I was eating a croissant and remembering Paris, for some reason.”