“Oh, dear, no. It’s just red paint. I was painting a picture when I got the call to come get you.”
“You were painting something red?”
“Three little red hens.” Paula tilted her head back when she smiled. “A little too red, I’m afraid.”
“I’m an artist, too.” Sis felt shy and bold and wobbly, all at the same time, but there was no going back now. Besides, if anyone would understand, it would be this woman with fat black nerd glasses and paint on her arms. “I’ll show you.”
Inside the cabin, Paula admired her work. “Wow, you really kept busy.” She stepped carefully over a rusted tricycle Kevin had brought home one day, her steady gaze following the tentacle of a creature Sis called Kraken.
“I always liked to draw. And the walls in here were so ugly that Kevin didn’t mind if I covered them.”
Paula told her nice things about the paintings as Sis scooped Mac’s stuff into a shopping bag. And that was that. Six years, and everything that mattered could fit into one paper bag with room to spare.
The gate screeched as they followed the police officers out of the compound. Just a rust-hinged gate on an old wooden fence. How had it kept her here, all these years? It was cool and shady here under the cover of trees that had hidden her for all these years.
The path to the creek seemed short now. No one spoke as they crossed the large, smooth stones and made their way up the grassy hill, toward the world. Toward the future, Sis told herself, trying to put a bright face on it. She was curious. Whenever they left the compound, Kevin had kept her blindfolded in the back, though she had begged him for a peek, aching to see where she lived, wanting to know the tiny pin dot on the map where she belonged.
They climbed the hill, rising, rising until the crest, where they looked over a small valley of farmland encased by a busy roadway and a walking path.
Sis paused to gape at the orange and silver streamers that glittered in the wind over the crops, as if winking in welcome. The flicker of silver was dazzling, and for a second Sis thought they were party decorations until she realized that it was a way to keep the birds from picking away at the crops of Green Spring Farm.
Yes, Green Spring Farm, right on the border of Mirror Lake and West Green. She had visited here as a kid for a summer day camp and school trips. The farm was just a mile or two from where her family used to live. So close, and no one had thought to look here? Kevin was right; they had given up on her.
“You okay?” Paula asked.
“I just . . . I need a minute.” Because she couldn’t believe the life that had surrounded her. The whole scene held her rapt. Cars zoomed past in the distance. On the path, women pushed strollers. There were runners and kids on bikes and people walking their dogs. It was not as bad as Kevin said, not so bad after all. In fact, it seemed busy and alive, like a teeming ant colony.
Her eyes filled with tears at the realization that all these people, all this activity, had always been just over the ridge. Life had been just a stone’s throw away.
Chapter 8
Earlier, at the farm, the adrenaline high had kept Paula moving, courting the girl, soothing her, and listening. Always listening.
She had listened as Lauren casually mentioned the child she’d born, and the older woman watched without judgment as the girl dropped a baby blanket, a sea shell, and a worn stuffed bear into a shopping bag. She had listened as Lauren described her daughter’s sickness and death. She had detected the girl’s sorrow but reluctance to dwell when she had pointed out the small grave across the yard, its wooden marker hand-painted by Lauren. She had listened as Lauren explained her paintings of phobias and whimsical creatures. She had watched in wonder as the girl had revealed a “secret panel” in the wall, the opening to a small closet where Lauren had painted a portrait of herself holding her baby, Mackenzie.
A child Madonna, with sprays of golden light around mother and baby.
“I like your halo,” she had said, and Lauren had corrected her, saying that it was the light inside.
“Everyone has a single, beautiful light inside them,” Lauren had said, as if this lesson were as matter-of-fact as instructions on hygiene or crossing the street. “And even when we go to heaven, that light keeps shining.”
“That’s beautiful.” Paula had commented that she would remember to add a light the next time she painted a person. The girl had told her that she’d gotten lots of practice doing portraits. That was how she and Kevin made money, setting up a starving artist stand at farmers’ markets and fairs and the Saturday market in Portland.
Now that they were back at the precinct, the adrenaline rush had subsided, but the mission remained. This little girl needed all the help and resources Paula could muster. Plucked from her neighborhood and raped at age eleven, pregnant at twelve, and a mother by the age of thirteen, and then burying her own daughter three years later, this young person had already survived a lifetime of hardship, and she wasn’t even old enough to vote in an election.
Paula was committed to advocating for the best interests of Lauren O’Neil, who was jittery and tearful and overwhelmed.
Chief Todd knocked on the door and stepped in. “Hey, there. You really were thirsty.” He nodded down at the empty bottle in Lauren’s hands. “Do you want another one?”
Lauren looked to Paula for permission. “Can I?”
“Well, sure.”
Lauren peeked at the chief, and then bent her head down again.
“Lauren, you don’t have to be afraid of Chief Todd. He’s here to help you.”
“I know. I know him. . . . you.” She dared to glance up at him. “You came to my elementary school. You were a cop then.”
“Did I?” Hank’s green eyes twinkled when he smiled gently, hunching down to Lauren’s level. Hank understood about body language in communication. “That must have been some time ago.”
The girl nodded. “Am I under arrest?”
“No.” Hank’s tone was gentle. “You didn’t do anything wrong, did you?”
She took a deep breath. “Everyone has done something wrong. Everyone makes mistakes.”
The girl was too wise for her years. “That’s true,” Paula agreed. “But you didn’t break the law. Kevin Hawkins did. He’s the one under arrest.”
Lauren looked toward the door. “Is he here in a jail cell? Can I talk to him?”
“Right now he’s at the county jail in Clackamas,” Hank said, “but you don’t need to worry. They’ll be moving him down to a maximum security prison in Salem soon.”
“But I need to talk to him.” Lauren turned pleading eyes to Paula. “Can’t I see him?”
“Why would you want to do that?” Even as she asked, Paula knew the answer. Kidnapping victims often became indoctrinated to go along with their kidnappers. The so-called Stockholm syndrome was not brainwashing, but an unconscious decision to go along with the captor in order to survive.
Lauren shrugged. “I need to talk to him.”
That was not going to happen anytime soon. Paula knew the police, prosecutors, and FBI were scouring Hawkins’s life and the evidence at the compound, and the suspect would be questioned extensively from here till the trial. “How about some more water?” Paula asked.
“I’ll get it.” Hank straightened. “And I have good news. Rachel and Dan O’Neil are here. Your parents. And they can’t wait to see you.”
“Not now.” Lauren turned to Paula. “Do I have to see them?”
Hank’s lower lip went stiff as he shot Paula a concerned look. “They’re really eager to see you,” he told Lauren in a cajoling tone. “Did Paula tell you how they’ve been searching for you since the day you disappeared? Your parents kept every cop here on his toes, looking for you. They love you a lot, kiddo.”
Perfect, Hank. That’s what she needs to hear. Paula turned to the girl, but saw no change in her demeanor.
“But they didn’t find me.” Lauren squinted, as if trying to do a calculation that didn’t work out. “I
was right under their nose—right here in Mirror Lake—and they never found me. It doesn’t sound to me like they looked too hard.”
“Green Spring Farm was searched,” Paula said. “I was there, one of many volunteers, and we walked every field. The police checked those buildings in the compound, and there was no sign of you.”
“But that was right after you were kidnapped,” Hank said. “You say he kept you at a beach house for a few months.”
Lauren nodded. “About six months I think. I didn’t have a calendar, but it was fall, I think, because it wasn’t so hot during the days, and the nights were getting cold.” Hank rubbed a hand over his graying buzz cut. “He must have moved you to Green Spring later, knowing we had already searched the farm.”
“But that doesn’t take away from the fact that your mom and dad scoured the state of Oregon looking for you, honey.” And they were Lauren’s parents. By law, they were entitled to take her home tonight. Paula knew that wouldn’t set well with Lauren, but she didn’t dare go there yet. “The first step is for you to meet with them. How about I go out and bring them in?”
Lauren’s mouth puckered as her eyes filled with tears. “Can’t you talk to them? Tell them I . . . I can’t see them now.”
“I will definitely talk to them and fill them in on some of the things that you went through while in captivity. But come on, now. You’re a survivor.” Paula rubbed Lauren’s shoulder. “I know this is beyond awkward, but they’re your mom and dad. They love you, Lauren.”
The girl shook her head. “After all this? I don’t think so. I gave up on them a long time ago, and I just don’t want to see them. Please, don’t make me do it.” Her pleading eyes tore at Paula’s resolve.
“Let’s take things one step at a time.” Paula went to the door and paused. “You sit tight, while I go have a word with them.”
“Where would I go?” Lauren’s face seemed childish as she pressed her lips together, holding back tears. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”
She’s bonded with me. Paula knew there were good and bad aspects to that. “One step at a time,” she said before heading down the hall.
Chapter 9
In the waiting room of the police precinct, Sierra watched as her mom tore DON’T STOP BELIEVING! flyers, all featuring a big photo of a smiling Lauren, from the bulletin board. Sierra took a flyer from her mother and stared at the big photo of Lauren—retouched by some computer nerd to make her look six years older.
“Do you think she actually looks like this?” Sierra asked.
Mom gave her arm a squeeze. “We’ll see.”
The bulletin board seemed bare now with only Kyron Horman, the nine-year-old boy who’d been snatched from his school, hanging there. Sierra crumpled the flyer in her hand into a ball and tucked it under her chin and closed her eyes as the news began to set in.
It was finally over.
The monthly searches, the awareness campaign, the recitals and car washes and auctions to raise money for more searches. No more spikey hawthorns scraping her legs. No more snakes slithering out of tall grasses along the edge of the walking path. Sierra would be happy to keep to the path from now on.
She slunk down low on the plastic chair and stared at her cell phone. On Facebook were fresh photos of Jemma, Isabelle, and Lindsay at Boondoggy’s, posing with their vests on and laser guns pointed. Right about now they were probably in the middle of a laser tag game, making memories without her.
Why did Dad pull her out of there when she could have gotten a ride home with Isabelle’s dad? It was great about Lauren, really great, but it still didn’t make sense for her to be sitting here waiting when she could be hanging out with her friends.
KEEP THE HOME FIRES BURNING was the banner on the top of the flyer. Sierra had helped her dad design the first few, but then Mom decided they should all look the same. “We need to create our own unique brand,” she’d said. Even though Dad was the one with OCD, when it came to Lauren, Mom had to have everything her way.
“I still can’t believe it.” Dad paced over to the doorway, peered down the corridor, then circled back to face Mom. “When can we see her? What’s the holdup?”
“I know, I’m dying to see her, too.” Mom stepped into his arms, flopping the flyers against his back as she hugged him.
God, they could be the couple in that mouthwash commercial.
“I just want to take our girl home.” Mom leaned back, smiling at Dad. Then she flashed a look over at Sierra. “Just think . . . we’re going to be a family again!”
Oh, God. Sierra snapped her head back to her cell phone to scroll down her Facebook feed.
“I’ll be happy to say good-bye to this place.” Dad reached over to straighten Kyron’s flyer on the bulletin board. “But Hank says this will get worse before it gets better. The FBI is on its way to interview Lauren.”
“And NCMEC,” Mom added.
That stood for the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Those people knew their stuff, but Sierra had always been more impressed with the FBI agents—men and women in suits with guns and cool badges that were mostly concealed. Sort of like Men in Black.
“Hold on to your hat, because it’s going to get crazy around here. I wish they could all just interview her at the house,” Mom said. “She needs to get out of this sterile environment. I wonder if the cops scare her.”
Dad shrugged. “I know we didn’t find her ourselves, but I have to think that our relentless searches and awareness campaign kept Lauren’s image in the public eye.”
“The largest search in the history of Oregon,” Sierra said without looking up from her phone. They all knew the pitch printed on every flyer. “With law enforcement from all over the state. Volunteers logged in more than 100,000 man-hours searching for Lauren O’Neil.”
“I hope you’re celebrating our success.” Her mom’s eyebrows arched in inquisition. “Because you sound a little sarcastic, Sierra.”
“Of course I’m celebrating.” She wanted it to be over. She just wasn’t so sure about having a strange girl back in their house again. Would they have to share a bathroom? Yuck.
“What’s taking so long?” Mom shot a look at Dad, then went up to the counter. “Pete,” she said, addressing Officer Wolinsky, a cop their whole family knew well, “we need to see our daughter.”
“I’ll get Hank.” He got up and went down the hall.
Yeah, bring out the big guns, Sierra thought as Officer Wolly went to get the chief of police. Hank Todd was a big man: kind and friendly with a good sense of humor. She understood why her parents liked him, why the whole town of Mirror Lake liked him. But it was awkward when the police chief was like family. Chief Todd had made a joke about that a few months ago when he’d found Sierra with a bunch of her friends, huddled off one of the park trails. Some joke about weed, which they had been smoking, though Isabelle shoved the pipe into her purse, lit and everything.
That was the problem when the cops in your neighborhood became like family—like aunts and uncles, on a first-name basis. Over the past six years they had gathered a few times a year to renew search efforts or stage some kind of service to keep the home fires burning for Lauren.
Officer Wolinsky came over to the chairs, where Sierra was waiting. “I just sent your parents in to talk with Hank. You need anything? A Pepsi or bottle of water?”
“No. I’m good, Wolly.”
“Okay, then.” He held up a hand and she fist-bumped him. “Bet you’ll be glad to have your sister back.”
“Absolutely,” she said with enthusiasm she didn’t feel.
“You let me know if there’s anything I can get you.” Officer Wolly went back to the dispatch desk.
And once again, Sierra found herself left alone.
Safe . . . but very alone. Even in a crowded room, Sierra was alone.
Chapter 10
In another time and place, Rachel would have liked Paula Winkler. With a cloud of silver hair, square black glasses, F
rye boots, denim jacket, and a medallion of colored glass, the woman had a solid but whimsical vibe that was one part hippie and one part cowgirl. But at the moment, the social worker was the one thing standing between Rachel and her daughter. A ridiculous barrier after all these years.
“What’s the holdup?” Rachel tried to press her point without revealing her agitation. “Why can’t we see our daughter?”
Dan slid his arm around her as they huddled in the door of Hank’s office, a far too familiar place from the past few years.
Paula leaned back against Hank’s desk and folded her arms, her face projecting concern. “Please, bear with us for just a few more minutes. You’re going to see her, but we want it to be on Lauren’s terms.”
“Her terms?” Rachel pressed into the office and dropped into a chair. “She’s seventeen years old and we’re her parents. Her legal guardians. We should be in there with her, protecting her from cops and social workers who ask too many painful questions.”
Paula held up her hands. “Advocating for Lauren is my top priority, and right now she’s overwhelmed. I’m sure you understand that assimilating after six years in captivity is difficult and complex. Just so you know, you all have a lot of therapy in your future. She’s going to need time—maybe a lot—for debriefing and acclimation. You and your daughter have been through hell, and you’re going to need support to make the journey back.”
Dan leaned against the file cabinet, arms folded. “What kind of therapy are we talking about?” Rachel heard the cynicism in his voice; he was not an advocate of wasting time on a shrink’s couch. Too invasive, too touchy-feely, and way too expensive.
“I’m going to get in touch with a friend of mine who specializes in reunification. Right now she’s doing a lot of work with military families who need help adjusting when a veteran returns home. I think you’ll want to work with someone like her. Someone who can help Lauren address her trauma and the changes in her family, as well as helping you deal with your own trauma. She focuses on things like developing coping skills and lines of communication.”
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