Forgive Me (2 page)

She was wandering aimlessly in Union Station, admiring the shops and all the things she had no money to buy, wondering how to pass the day, when a man approached.

He was tall and good-looking for an older man, with a nicely round head sporting a buzz cut like Jason Statham’s, and a clean-shaven face. His most notable feature was a pair of piercing blue eyes. He carried a bag from Heydari Design, which Nadine knew sold women’s clothing and accessories.

“Can I ask you something?” he said to her.

He had a foreign accent, Nadine thought. But it was subtle. Something distinct—
sophisticated
was the word that came to mind—something like a count would use. He was dressed sharply in a tailored navy suit, blue oxford underneath, no tie. His shoes were polished black loafers.

Nadine gazed at the man, unable to speak before finding her voice. “Yes,” was all she said.
Why is he talking to me? What could he want? Did Mom put out a missing persons report? Does he recognize me? Am I in trouble? Will he call the police? Will they take me to jail? Worse, will they take me back home?

“I just bought something for my daughter. She’s about your age. But after I left the store, I was hit with doubt. I could use a second opinion. She likes the color blue, if that helps any.”

From inside the Heydari bag, he removed a twilight blue linen-blend scarf, fringed at the ends for a touch of sophistication. It was lovely, something Nadine would have bought for herself if she had money to spend on such purchases. Books and food were all she could afford to buy. Plus she needed money for her motel room. Where else was she going to sleep? There was a lot more to running away from home than she had contemplated.

“I think she’ll love it.” Nadine meant it, too. To her surprise, her chest suddenly felt heavy. Here was a dad doing something lovely and thoughtful for his daughter. Her father gave her birthday presents, but always mailed them. It was never anything she wanted because he didn’t take the time to get to know her tastes, her color palette.

Her father was nothing like this one, she decided.

“Thank you. I feel a bit more confident now.”

That accent, where was it from? European? “You’re welcome,” Nadine said.

The man nodded his thanks, turned to leave, but stopped. He seemed to be appraising her in a way that made her feel vulnerable. “This is going to sound odd,” he said as he took out his wallet.

Does he think I need a handout?
Nadine was mortified to think she looked so bedraggled (another SAT word) that he suspected she was homeless and in need.

To her great relief, he took out a business card instead of cash. “I run an entertainment agency, and I’m always on the lookout for new talent. If you don’t mind my saying, you have a great look. Almost like a Jennifer Lawrence type.”

Nadine had to suppress a laugh. JLaw? Her?
Come on
. Nadine didn’t think herself exceptional in any way. She was average at everything—height, weight, academics, sports. Name it, and she fit smack dab in the middle, undistinguished and undistinguishable from her peers. Her hair color was brown, eyes brown, and that’s what it would say on the missing person posters if her mother bothered to file a report. Weight 118, height 5’3”. Average. Perfectly average.

She blushed.

“I’m not saying you look like her exactly,” the man explained. “But there’s something about you that’s very compelling. I’m not kidding. I find talent for TV, movies, reality shows. It’s a booming business these days with so many places for content.”

Nadine shrugged. She didn’t know what to say. She looked down at the card. S
TEPHEN
J. M
ACAN
. M
ACAN
E
NTERTAINMENT
. No address, no phone number, no website or e-mail. It felt secretive, which made the business seem more exclusive. He had to find you; you couldn’t find him.

“Have you ever had headshots done?”

Before Nadine could answer, the man’s cell phone rang. A smile came to his face as he answered the call. “Hi honey. I’m still at the mall shopping for Megan.” He pulled the phone away and mouthed the words
my wife
for Nadine’s benefit. He held up his finger, an indication he wanted her to stay.

For some reason, she did.

“I’ll be home soon. Want me to pick up something for dinner? I could grill up salmon, if you’d like.”

A pause while his wife said something in response.

“Great. Oh, and I got the opinion of a girl about Megan’s age, so I think I did well with my gift. We shall see.” He gave a little laugh.

Some inside joke about how difficult Megan could be to shop for, Nadine supposed. The joke was made with love, not malice. It was so obvious Megan’s dad adored her.

Nadine’s heart turned.
Why can’t I have the same sort of relationship with my father?

“I’ll be home soon. Love you. Bye.” The man’s attention went back to Nadine. “So are you interested in becoming famous?” His smile was warm, genuine.

Nadine wondered if his daughter Megan had the right look. The man, this Stephen Macan, seemed so certain
Nadine
did.

He wouldn’t lie about something like this.

It was all happening too fast for her to process. A little tickle in the gut told her to be cautious. She handed the man back his card. “I don’t think so.”

The man looked resigned and a little disappointed, but offered no hard sell. “Just so you know, there’s no second chances. This business is too hard for any self-doubters. We look for people who think they were meant for something more. I thought I had it right with you.” He shrugged. “Maybe all this shopping has dulled my instincts. Anyway, I wish you the best of luck.” He stuck out his hand.

As soon as she shook it, Nadine felt numb all over her body. She wasn’t sure what she was feeling. Ashamed? Disappointed in herself? What were his words exactly?

People who think they were meant for something more.

That struck a chord. Despite her parents, she thought she was worth something more. She could make something out of her life and show them all. That’s right. Become somebody and get on
Ellen
or
Good Morning America
and have a tear-filled reunion on live TV while her parents apologized to their celebrity daughter for years of mistreatment. Wouldn’t that show them!

She watched Stephen Macan walk away, swinging the bag that contained a beautiful scarf for his daughter, who wasn’t pretty enough for a movie career of her own. He wasn’t creepy at all. She got no vibes like that from him. He had a wife to whom he spoke sweetly and a kid about her age. It was happenstance that he saw her and asked a very reasonable question about the gift, and then luck that he saw something
in her
.

It was the real deal, Nadine decided, a genuine opportunity that she let pass by. And think! The next time her mother might see her could be on TV or in the movies. She tried to imagine her expression. It would be priceless!

The man was a good distance away, almost out of sight.

Nadine took a determined breath and went running after him.

CHAPTER 2

Four weeks later

A
ngie DeRose arrived on foot at the Columbia Firehouse to have lunch with her parents at the scheduled time, on the scheduled hour, on the scheduled day. Given the fluid nature of her job, that was a minor miracle.

Angie loved the work, though. A good thing because it was all consuming. The phone rang day and night. No one took vacations when kids ran away, and run they did, twenty-four by seven by three sixty-five.

The calls varied. Sometimes it was a crisis with a child custody case, or surveillance work that might require her to spy on a cheating spouse, or follow a lead on a possible parental child abduction. Maybe an irate spouse had gotten wind that their ex was headed off to party—and who was going to watch little Joey while Mom or Dad did the Harlem Shake with a shot of tequila in one hand and a beer chaser in the other? An anxious parent didn’t care one iota what time of day it was, whether or not it was a holiday, or if Angie had plans to meet her parents for a meal. Thus was life as a private investigator. She wouldn’t have it any other way.

The restaurant, a renovated fire station with exposed brick walls, served quality American eats. It was a favorite of the DeRoses. Angie and her mother Kathleen ordered salads and soda water with lime, while her father got the salmon special. It was easy to meet for lunch because her parents lived near her office, still in the same house in Arlington, Virginia where Angie grew up.

Having lunch with her parents grounded Angie. Since founding DeRose & Associates at twenty-eight, five years ago, she had struggled with orbiting so closely to the dregs of humanity. She had gone into the business with a purpose, but had been naïve about the depth of human cruelty. The deplorable ways parents could treat each other or treat their precious children were too numerous to count and endlessly gut-wrenching. Each case was like turning over a rock to see what sort of horror might slither out.

Most difficult were the surveillance gigs to get proof of child abuse. Those hit her the hardest, but they were also the best way to get a kid out of danger. Some of her colleagues—the men, mostly—could shut it off, go to bed without seeing the cigarette burns dappled on a young kid’s arm. Not Angie. She took it all to heart, carried with her the emotion of what she saw every day.

When it was a runaway or a child custody case, she went overboard to get results, to get proof, in order to protect the child. She lived and breathed it. Her wheels were constantly going, just like her office phone. Hell, somebody had to make sure the kids ended up safe or with the right parent.

Over the years, Angie had seen squalor that made a cardboard box on some desolate street corner look like an upgrade. Malnourished children. Beaten children. Children terrified of abuse. Neglected children. Drug-addicted parents who preferred the pipe to their kid. Out-of-control teens who raged against authority and railed against their terrified and despondent parents.

For the most part, Angie saw the world as a broken place that could never be properly fixed. In the presence of her parents, that world shone a little brighter.

She knew she was one of the lucky ones. Not many of her clients wanted to meet their parents for lunch, or surprise them with a spur-of-the-moment visit. Her parents’ support and friendship over the years had made all the difference, especially during the hardest period of her life.

Her best friend Sarah had vanished without a trace. It was senior year of college at the University of Virginia, and they were a few months shy of starting their lives. That semester Sarah got hooked on something—Oxy, the cops thought. Then she was gone, just like that. Gone. And that was how she stayed. Missing.

What had happened to Sarah Winter? Might she still be alive? The questions haunted Angie. She’d longed to do something to honor Sarah’s memory, her spirit. Opening DeRose & Associates Private Investigators, she’d hung a picture of Sarah on the office wall behind her desk. That picture served as an ever-present reminder of Angie’s mission—find the runaway kids and take them back home.

“Daddy, you look tired,” Angie said as they waited for their meals. “Is everything okay?”

Gabriel DeRose’s thinning dark hair rested high on a broad forehead. He kept in shape by walking on the treadmill and doing some weight training, but over the years he had developed a noticeable paunch. The lenses of his black-rimmed glasses magnified the dark circles around his eyes. The skin around his neck was looser, his full face a bit wan. Still, he looked distinguished and poised in his blue pinstriped suit.

He returned a thin smile, and Angie’s heart warmed with love. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just busy at work. That’s all.”

Always busy at work,
Angie thought. Like father, like daughter—and like mother. The DeRose family was a kinetic bunch. Her father ran DeRose Financial, a well-respected financial services firm that specialized in investing for high net worth individuals. He had two employees, hundreds of millions under management, and in Angie’s opinion, too much stress. She worried constantly about his health. She wished he would take more time for himself, but he had worked so hard, for so long, he was either too afraid or had forgotten how to hit the off switch.

Kathleen had never worked full-time, but she probably outpaced her husband and daughter in effort and hours worked.

“How’s the committee going, Mom?” Angie asked.

“Which one?” Gabriel said with a laugh.

“You pick, Mom,” Angie said.

“Well, the Lupus Foundation is doing another donor drive, if that’s any indication, and I’m up to my eyeballs in mailings.” Kathleen was one of one point five million Americans living with the disease. She’d been diagnosed when Angie was an infant. Kathleen had hidden little about her disease as Angie grew up, often talking about her fatigue and blinding headaches, and showing Angie her swollen feet, legs, and hands.

Angie was sure lupus was the main reason she grew up an only child, though her mother said otherwise. “One is enough for us. We have everything we need and want with you.”

It made Angie feel better, though never lessened her desire for a sibling, especially a sister.

It took years for Kathleen’s doctors to prescribe the right course of treatment. During that time, lupus episodes had required many trips to the hospital. In addition to an anti-inflammatory regimen, Kathleen took a number of other medications to treat conditions commonly seen with the disease. Lupus had no cure, and although it was an inheritable disease, Angie had never experienced any symptoms.

“I’m sure you’ll surpass last year’s effort,” Angie said.

“Perhaps. I’m assuming I can count on you for twenty-five dollars?” Kathleen said this only a little playfully.

Angie always gave what she could. “I’ll make it fifty this year. I did a transport yesterday that paid pretty well.”