Girl, 11

by Amy Suiter Clarke

  He felt his mind start to churn, to lift him away.

  Thirteen, unlucky, the sixth prime number, a Fibonacci number, the number of depravity and sinfulness.

  Seventeen, the only prime number which is the sum of four consecutive prime numbers, the number of complete victory.

  Twenty-one, a triangular number, the sum of the first six natural numbers, the number of rebelliousness and sin.

  At last, the beating stopped.

  DJ stood for what seemed like hours, metal digging into the joints under his knuckles, his knees trembling. Finally, Josiah placed his hand on his shoulder. The boy jerked and nearly cried out at the fresh rush of pain, even though he’d not made a sound yet.

  “‘Blows that hurt cleanse away evil.’” It was a Bible verse Josiah had read a few days ago, one of the proverbs. When DJ looked up, his father’s eyes and cheeks were red, tears streaming down his face. Panic overcame the rage from a few moments before. The man turned his son’s body, staring at the lashes he had left behind. “I’m sorry, son. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  DJ pulled away, the sight of his father’s shame somehow more unbearable than the beating. Maybe this was part of what would make him clean—pure and holy. Maybe now he could be forgiven for lying to his father, causing him so much grief when he already had more than enough. This was a new beginning. He would be everything his father wanted from his boys. He would be the best at everything he put his hand to.

  He would be enough for three sons.

  24

  Elle

  January 17, 2020

  The first officers arrived at her house less than ten minutes after Elle called Ayaan. Martín was next, rushing through the front door in a blaze of concern; he swept Elle into his arms for a strong, disinfectant-scented hug. Then Sash was there, a statue with the life sucked out of her, barely capable of saying anything except, Where is she? Where is she? Where is she?

  They combed the neighborhood, walking in pairs—Martín and Elle with an officer on one side of the street and another officer with Sash on the other—and knocking on every door. No one had seen her. They walked all the way back to Ms. Turner’s and checked there again, but the place still seemed abandoned. The only thing they found was a cold hunk of glass and plastic that Martín spotted on the icy street.

  Natalie’s phone. Police collected it into evidence and scoured the area around it, but nothing further was found. It had been crushed, driven over by someone’s tire.

  Finally, they went back to the Castillos’ house and waited. Waiting, in this case, involved a lot of crying and pacing and looking out the window over and over and over.

  Everything blurred together as Elle huddled on her couch with her eyes on the floor until suddenly Ayaan was kneeling in front of her, a clear voice breaking through the haze.

  “Elle, tell me what you know.”

  She recounted the story again, every detail she could remember. Falling asleep, waking up feeling that something was wrong, the missed calls and texts from Natalie. She told Ayaan everything, down to the cold emptiness of the Hunter household and how she knew Natalie had never made it home.

  Only when she finished everything did the sudden thought flicker to life in her mind, and she finally brought her eyes up to meet Ayaan’s serious gaze. “It’s been three nights since Amanda was taken, Ayaan.”

  Ayaan’s full lips pressed into a tight, straight line. “Elle.”

  “Don’t you see? This is . . .” She trailed off, horrified tears filling her eyes. “This is exactly his pattern. Natalie is ten years old. She’s next in the countdown.”

  Martín walked through the door from the kitchen with a mug of tea, but he stopped short when he heard Elle. A pitying look passed between him and Ayaan, and Elle was about to open her mouth to say something when Sash stunned them all by shouting.

  “Are you serious right now, Elle?” she spat, standing up from where she’d been slumped in Martín’s favorite recliner. “You’re really making this about your podcast? My daughter’s . . . disappeared . . . and you’re talking about fucking TCK right now?”

  Setting the mug down in front of Elle, Martín turned to face Sash and held his hands up in a calming gesture. “Sash, I’m so sorry. This is a traumatic time. Please give Elle a chance to—”

  “To what?” Elle cut in, jumping to her feet. Ayaan rose after her, taking a step to the side. “You said you believe me, always. Well, believe me now, Martín. This is TCK. It all fits—this is exactly what he does.”

  With a growl of rage, Sash threw her cup of tea across the room. It shattered against the wall near Elle, hot amber liquid splattering on her clothes and down the wall. She flinched at the drops that splashed across her skin. An officer came rushing into the room, but Ayaan waved him away. Sash stood with her legs planted firmly apart, her shoulders heaving with anger as she glared at Elle. “Shut. Up.” Her friend’s face was contorted in a way Elle had never seen it before, her chest and neck flushed, her eyes gleaming. “TCK is dead, Elle. He killed himself in that cabin twenty years ago, and you know it. Everyone knows it, and they only indulge this stupid fantasy you have about catching him because they feel sorry for you.”

  Elle drew back, her face stinging. “That’s not true.”

  But Sash wasn’t finished. She took a step toward Elle and pointed her finger. “Stop deflecting. It’s your fault that Natalie left that house by herself. You promised me you would always be there to pick her up. You promised me, and I trusted you like you were my own sister.”

  All the strength vanished from Elle’s legs, and she sat back down abruptly. Sash’s furious words beat on her eardrums like fists, the cold accuracy of them. It was her fault. She shouldn’t have fallen asleep. She should have been there the second Natalie realized Ms. Turner wasn’t home.

  “Miss Hunter, we’re going to do everything we can to find your daughter,” Ayaan said, her voice a calming force that none of them could fight. Then, to Elle’s surprise, Ayaan sat down next to her and put one soft, comforting arm around her back. “I’ve seen relationships torn apart when something like this happens, but I promise you, it’s so much more bearable when you stick together. Blaming each other won’t help us find Natalie faster. Try not to turn on each other, okay?”

  Sash looked back and forth between the two of them for a moment and then, without a word, she picked up her coat and stormed out of the house.

  Elle wiped her eyes as her friend left and looked at Ayaan. “Do you believe me?”

  Ayaan looked away, a small gesture that was crushing nonetheless. “I think you should take a step back from this, Elle. We don’t even know if these kidnappings are connected, and you are already convinced you know who’s responsible. You’re too close to be objective, especially now that Natalie is missing too.”

  “Ayaan—” A sob cut Elle off. Through her tears, she could see that Martín was still standing in the corner of the room, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Shame burned her neck, coiled in her shoulders.

  “I know you’re hurting, Elle.” Ayaan’s brown eyes were troubled when she met Elle’s gaze. “I hope you get some help.”

  * * *

  A few minutes passed in silence after Ayaan left. Elle sat on the sofa and stared at the wall, letting the tears fall down her face unobstructed. Finally, Martín crossed the room and sat next to her. Slowly, his hand came up to rest in the center of her back as if to keep her from falling.

  “What happened?” he murmured. “What can I do?”

  Stiffening, Elle sat up and pulled out of his reach. “You can’t do anything, Martín.” When she looked at him, the pain in his eyes took her breath away. She felt a surge of guilt. He had lost Natalie too.

  “I have to,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “There must be something we can do.”

  “Do you believe me?” she asked. She stood up and strode to the window overlooking their street. It was pitch-dark outside; if anyone was out there, they would be able to see her per
fectly, but on her side, the window was so opaque it might as well have been a mirror. Her dark hair was frizzy, mussed, strands falling out of her ponytail. She couldn’t see her eyes, but her forehead looked creased with worry. Behind her, the reflection of her husband sitting on the sofa where she had left him. His head was resting in his hands, and she knew he was probably praying for strength.

  “I believe that this case is affecting you even more than you initially thought,” Martín said. “I believe that you are seeing clues here that you might not have seen if you hadn’t been immersed in this case so deeply for the past few months.”

  “I’ve been immersed in this case for years.”

  “That is true.” He lifted his head, and she imagined they could meet each other’s gaze in the dark blue reflection of the window. “But this is different. You haven’t been sleeping. You lied to me about going to speak with a witness. You agreed to work an active case without even talking to me, and you of all people know how dangerous that could be. I’m just worried about you.”

  Elle turned around to face him. “I don’t want you to worry about me. I want you to believe me.”

  “And I do, Elle. I told you that I do. But believing you and agreeing with you are not the same thing. I believe you have reasons to think this is TCK, but you can’t ask me to tell you that you’re right when I’m not sure that you are.”

  Her vision blurred again, and she shook her head. “Everything matches up with TCK’s pattern, though: the ages, the brightly colored accessories, the careful planning. The only thing I can’t figure out is where Ms. Turner is, how he knew she wouldn’t be there for Natalie’s lesson. Maybe TCK lured the woman away from her house so Natalie would have no choice but to walk home alone.”

  “But how could he have known you wouldn’t answer your phone when Natalie called?” Martín asked gently.

  She pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. “I don’t know.”

  “Everything I know about TCK indicates he is abundantly cautious. Meticulous, like you said on the podcast. He would have every last detail planned out.”

  Elle met his gaze. “So maybe he didn’t know I wouldn’t answer my phone. Maybe he just had a plan for if I did.” Martín’s lips pursed in an expression of disbelief, but she pressed on. “They think he did that before, you know. Planned for every outcome.”

  For a moment, he watched her, tapping his fingers on one knee. “Does this have anything to do with your last couple of episodes?” he asked at last.

  Her gaze flicked to his. “What?”

  “I’ve seen the response to them. Your fans are supporting you, but some of the comments are horrible. It would be completely understandable if this set off something for you, mi vida. The things people have been saying, calling you a liar. If they only knew—”

  “I’m fine, Martín. This has nothing to do with that.” Elle closed her eyes. Right now, the online threats seemed distant, pretend. What could anyone do to her that was worse than what was happening right now?

  When she opened her eyes again, he was walking toward her. He put his hands on her shoulders and met her gaze, eyes wet. It struck her again, that Natalie had disappeared. The fresh wave of grief might have knocked her over if it wasn’t for her husband’s gentle grip.

  He held her close, and she felt one of his tears land on her head. “I know you don’t want to make this about you, but you should tell Ayaan about those emails, Elle.”

  She pulled away and looked up at him in surprise. Martín’s expression was grim. “How did you know about the emails?” she asked.

  “Tina. When you didn’t answer your phone while you were napping this afternoon, she called me to say she’d tracked down some of the people who’d been sending threats. She wanted you to know that none of the ones she’d found so far were local.”

  Elle looked down, played with the buttons on his shirt. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. I just didn’t want you to worry.”

  “You’re always saying I should trust you, Elle. Well, you can trust me too. Trust me to handle my own feelings. No more keeping big stuff like this from me.”

  “No more, okay.”

  He put a hand over hers to still it, brought the other to her chin and tilted it up until she met his eyes again. “I just want you to be safe.”

  “I will never be safe, doing what I do.” The words sounded harsh, but they were true, and sometimes the truth was the cruelest thing of all.

  “Astucia, then. If you can’t be safe, be able to outsmart anyone who wants to do you harm. Can you do that?”

  After considering for a moment, she nodded. “I can try.”

  25

  Justice Delayed podcast

  January 9, 2020

  Transcript: Season 5, Episode 5

  UNIDENTIFIED VOICE-OVER:

  You’re trapped in a room with another girl. She’s only been with you for a day, but you’ve been here longer. At least three or four days—you can’t keep track anymore. You’ve barely been allowed to eat more than a few scraps of food, and you have worked yourself to the bone just for those. Cleaned the walls with a sponge, dusted every inch of the blinds, scrubbed the floor so hard your knuckles are raw. Your skin smells like bleach, constantly, and has the chemical burns to prove it.

  Your body is weak, broken, and you can barely move for fear when you hear your captor approaching the door. This time, though, he’s bringing food. It’s a thick porridge that you would have turned your nose up at a couple weeks ago, but now you nearly knock the other girl over to get to it. He watches you eat. When you’re more than halfway through, you realize he hasn’t brought any for the other girl. Reluctantly, you offer to share, but he shakes his head. No, it’s only for you. He watches you finish it, every last spoonful, and then he takes the bowl away.

  For a few hours, you lie on the dirty mattress, stomach full for the first time in what feels like forever. You drift off to sleep.

  You awake when the burning starts. It hits your throat first, a stinging sensation like the time you had the flu and vomited six times in one day. Another hour, and your stomach has gone from satisfied to twisting with nausea and cramps. The other girl checks on you after you throw up the first time, but you can’t even speak, your throat hurts so badly.

  The next day it’s worse, but he makes you work anyway. You clean the bathroom so you have easy access to the toilet, and you spend half the time bent over it in one way or another. Then it’s back to bed, where you collapse. You can barely move when you wake up and he comes for you again. The day after that, you can’t move at all. Not long ago, you would have done anything to get out of this tiny gray room. Even the hours spent in the rest of the house were a relief. Now you don’t have the strength to hope for escape.

  You can feel your body shutting down, and you know that’s what he wanted. He wanted to watch all the strength drain out of you. He wanted you to fade, so it would be easier to wipe you out completely.

  [THEME MUSIC + INTRO]

  Elle voice-over:

  This week’s podcast format is a little different. Rather than the usual blend of interviews, back-story, and monologue, I am dedicating the full episode to a special interview. I’ve got a stack of newspapers in front of me, all the words I could collect that were written about her the first time she entered the public consciousness. Although her name is now recognized by true crime aficionados the world over, when she first went missing, the Tribune’s headline didn’t even mention it. She was simply:

  ANOTHER GIRL, 11, TAKEN BY TCK?

  After much time, consideration, and gentle persuasion, Nora Watson has agreed to tell her story on Justice Delayed. As those familiar with the case may know, Nora is living under a new name and has avoided public interviews since she was a teenager. However, she has agreed to break her decades-long silence in the hopes that her memories will help contribute to finding the elusive serial killer who stole her childhood—and very nearly her life.

  I have disgui
sed her voice for this episode. The interview is unedited, but she also had a say in which questions she wanted to answer. Mostly, though, I wanted to let her tell her story without encumbering it with a bunch of interruptions and questions. Now, on to the interview.

  Elle:

  So, why don’t we start with this. What happened when you were kidnapped?

  Nora:

  You have already told the story about how I was tricked into TCK’s car at my friend’s house. That was all accurate. When I realized he wasn’t driving toward my house, I started screaming and kicking the back of his seat. He told me to shut up and threatened to smack me, but as soon as he slowed at a stoplight, I jumped out of the car and tried to run. I didn’t make it far. He caught me within seconds and threw me back in the car, then he jabbed something in my leg. It must have been some kind of sedative, because the next thing I remember, I was waking up in that room in the cabin. And Jessica was there.

  She was fiercely protective right away, acting like my big sister. She yelled at the man while I cried until he left the room. She warned me how to behave with him, but I didn’t listen right away. When he came back later and called me to the door, I ignored him. Jessica hissed at me to get up and go to him, but I just closed my eyes and turned my head away. That’s when he opened the door and walked in. He sat on the bed next to me and looked down into my eyes. I don’t remember his face now, but I remember those hard, hateful eyes. He didn’t say anything for a while, which was worse than if he’d yelled. The silence while I waited to hear my punishment almost made me wet the bed. And then he slapped me hard across the face, just once. My parents never hit me, so I was too stunned to cry at first. He said, “Next time, come when I call you,” and then he got up and walked back out. I never ignored him again after that.