The Girl Before (10 page)

Macy continues to talk, but she does lower her voice. “You need to let that go, Clara. You're too serious about him. It'll never work, you two together.” She sighs as I turn back to the sink. “I know I told you to go for it, but I thought it would help you loosen up, have fun like I do. I didn't think you'd go and fall in
love
with the guy. He's Mama and Papa's
son
, for Christ's sake!”

Spinning, I raise my arm to point at Macy with the plate I am washing. With horror, I watch as the plate, one of Mama's nicest, used for a client dinner tonight, slips from my soapy grip and shatters on the floor.

Macy and I gape at each other as Mama calls from the living room. “What the hell was that?”

Propping the broom against the wall, Macy rushes to the sink, bumping me out of the way with her hip and shoving her hands into the bubbles.

Mama stomps into the room, her face clouding as she spies the broken china on the floor. “What. Happened.” Her voice is the sort of calm that comes before a giant explosion, and my entire body begins to quiver.

“It slipped,” Macy says before I can respond. “I'm sorry, Mama. Clara was washing, but my stomach was still tender from last night and sweeping was making it worse, so we switched.”

My eyes widen, but I say nothing. I want to jump in and defend Macy, tell Mama that it was my fault, but then Macy will get in trouble for lying. The look she gives me tells me to keep my mouth shut.

“Clara,” Mama says evenly, “please finish up the dishes, but leave the broken plate. Macy will clean that up later. You may go to bed when everything has been put away.”

I nod, still not trusting myself to speak.

“Macy, please follow me.”

Macy avoids eye contact as she follows Mama from the room. I stand, stunned, for a few minutes before mechanically returning to my job. I move as slowly as possible, waiting for her return, but when I finish, she is still gone. I tamp down feelings of dread as I tiptoe around the shards of china littering the floor and climb the stairs to our bedroom.

I am almost asleep when Macy comes into the room later that night. Neither of us says a word as she goes about her bedtime routine and turns out the light. I know she's not sleeping, and a short time later she rises from her bed, pads across the room, and climbs in next to me. I drape a careful arm over her shoulder, and her intake of breath is all the confirmation I need that her punishment was significant.

We find a comfortable spot, and I begin to drift off when, almost as if from far away, I hear Macy whisper, “I'm sorry.”

“Me too,” I say, and as unconsciousness finds me, I vow to protect Macy with everything I am from now on.

I have been writing in Dr. Mulligan's office for half an hour when there is a knock on the door. “Keep going,” she says, standing to answer it. I bend my head back over my notebook and return to my sketch of Glen's face. I am not a fantastic artist, but I do okay, and it's important that I preserve the subtleties of his features. I am beginning to forget. It has only been a few days since I last saw him, but it feels much longer. I draw him so I can look back and remember, at least a little.

Dr. Mulligan is conversing in urgent tones with whomever is at the door, and as their voices grow louder, I find it harder to concentrate.

“It's not your decision,” Connor says, pushing past Dr. Mulligan as he strides into the room. I see anger flit across her face, a strange expression on her features. I do not picture Dr. Mulligan as an angry person.

I look up at Connor, closing the cover of my notebook, covering Glen's face. I squint my eyes at him to show my displeasure at his presence.

“Still silent, I see,” he says. He looks rough, as if he hasn't shaved for a couple of days, and his normally crisp clothing shows telltale wrinkles of being worn long hours.

I open my notebook again, turning to a fresh page, and begin drawing swirls. Connor leans over to see what I'm doing, and instead of hiding my work, my scrawls turn into creative cuss words, just for Connor. Instead of getting angry, as I expect, Connor barks out a laugh. I make a face at him.

“Can I see that?” he asks, reaching for my notebook. I slam the cover shut and shove it underneath me, so I am sitting on it.

Dr. Mulligan has been watching the interaction with interest.
“Can I ask what you're doing here, Agent?” she says, her calm façade back in place.

“I just wanted to check on her,” Connor says, watching me.

“Check on her?”

“On her progress, of course,” he stutters, standing up straight and looking at the doctor. “We need to get her back into questioning as soon as possible.”

“Let's step out in the hallway, Agent,” Dr. Mulligan says. “You'll be okay, Clara?” she asks. I ignore her.

As soon as the door closes, I creep closer until their muffled voices become clear enough for me to understand.

“She needs therapy,” Dr. Mulligan is saying.

“I know. But we need answers. We were getting somewhere until—”

“Until you threw her in prison to scare her into talking? Yes, I can see that worked well for you.”

Connor's voice rises, tension radiating through his tone. “You have no idea the pressure we're under to get this case taken care of,” he says. “If we don't have her testimony—”

“Then what? You've talked to all the girls. Some of the other men are talking. Why is her story so important?”

Connor's voice becomes muffled, as if he is covering his mouth while he speaks. “It just is. There's more . . .”

“More what?”

“Nothing. Forget it. It's not your concern.” He pauses. “Your concern is getting her to talk.”

“Maybe if you'd brought her to me first, before scaring her with questioning and agent beatings and prisons, we'd be a little further along.” Dr. Mulligan has lost her even tone. I recognize a woman in protective mode. I have used it a few times myself with my daughters.

“We didn't deem it necessary at the time,” Connor says.

Dr. Mulligan barks out a sharp, uncharacteristic laugh. “A clearly
damaged and traumatized woman is rescued from a brothel training house and you don't think she needs counseling?”

I don't wait to hear Connor's reply. I grab the doorknob and fling the door open, startling them.

“Rescued?” I say, my voice shaking. “I wasn't
rescued
. I was
taken
from my home, separated from my husband and my daughters, and kept in a tiny room with only idiots to talk to. And you wonder why I've stayed quiet!” My voice has risen to a high-decibel screech. My chest heaves in anger, and my pulse races through my tightened muscles. I close my eyes and take deep breaths. Dr. Mulligan and Connor remain silent. When I open my eyes, I am calmer.

“I'd like to go back to my room now.” I walk back to the couch and retrieve my notebook from the ground, handing it to Dr. Mulligan. She takes it from me, tapes it up, and returns it for my signature. I notice that she does not put it in its hiding spot while Connor is in the room, but clutches it at her side.

Connor tries to take my arm, but I resist, walking ahead of him. As I return to the doorway, I turn around. “Will I see you tomorrow, Dr. Mulligan?”

She nods and smiles. “Yes, Clara. Please come back tomorrow.” She taps the notebook and gives me a small wink. Connor nudges me, and I leave the room. I really do like Dr. Mulligan.

I am woken by an unfamiliar tread in the hallway. Glen is gone for a few days in North Dakota. I have been alone with the girls, but it doesn't bother me. The footsteps I hear are too loud to be made by any of my little girls. Mama Mae offered to stay with me, to help out, but I
declined the offer. The steps are too heavy to be hers, anyway. Glen is due back tomorrow. Perhaps he has returned early. But the steps are too timid, trying to be sneaky. One of the guards must have come in. I will talk to Glen about it. They are to use the trees if they need a bathroom. The house is off-limits, especially in the middle of the night.

Soon it is quiet again, and I roll over to go back to sleep. A small sound catches my attention. One of the girls is up now, too. I throw back the covers and swing my legs off the bed, reeling at the sudden dizziness. No time to wait for the world to right itself, I stuff my feet into my slippers and wrap myself in my robe as I hurry to the door. I open it quietly, pausing to listen.

There is the sound again. A small keening, almost too faint to be heard. Then a shush, which I wouldn't have heard through the door to my bedroom.

“Girls,” I say, keeping my voice low so the other girls don't wake. “Time to sleep.”

I halt as I come upon the scene in the young girls' room. A man is on top of little Grace, one hand over her mouth, the other working the button on his pants. He has already hiked her nightgown up and removed her panties. Tears stream from Grace's terrified eyes.

“Hey!”

The man looks up. It is Joel. And I can tell from the bland look in his eyes that he is quite drunk. Even drunk, however, he could easily overpower me. I must be smart. I feel sick as I realize what I must do.

I walk over to him. He watches me, eyes wary, as his hand sneaks back toward Grace's bare skin. I shake my head and hold out a hand. “You don't want to do this, Joel,” I say. “If Grace's client can tell, Glen will be furious.”

“Stay out of this, Clara,” Joel slurs. “Lemme be.” He turns back to Grace.

I touch his shoulder. “Come on, Joel,” I say. “You don't want her.
She's a little girl.” I take a step back and beckon him with my hand. “I see how you look at me, Joel.” His eyes spark with interest. “Glen's gone. Let me take care of you.”

His response is immediate. He rolls off Grace's bed and is in front of me in seconds. He lunges for my mouth, but I put a finger over his lips. “Not here,” I whisper. I take his hand and lead him from the room. As we exit, I see Passion creeping over to Grace. Of course Passion was awake. She sees everything.

I lead Joel back past the room I share with Glen, to one of the empty rooms saved for our rare guests. He stumbles several times, and I pray that he will pass out before I have to follow through. As soon as the door is shut behind us, he begins tearing at my clothes.

“Stop, Joel, slow down!” I say, trying to catch his hands.

Anger crosses Joel's face. “Slow down?
Slow down?
” He grabs me around the waist and tosses me on the bed. “You offer yourself to me and then tell me to slow down?” He is on top of me and backhands me across my cheek. I see stars.

“Now shut up and enjoy what you're about to get,” Joel growls. His hands and mouth jump across my skin, leaving a slimy feeling wherever they touch. He seals his mouth to mine, and he tastes of liquor and vomit. He is drunk, but not drunk enough. Soon his skin is slick with sweat. I stare at the ceiling and try to transport myself anyplace but here as he finishes and collapses on top of me like a load of bricks.

His breathing eventually returns to normal, but he does not get off me. His lips find their way to my ear, and he whispers, “Bet you'll come back for more after that, won't you, baby?” And then he is snoring.

I wait a while longer to be sure he is completely passed out before shoving him off of me. I gather my clothes and return to my room, leaving the clothes in a pile by the door. I spend forty minutes in the shower scrubbing every square inch of my body until my skin is red
and raw. I wrap myself in a towel and step in front of the mirror, wiping the steam away with my palm. My cheek and left eye are swollen and red, and a bruise is beginning to bloom.

I go back to the bedroom and dress, twisting my hair high up on my head. My first stop is to check on Grace. Passion lies with her, and Grace is sleeping, a peaceful expression on her face. Passion's eyes open as I peek in the room. Her eyebrows rise in question.

“Whatever you hear, keep this door shut until I come back, okay?” She nods.

I gather my torn nightclothes and slippers from their heap in my room and step outside into the cool morning air. The sun is just sending pink streaks across the sky. I walk to the fire pit and dump the clothes. From my pocket I produce a box of matches I snatched from the mantel, and soon the clothes are turning to ash. They look like I feel inside, shriveled and black, paper-thin and insignificant.

Back in the house, I unlock Glen's study and head to his desk, where I retrieve my target from the top drawer. I walk upstairs with purpose and shove the door to the guest room open with a slam. Joel sits up. “Clara!” He grabs his head. “What the hell?” He shakes his head and a smile curls his face as memories from last night return. “Back for more, baby?” he asks, and my decision is made.

I walk toward him and bring the gun out from behind my back.

“Whoa! Whoa, Clara, hold on!” Joel holds his hands in front of him. As if I would be going for his heart. He doesn't have one.

I level the gun at his head and, with a quick jerk, point it downward, firing a bullet directly between his legs. His scream is horrific, and music to my ears.

“You crazy bitch!” he screams as I walk from the room and shut the door behind me. He becomes more creative with his expletives as I return to my room. I am so tired. I put the gun on the nightstand and climb back under the covers, falling into unconsciousness in no time.

•   •   •

“Clara! What the hell?”

When I wake, Glen is standing at the foot of the bed. It is midmorning, judging by the sunlight streaming into the room.

“Good morning,” I say, sitting up. I raise a hand to my head and feel the hair matted to my cheek. I wince as I brush it away. Glen is across the room in seconds.

“What the hell happened?” Glen demands. “I come home and the girls are all still in their rooms, there's a fire dying down in the backyard that none of my guys set, and you're in here with a gun and a black eye.”