Forgive Me (36 page)

Anyway . . . what happened? That’s the big question. I’ll tell you what. NOTHING. That’s what happened. All the build up, all my nervousness, my constant anxiety, it was ALL for nothing. SCREW YOU BCB! Hear me? SCREW YOU! When we got to the jail, they wouldn’t let me in to see Ricardo because I wasn’t immediate family. I guess the rule is written on the website or something. The woman behind the plexi didn’t give a crap what I was to Ricardo. She didn’t care what Ricardo did to me, how I suffered because of him. All she cared about was that I wasn’t 18. 18 and over I could have seen him, but under? No can do. And I didn’t have a fake ID. Not 18, not immediate family, not going to happen. That’s what the Plexi Lady said. I told the lady that in life experience Ricardo made me a heck of a lot older than my sixteen years. She said everyone who comes here has got it hard and rules are rules.

I was thinking about getting a fake ID. But I didn’t know how and Sophia couldn’t help me there. Well, she could help, but in other ways. She brought some vodka from home and that calmed me down after the BCB debacle. We were sitting on the hood of Sophia’s car taking sips of Gatorade that wasn’t just Gatorade and talking about what to do next. This was a mission now. I was going to get some kind of result. I had a purpose, finally, and that’s what I needed most—a purpose. We talked it over and Sophia came up with the idea, so I’m not taking the credit. I might not be able to get in to see Ricardo, but Tasha can.

Dear Diary . . . ha-ha! Dear Diary. Isn’t that what your supposed to write in these things? Deeeeaaar Diary. Hi there. I’m so screwed up. LOL! Actually it’s not a joke. I’m really messed in the head. I want to cover all the mirrors in my house because I get sick just looking at my reflection. Honestly, I think of ending it some days, slipping away into a place where I don’t have to be myself anymore. How would I do it? I’m back to thinking about that again. Lots of options, but I’m not going to do any bridge jumping (sorry Madison). I think I’ll go with pills. Pills work for me. But I don’t have any, so today I tried cutting myself. Just a test, just to see how it felt, and you know something, strangely enough it kinda worked. Obviously I didn’t kill myself, but the pain was sooooo super intense it took the focus off, well, my pain. When I cut, I didn’t feel anxious anymore. I felt alive, I guess. I felt like me again. For the first time in a long time the pain wasn’t something I was creating in my head. It was a living, pulsating thing right there on my arm. It had a shape and texture. The blood followed the path of my knife and it felt so good to finally be in control of something. I got to determine how much pain I felt, how much I bled. Nobody else but me. Guess I’m a cutter. Looks like I’ll be wearing a lot of long sleeve shirts from now on.

Pumped! I got a text from Tasha today. Wasn’t hard to find her. I just had to tell my therapist that I thought it would help me if I could speak with her. I had to confront my past yadayadayada. Guess what happened? Tasha texted me about three seconds after I texted her. Actually, it wasn’t total BS what I said to my shrink. I did feel better hearing from her. She was a good part of a bad experience. If I never spoke to Tasha again, I’d be left with only the bad parts.

So Tasha and I met up. Sophia (she’s got her license) drove us to the Gallery at Harbor Place in Baltimore. Back to Baltimore, my old stomping grounds. Sophia had to skip school, but I didn’t. I dropped out and I’ll probably have to repeat 10th grade or maybe I’ll just get my GED. It’s hard to imagine I can ever go back to my school again. What happened to me isn’t going to be forgotten by everyone over the summer.

The plan was to meet at Starbucks. I got there first and I was crazy nervous waiting for Tasha to show up. Sophia got us each a Caramel Macchiato, which is like four billion calories but it’s sooooo unbelievably delicious. We chatted about things. About how bitchy Hannah, Madison, and Brianna were being. About how my dad has been sort of cool to me lately. Cool as in nice, as in acting somewhat interested in me. I slept over at his place the other day and he tucked me in, kissed my forehead like I was a kid again, and he even told me that he loved me. He said he was sorry for everything I’d been through and I believed him. Even my mom is trying to turn things around. She’s going to AA now. If she saw my arms she’d send me to CA for sure (that’s cutters anonymous, and no Sophia hasn’t seen the scars because I keep wearing long sleeve shirts). When Tasha showed up, Sophia didn’t know what to do or say. I could tell she was really nervous. Tasha wasn’t a girl like us. She was a woman. She smoked and did drugs and got paid for sex. Instead of being embarrassed or mad, I just laughed and grabbed Sophia’s arm because I knew what she was thinking. We’re besties after all. I told her not to be nervous around Tasha.

I told her I did everything she did.

The good part now. Tasha and I reconnected and it was like so cathartic. We made it only a few minutes in Starbucks before I started to cry so we decided to take a walk. Sophia hung back ’cause she’s cool like that. She understood we needed time alone. Tasha and I walked arm-in-arm along the harbor. It was a beautiful day, lots of sunshine, boats on the water, and a bunch of seagulls dive bombing unsuspecting tourists for their food. There was so much to do down there, but all I wanted to do was walk and talk with Tasha. She told me she was living at some kind of safe house for people like us, victims of human trafficking. Well, more for people like Tasha because I had a safe house I ran away from. Well, a sorta safe house. Safer now that mom is cutting back on the booze. But Tasha has nothing. No family. No real friends. No work experience. No way to make it. They can give her all the support in the world, but what is she really going to do with her life? She doesn’t even have a high school degree. She can get her GED, or so she says. The other girls don’t have it any easier. When we were back at the apartment, the food was always pretty decent, but now Tasha gets most of what she eats from a food pantry, and her clothes come from Goodwill (though she looked amazing in her jeans, heels, and this cute yellow top. That from Goodwill? 4Real? I know where I’ll be shopping!) Tasha told me she’ll probably work at a club for a while. Yeah, that kind of club. Her plan is to save enough money so she can go to hairstyling school. Whatever it takes, I told her. But I did say I’d rather see her cutting hair than twirling on a pole at some skanky strip club.

Tasha held up a baggie of blue pills she brought just for me. I lifted up my sleeve and showed her my mangled arm. She made a face like it was gross to look at, and put the pills back in her purse. She got it though. I had my own way of numbing the pain now.

Eventually we got down to business. I told Tasha what I was trying to do. She thought about it and on the spot came up with something I hadn’t ever considered. Something truly brilliant! It was so good it made me realize my idea of going to see Ricardo wasn’t ever going to work. I guess sometimes if you look at things from a different angle what seems like big a disappointment (e.g. not getting into the prison) is really a blessing in disguise (e.g. Tasha’s idea). Of course this whole different angle thing doesn’t apply to what Stinger Markovich did to me. There’s really no silver lining there. If I’m being honest with myself, I’d say I wish I never met Tasha. Harsh, but it’s the truth. She’s an awesome girl, don’t get me wrong, but I still wish I didn’t have to know her. I wish I didn’t have to know any of them, including Jade, the poor girl with an eating disorder who was with us one day and gone the next.

I wish I didn’t have to know Jade at all.

But now my only wish is to find her.

CHAPTER 48

O
n his way back to Baltimore, Bryce made a planned stop. The guy’s name was Ray Anderson and he had retired from the U.S. Marshals when Bryce was still collecting Pokémon cards. Bryce and Ray had never met, but Ray’s name was all over the Conti paperwork, so he figured the old-timer might be able to shed some light on the situation. Bryce wanted to do something to help out Angie, though his motives were not a hundred percent altruistic.

He was smitten, no two ways about it. Angie was the package—able, beautiful, and confident, the ABCs to Bryce’s heart—but it was more than just pheromones working overtime. He felt they had a lot in common, the important things. They were cut from the same cloth. The job was a calling, a passion for each. You had to be like Angie to truly understand a woman like her, and Bryce got it. He lived it, embodied it. They were members of the same tribe, like with like.

But anything having to do with Angie would have to play out sometime down the road. It wasn’t the time for the Bryce Taggart’s Woo Machine to go fully operational. The Conti matter had to be resolved first. Angie needed closure, and Bryce was lucky enough to be in a position to help. Even better, he could do it without violating any laws. Well, without egregiously violating them. He was certainly skirting close to the ethical edge. Ray Anderson didn’t need to know about Angie DeRose, he just needed to answer some questions from his past.

Bryce had never been to Russett, Maryland before, never had a reason to go there. Bordered by Little Patuxent River and Oxbow Lake, it was a throwback to a simpler time with modest homes, leafy streets, and neighbors known by name. Compared to Bethesda, where Bryce grew up, Russett was a speck of land with a third of the population. Ray was one of 13,000 residents, and owned a nice colonial home with blue vinyl siding and black shutters. He kept his lawn trimmed, and a small garden out front well tended.

Bryce had called beforehand, so Ray was at home and expecting him.

Ray looked a little like Bryce’s dad—soft in the middle, hard in the face, with a lot of experience tucked inside the folds of his many wrinkles. He had kind blue eyes, a head of silver hair, and was dressed like Bryce in a plaid shirt and jeans. For a man in his late seventies, Ray looked robust and healthy.

Inside the house, the furniture was nice—traditional style and mostly what one would expect for a guy living off his government pension. The walls were papered with pictures of children and grandchildren.

They shook hello. Ray’s hands were rough and calloused, and one finger was bandaged.

“I teach shop at the local voc-tech school,” Ray explained, holding up the bandaged finger for Bryce’s benefit. “Made for a good second career. But in my old age, the hammer moves faster than the reflexes.”

Bryce laughed, and then he complimented Ray for having a nice place. It was how guys talked,
nice place
instead of
a lovely home
.

Ray took the compliment, said he was blessed, and then gave full credit to his wife. “You know how crazy the Marshals’ life can be. Sally was the glue that kept it all together.”

Eventually they settled on the screen porch overlooking a lush backyard and drank sweet tea from tall glasses filled with ice. Sally was out for the afternoon so he and Bryce had plenty of time to chat, to reminisce. Ray sounded pleased about it and Bryce took it as a signal not to jump right into the purpose of his visit.

He gave Ray time to jawbone about his second greatest love after his family—the U.S. Marshals Service. They didn’t have a lot of connections in common, their careers had happened in different eras, but Ray’s stories gave Bryce the sense that Ray had enjoyed a distinguished career, one that concluded with a stint on the witness protection team.

That gave Bryce the opening he sought. “I have a case I want to know if you remember.”

“Ah, is this what you wouldn’t discuss with me over the phone?”

“I believe important things are best discussed in person.”

“And I believe when you’re as old as I am, everything is important. So shoot. I’ll help however I can.”

Bryce gave a brief overview of Antonio Conti and his young family who went into witness protection when Ray was forty-six, already had twenty years in the service, and would be out entirely ten years later. The name Conti didn’t jump right out at him. He stared off into space a moment while collecting fragments from his past.

Using his phone, Bryce scanned his photos and showed Ray a picture of Isabella Conti. It was the one Angie had sent to him.

Ray pointed to the girl’s ear as though that had triggered a memory. “Oh yeah, Conti. Mob rat. I remember now. Guess it didn’t stick because I wasn’t on the case for long.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the day they were slated to go into the program I was taken off the assignment. It was kind of strange, actually.”

“Strange how?” Bryce was leaning forward, hands on his knees, listening intently.

“Usually we were on a case for three or four months, at least until the witness transitioned fully into a new life. We would do check-ins, schedule phone calls, have onsite visits, that sort of thing. Conti was the first and only time I got pulled from a detail like that without any real explanation. I have no idea what happened to that family.”

Ray’s story sounded familiar. Nobody seemed to know what happened to the Contis. Before Bryce could ask another question, his phone rang. He saw it was a call from his fellow U.S. Marshal, Gary Graves.

“Bryce, you sitting down?”

“Yeah.”

“Our boy Ivan Markovich has disappeared. He was supposed to check in with his parole officer, but no word. Went to the house and found his GPS monitor on the kitchen table and no Stinger Markovich to be found. Your ass is wanted in Washington ASAP. We’re on the task force, brother. We got his boys, now we get to go and get the big man himself.”