The Girl Before (4 page)

As abruptly as he grabbed me, he releases me, and I stumble back. I become aware of the eyes on us from all around the room. Connor and Meredith stand in one corner, Glen's guards in another. I walk on shaky legs to a metal table and sink into one of the hard chairs pushed against it. Glen ignores the chairs on the other side and takes one next to me, claiming my hand in a tight grasp, staring at me as if he is seeing me for the first time.

Except, unlike when he really saw me for the first time, now there is desperation in his eyes. He looks at me as if he's already lost me. But I'm not going anywhere. When we work this all out, we'll go and collect our children, and we'll find someplace far away from here. Far away from anyone who would try to tear us apart. If we have to go without the children, though it pains me to think of it, at least Glen and I will be together. Forever.

I do not notice that Connor has taken a seat across from us until he clears his throat. I tear myself from Glen's eyes, where I have been swimming, feeling whole again, and glance at Connor. I put my other hand on top of Glen's, reassuring him that they will have to rip me away from him if they try to part us again.

“Glen,” Connor says. “You have been reasonably cooperative so far. We are hoping you can convince Clara to cooperate as well.”

Glen's jaw clenches. Not a good sign. Glen is not used to taking orders, even if they are worded as nicely as Connor's. He also doesn't like people talking to him about me. In fact, he prefers if people just pretend I do not exist as much as possible. Even most of his men rarely address me directly. Only the highest ranking of his group dare to approach me or talk with familiarity.

“I told you before,” Glen says, a slight tremble betraying the anger underneath, “she has nothing to do with any of this. She knows nothing. She can't help you.”

Connor smiles. “I very much doubt that. I think she could be very helpful.” His gaze shifts to me. “Don't you want to help, Clara?”

I look to Glen for guidance. He shakes his head slightly, and I fix my gaze on the table, silent as ever. This is confirmation that I have been making the right choice. Anxiety stiffens my muscles as I consider Glen's reaction if I had been talking to these people. The tremor must have reached my hand, because Glen raises an eyebrow in my direction, questioning. Of course, I cannot answer. If they would leave us alone, maybe we could talk.

Glen has always had a special sense of my feelings. It is one of the things that drew me to him. He looks at Connor. “Give me twenty minutes with her,” he says. “We'll work something out.”

“Five,” Connor counters.

“Ten.”

A pause.

“Five.” Connor stands and smooths his suit jacket. Without another word, he leads the group from the room. Soon, we are alone.

“Glen—” I begin.

“Shh,” Glen whispers, just barely loud enough for me to hear. “We're being recorded.”

My eyes widen. I do not know why I didn't figure this out before. Of course they are recording. They probably have been all along. I feel violated, though I haven't said anything to be recorded. I want to wrap my arms around myself, shield myself from further intrusion, but Glen holds fast to my hands, refusing to relinquish them.

“We don't have much time, Clare,” Glen says, his whisper becoming more urgent. “You have to talk to them, give them something. You have to pretend to cooperate, make them think you have nothing to hide. It's the only way to keep you safe.”

My mouth falls open. First he told me to remain silent, now he wants me to talk? I hide my surprise and nod. Even with people listening, I know Glen will not hesitate to punish me for questioning him.

“What should I tell them?” These are my first words. Though I said his name earlier, the words come out as if being forced through a pile of pebbles in my throat. My voice sounds strange to me, and I cannot keep as quiet as Glen. One of his hands shoots up to cover my mouth.

“Quiet, Clara,” he scolds, and I know he is cross with me. I blink at him and he removes his hand from my mouth and moves it around to cup the back of my neck. He leans in, his voice barely a whisper, his breath disturbing the hair falling around my ear. To an observer it would look as if we are simply sitting as close as possible. “Tell them only that you cared for the girls. Do not mention the other branches. Do not mention Papa G or Mama Mae. And
do not mention South Dakota
.”

I never knew about Glen's other businesses.

I never knew Glen's parents.

And South Dakota never happened.

I memorize my new reality, each piece clicking neatly into place. A small smile curves my lips. “Of course.” This time I master the quiet whisper.

Glen leans his forehead against mine. His breath is minty against my mouth. “We are gonna get through this, Clara,” he whispers. “I can't be apart from you.” He moves to press his cheek against mine. His words tickle my ear. “You have the power to save or destroy us, Clara. Make the right choice.”

He kisses me, hard and hungry, and the door flies open. Glen's guards wrench him away from me, and he bites my lip as our connection is severed. I taste blood. He breathes hard as they drag him from the room, but does not say another word. His eyes speak volumes, and I stare into them until the ugly metal door slams shut between us.

Connor and Meredith come to stand in front of me. Meredith has remained quiet, and I think she is up to something. Meredith is never quiet. Connor crosses his arms, raising one hand to drag it down his face. His posture is stiff, and I can almost read his thoughts. He thinks this was a bad idea, that Glen has made it worse.

“I think I might be ready to talk. Tomorrow,” I say. Connor's hand drops from his face and his eyebrows jump to his hairline. I hear Meredith gasp, and I smile a secret smile that I have managed to surprise her.

I stand. “I'd like to go back now,” I say. Connor nods and raps on the door. It is opened from the outside and we file out.

It isn't until later that Glen's words sink in. I have the power to save or destroy? What does that mean? And even more important, how would it even be a choice?

Glen is on a business trip and Mama Mae has come to visit. She comes more often since Papa G died. I don't mind her visits, because I know she is lonely in the big house with only staff for company, but I do wish she would leave the girls alone. She has them lined up in front of their beds, and she walks back and forth, doing an impromptu inspection.

Mama has a stern way about her, and she uses force where I use compassion. Mama trained me, but I learned that children respond more readily to a kind word than a sharp tongue. Of course, I will never tell her this. It would break her heart, and she has gone through so much already. She raps a yardstick along the wooden floors as she stalks up the row. The girls stand at attention, eyes trained on the opposite wall, while she looks for flaws.

“There's a wrinkle in this bed.”
Rap.
I hear the stick hitting the back side of a pair of legs. I wince and close my eyes, thinking of the special care I will have to give my girls later. Perhaps a picnic outside as a treat once Mama has left.

“Your hair is not braided.”
Rap.

“Teddy bears are for children, not young women.”
Rap.

“Did you sleep in those clothes, dear?”
Rap rap rap.

The bell rings downstairs, and I slip out, leaving Mama's judgment behind. Glen told me that many of Papa's girls were returned in the early years, and others were reported as runaways. I believe that girls treated roughly run away more often. My girls stay with their families because they are desperate to please them. They want to be loved, as I love them.

Joel is at the back door. I hesitate. Men are not supposed to be in the house while Glen is away, but Joel is in charge in his absence. I open the door and step onto the back porch. Joel takes a small step back, but not far enough for my comfort.

“Glen called,” Joel begins without preamble. “He's run into some trouble and will be delayed.”

My heart jumps. “Trouble?”

“Nothing to worry about. Just has to lie low for a couple days.”

I nod, my mind already with Glen. His run was to Iowa this time. It should have been a quick trip through the barren plains back home to the mountains. There are always risks, though. Kids who don't understand what is going on. Others with similar businesses trying to take over Glen's territory. I have met some of his associates and competitors. They're not the nicest people. I shudder.

Joel angles his head toward the house. I realize the window upstairs is open, and Mama's sharp voice floats down to where we stand. “How are things going with the old bat?” he asks.

I glare at him. “You won't speak about her like that,” I say, more authority in my voice than I would dare to use with Glen. But then, Glen would never say anything like that about Mama.

He shrugs. “You're much better with the girls than she ever was.” A pause, then he grins. “You know what I remember?” he asks.

I raise my eyebrows at him.

“Dance class.” He laughs. “I had my eye on you that day. If Glen hadn't snatched you up first, I might have gotten to . . .” He trails off when he sees my face. I am sure my disgust is reflected there. Anger flashes in his eyes before he shrugs. “Anyway,” he says, backing off the porch. “Just wanted to let you know about Glen.” He turns and walks away without another word. I lock the door behind me when I return to the house.

It is quiet. The lights have gone down, but my eyes have adjusted to the dimness. Glen's words echo in my mind.
Make the right choice. Save or destroy.
My life is not about choices. I don't know what he means, and I toss in my bed as I try to figure it out.

The faces of my daughters rotate through the flip book that my brain has become. Each with her own personality, each with her own special flair for life. I spent time with each of them to find their talents, to uncover what made them unique gems. What were they doing without my guidance? How would their new families know how to talk to them? Would Daisy's new parents know that she likes to count the dots on her pajama pants before bed every night? Would Kathy's parents know to braid her long hair before she sleeps, so it does not tangle into an unmanageable mess by morning? What about Passion? Where is she now? Did people come forward to take her, or is she in a room like me, alone, unable to sleep, haunted by her lost family?

My heart beats faster and my lungs refuse to take in air. I'm supposed to talk tomorrow. What if I can't remember what to say? More important, what if I can't remember what
not
to say? What if I slip up? Is that what Glen was talking about? Will a tiny mistake destroy us all? And who else do they have? Where are they keeping the others? The men, the other women? Did they get to Glen's other businesses? Is everyone waiting, wondering if I will say the right thing to save us?

I no longer want to talk, even if that means Glen's wrath. I cannot have this pressure. I cannot deal with it. I sit upright, and I cannot tell if the black in my vision is from the darkness of the room or my lack
of oxygen. I stumble out of bed, tripping over my blankets and sprawling on the floor. I cry out, and the lights flash on.

Momentarily blinded by the sudden brightness, I cover my eyes and curl into a tight ball. I cannot breathe, but I no longer care. I can feel my head getting lighter, starved of air, and I welcome the sensation. I want to escape, to leave this place, to be someplace where I do not have to talk, where I do not have to lie, where
remembering
doesn't hurt so much.

Hands grab at me, trying to pull me apart. I lock my muscles and refuse to let them break me. But with my breath failing, I am too weak to resist for long. I am pulled flat, and I hear frantic voices around me, their words flowing together like a rushing river, surrounding me, covering me, pulling me under.

I scream. My arm lashes out, hoping for any contact. The fleshy thud and following crack of a skull against the wall are satisfying. I open my eyes and use all my limbs to launch myself at the intruders. They should have let me be. They should have left me to sink into the peaceful place where thinking is unnecessary.

Strong hands hold me down. I feel a stinging in my arm, and coolness rushes through my veins. Soon, it is too much work to struggle. My arms and legs go limp. The blackness reaches out for me again, but it is not threatening. It welcomes me, and I gratefully surrender.

My excitement is palpable. Glen has brought me along on this business trip to South Dakota. It is something Papa never would have allowed when he was alive, but Glen wants me here, and I was not about to argue about going on a trip. I bounce in my seat, craning my
neck to try to take in all the sights at once. Glen puts a restraining hand on my arm, but his smile is indulgent. I have never been this far from home, have never been much farther than a couple hours from any of our homes, and I am intrigued by the views rushing past outside the windows. Everything is so big out here, wide-open spaces interspersed with rolling hills, everything covered with a colorful layer of fall leaves. Our van travels through charming towns, with people crowding the sidewalks for autumn festivals, and lonely villages, where most of the people spill from the open doors of the one bar in the area. Glen has promised me a tourist stop and romantic dinner after our business is concluded. Our stay is short, but I intend to enjoy every minute of my temporary surroundings.

I do not know the man at the wheel; he is not one of Glen's, but he is friendly, regaling us with tales of his twin toddlers. I laugh along with him, but a sharp pang in my heart reminds me of my little girls, left in the care of Mama Mae in my absence. I hope she is treating them well.

We have been driving outside the boundaries of civilization for quite a while now. Every few miles a house pops out from the wilderness, some lit up, warm and welcoming, others dark, surrounded with an air of abandonment. Wildlife flashes through the trees, almost too quick for my eyes to catch. I look forward as the van slows. We stop in front of a tall gate, idling as the driver punches a code into a small keypad by the entrance. The gate swings open, and we drive up a long lane. I gasp when the house comes into view.