The Girl Before (11 page)

I stretch, my brain hazy. Glen waits, though I can tell he is ready to burst. I hesitate. Glen will be angry. I still believe I made the right decision, but no man other than Glen has ever touched me. And I allowed it. I
suggested
it. I seduced another man, and there will be consequences.

“Please, Clara.” Glen's voice is pleading, but intense. I don't have any choice but to tell him the truth.

I take a deep breath. One by one, I recount the details of the night. Glen grows more and more still, and the hand stroking my cheek leaves my face to curl into the blankets. The look on his face is dangerous. I have never seen his jaw so tight. His eyes glint, slightly manic.

“Where is he?”

I stand and lead Glen to the guest room. The door swings open, and there is Joel, lying in a pool of blood. Glen walks over to him. “He's alive,” he says, no emotion in his voice. He nudges Joel. “Wake up,” he says. Joel stirs. Glen reaches and grabs Joel where the bullet got him. Joel screams.

“Shit! Fuck!” His eyes widen when he sees Glen. “Oh man,” he says. “Clara is a crazy bitch, man. She shot off my damn—”

“Shut up.” Glen is dangerously calm. “Clara, why don't you take the girls on a walk?”

I nod. “We'll be ready to go in fifteen minutes.”

“Good. See you for lunch.”

I wave and back out of the room, closing the door. I hear Joel begin to beg as I go to get the girls ready for an outing.

•   •   •

When we return an hour later, Mama Mae is there and has made lunch. The girls sit at the table, and Glen grabs two plates, beckoning for me to join him. We walk upstairs to our room, and he leads me out onto our balcony, which overlooks the mountains in the distance. He sets the plates down and turns to me.

I have remained numb through most of the day, but now that it's just me and Glen, I feel myself starting to break down. I shove my shaking fingers under my body and try not to think about how Joel held those same fingers in his sweaty grasp. My entire body feels foreign to me, dirty. I wait for Glen's judgment as he watches me, the expression in his eyes unfathomable.

I am ready for punishment. I let another man use my body, and surely Glen will be angry. Instead of pain, however, Glen gathers me in his arms, wrapping them so tight that I find it hard to breathe. I don't mind. I would gladly suffocate this way. It would be a fine way to die. I am not sure how long we stand there, but when he pulls back, there are tears in his eyes.

“Glen?”

“When I think of what could have—”

“Shh, I'm fine,” I say, finding it odd to be comforting him after what happened.

“Thank you,” he says, and kisses me with fervor. “Thank you for protecting our daughters. I only wish I had been there to protect you.”

Guilt. That is what those tears are made of. Regret for not
fulfilling his promise to protect me. I shake my head in denial. “I did what was necessary, Glen. I just hope you don't hate me.”

“Hate you?” His face is unbelieving. “That's not possible, Clara. You are the most important person in my life.” He kisses me, and soon our breathing picks up and the air heats around us. He lowers me to the floor of the balcony and banishes all the demons Joel left behind.

After, I lay with my head on his chest, memorizing the beat of his heart. He is quiet. I turn to look at him. “Glen?”

“Hmm?”

I hesitate, and he raises his head to look at me.

“What is it, baby?”

“Joel?” I can barely squeeze the name through my throat.

His features, peaceful just a moment ago, cloud over. “You won't have to worry about him anymore, Clara,” he says. “Ever again.”

I nod. I cannot imagine what Glen is going through. He grew up with Joel. They have been best friends since childhood. He has always been Glen's right-hand man, by his side in the stickiest of situations. The level of betrayal must be overwhelming. I am almost overcome with guilt that Glen was put in this position, but amidst the sadness I find an inkling of joy.

Glen chose me.

Before I can see Dr. Mulligan the next day, I end up back in the dreaded questioning room. Connor sits across from me, and next to him is a young man with bright, excited eyes. The difference between the countenances of the men is striking. Connor has aged in the short time that I have known him, and this new agent looks fresh as a daisy.

Even as I think the words, my heart stutters. Daisy. I wonder where she is now. If she's okay. And the other girls. They have not been mentioned since the day Connor and Meredith showed me the tape, and I am overwhelmed with guilt that I have not thought to demand information about them before now. I have been so focused on myself and on Glen that I allowed my daughters to slip to the back of my mind. Some mother I am.

“Clara, this is Jay. He is new to the unit and has asked to sit in. Is that okay?”

I raise an eyebrow. I did not know I had the option of saying no. If I had known that, I would have kicked Meredith out of the room that first day. Looking at Connor's face, I realize that I still don't have a choice. It is only a courtesy that he has asked my permission.

“Sure,” I say, and I see the surprise on Connor's face that I have spoken and acquiesced so easily. “Just one thing.”

The surprise leaves his features and is replaced with wariness. “Yes?”

“How are my daughters?” I look expectantly at Connor.

“The girls are fine,” he says. “Adjusting well to their families.”

“All of them?”

“Every one.”

“Passion?”

“
Emily
is her name, and she is still in the custody of the state.”

“Why can't she come stay with me?” I ask. “I can take care of her.”

“In your room?”

I frown. “Why do you want to keep her from me?”

“She's not yours, Clara.”

“She is.”

Connor groans in frustration. “Okay, let's talk about Emily. How long has she lived with you?”

I clamp my mouth shut. I haven't gotten what I want. I will not answer questions.

“Is this that silent thing you said she does?” Jay asks, keeping his voice low as if I won't hear him.

“I'm right here, Jay,” I say, and he jumps as I say his name. “I am perfectly capable of answering questions I
choose
to answer”—I shoot Connor a look—“so you can stop talking about me as if I am dumb.”

Jay's mouth hangs open, and I see Connor smirk. Despite the situation, I find Jay refreshing. He seems so innocent, and I can tell his confidence is for show. If I wanted to, I could probably break him. The power in that thought surges through me.

“Okay. I will tell you about Passion—”

“Emily.”

I roll my eyes. “
Emily.
I will tell you about her if you let me write her a letter.”

Connor thinks for a moment, watching me. He has already witnessed my determination, and I know he is weighing how long I can hold out against how much he needs information. Finally he nods.

“Okay. Write a letter to her during your session with Dr. Mulligan, and I will deliver it to her.”

“I'll talk after I get a response.”

“No.”

I sigh. I knew that was a long shot. Hopefully Dr. Mulligan will back me up and make sure Passion gets the letter. I cannot think of her as Emily. She has always been Passion. My Passion.

“Glen brought Passion to me four years ago,” I say. Connor grunts at my use of her name, but says nothing as he begins taking notes. “She was thirteen years old. One of my biggest challenges, and greatest successes.” I smile as I remember how much work I put in to Passion.

“Where did Em—
Passion
come from?” Connor asks.

“I don't know.”

“What month did she come?”

I furrow my brow as I concentrate. “I don't remember. It was
warm, though. Our air-conditioning went out, and she kept slipping out of my grasp because we were both sweaty.”

“Sweaty?” Jay jumps in.

“I had to chase her around a lot those first few weeks.”

“What, exactly, was your role, Clara?” Connor asks.

“My role?”

“Yes, your job, your title.”

I am confused. “I was wife to Glen. Mother to our children.”

“What does that mean?”

“You don't know what a wife is?”

Jay laughs. A look from Connor quiets him, but his expression remains amused. Connor clears his throat. “What I mean is, what did you
do
as wife and mother? What did your days look like?”

“Oh. Well, there were always chores to do. And private lessons for each girl.”

“What sort of lessons?”

“Building up a special skill. Languages, drawing, a wide variety of arts.” I smile. “My girls are very gifted.”

“And you did this all on your own?”

“I wasn't on my own. The older girls took a lot of responsibility for the younger. We were a family. We helped one another. Took care of one another.”

“Where was Glen?”

“He had a lot of meetings.” I shrug. “When we moved to the acreage, he was around more, because everything was in one spot.”

“And the other men? They were around, too?”

I shake my head firmly. “They stayed outside as much as possible. Especially after . . .”

“After what?” Connor leans forward.

I say nothing. I feel my skin heating up as I press down the memory.

“Clara?”

“I think I'm ready for my session with Dr. Mulligan,” I say, standing. “Can you take me to her?”

“Sit down, Clara.” Connor's tone is firm. “You forget that you are not in charge here.”

As if I could forget that I am not in charge. I never have been. Not with Mama and Papa, not with Glen, and not here, with these agents. I feel my control slipping away, the spark of confidence I felt being snuffed out. I slump back into my chair.

“That's better,” Connor says. “Now, what about the men?”

I push my emotions down. “They weren't permitted near me or the girls unless Glen was around. Even then, they were to keep a distance. Glen has grown more suspicious of them over the past year.”

“Suspicious? Why?”

My shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. “I don't know. He doesn't tell me everything.” I don't mention the incidents that precipitated his distrust. One would be breaking Glen's rules. And one might break me.

Connor keeps me in that room for another hour before finally relenting and allowing me to visit Dr. Mulligan. By the time we're done, I am drained, but I feel a small flame of victory. I still have not betrayed Glen. He would be proud.

“Jay will take you to Dr. Mulligan,” Connor says, waving his arm at the younger man and bending over the notes he's taken.

Jay jumps up and rounds the table, indicating that I should precede him from the room. He chatters about nothing as we walk through the halls to the therapy wing. I can only concentrate on getting to my notebook and writing to Passion.

The front door slams, and Macy and I straighten and stifle our giggling as we continue folding the laundry. Everything must be perfectly straight, crisp lines, no wrinkles in sight. After all, when we are assigned our clients, we will have chores to do. I am not yet sure what our other duties will be.

Mama bustles into the room, her breathing heavy, eyes bright with excitement. It is rare to see Mama excited, and I drop the shirt I am folding in surprise. Mama frowns, but says nothing as I snatch it back up and straighten it out with a snap.

“Clara,” Mama says as I smooth the shirt onto the top of my pile. “When you are finished with those, please come to Papa G's study. We will be waiting.”

I nod. “Yes, ma'am.” I do not question the instructions, though I am burning inside with curiosity. After Mama has left, Macy leans over.

“Do you think they found one?” she asks in a low voice. “A client for you?”

“I don't know,” I say, biting my lip. Except in rare circumstances, girls do not leave until they are at least fourteen, usually closer to sixteen. And those who go earlier are carefully selected before being put in training. I should have two more years of polish before a client even sees my profile.

Macy's eyes are shining. “I bet it's something big. I thought Mama was going to start skipping, she was so excited.”

Taking a deep breath, I smile. “I'd better go see what they want.”
Placing my neat pile back into the basket to be sorted into rooms later, I stand and tiptoe down the hallway toward Papa G's study. I have never been in the study. It is a mysterious cavern that holds secrets I am both eager and nervous to discover. I creep toward the door, which is cracked open, hoping to overhear something to prepare my reaction, but the voices floating through the air are too low to understand. I step forward and rap on the dark wood of the door.

“Come in, Clara,” Papa booms. I can hear the joyful tone of his voice as well.

I push the heavy door and it creaks wider, revealing a room colored in rich tones. A massive desk takes up one wall, with a leather chair behind it, occupied by Papa G. Two wingback chairs face the desk. Mama Mae stands by one, handing a cup of tea to the occupant of the other. A slim, tanned hand waves the cup away, and the man unfolds himself from his seat, turning to face me.

“Clara,” Papa G says, rising and rounding the desk to stand by the visitor. “This is Mr. Q.”

The man in front of me must be at least forty. Maybe older. He is handsome, I suppose, with just a touch of gray peppering his dark hair at the temples. Thin lines surround his mouth, but not his eyes, which makes me think that he does not do a lot of laughing. His eyes are appraising, but not unfriendly. Expectant. I give a small curtsy and form my lips into a smile. “Nice to meet you, sir,” I say.