by Alex Gates
Our table didn’t offer the illusion of privacy, but at least I could talk to her in relative confidence. The corrections officer pointed to the clock imbedded in the wall and announced fifty-five minutes remaining.
Enough time to get to the truth.
“Hi,” I said.
Amber plunked into the seat, crossing her arms. It didn’t hide the red of her uniform, but nothing would. “What do you want?”
“I came to talk.”
“I don’t want to talk. Got nothing to say to you.”
“Are you so sure?” I met her gaze. Her hazel eyes darkened, more copper than mossy today. “I thought—now that we had some time and less pressure—something might come to mind.”
“You always harass the people you put away, Detective?”
“Did you think you wouldn’t face a punishment for what you’ve done? Child endangerment? Arson?”
“I already had my charges read to me.”
“And you chose to sign your life away without an attorney, without bargaining on the plea agreement, without even calling a friend.”
“What can I say?” Amber’s cheeks weren’t nearly as plump as they had been when we’d first met. Was she eating well? At all? “I got what I deserved.”
“And what about before the baby was born? Did you get everything you deserved then?”
She bit her lip, chewing with a look of disgust and desperation. “I got my plea. I’m waiting for the judge to make it right. What else do you want from me?”
The truth would have been fun. “My CO doesn’t know I’m here. I came on my own free will, do you get that?”
“Must be nice having no life.”
“Yeah. Sucks when I have to waste mine to save others.”
“You’re a real saint.”
Saints had more patience than me. “The law isn’t black and white. You might be charged with these crimes, but even those who get what they deserve need some extra help. If not for them…then their loved ones.”
Amber snorted. “I don’t need your help.”
“She does.”
I pulled the photograph from my pocket and slid the image of Baby Hope towards her mother. The baby looked small and weak in the picture, but the nurses dressed her in a cute pink hat with little kitty ears. Adorable, if not for the wires and monitoring equipment still strapped to the newborn.
Amber hesitated, but she hid her tears behind a quick sniffle and a re-doing of her ponytail. “I don’t want to see that. Put it away.”
I passed the photo to her. “It’s yours. Thought you might want a picture of your baby.”
“No. I don’t want it.”
She didn’t look at the picture, but the wavering in her voice sold me. She wasn’t as heartless as she pretended to be. In fact, she seemed far more loving, more compassionate, and more worried than I’d expected from a woman who abandoned her newborn.
“She’s doing well,” I said. “She’ll be in the hospital for a while, but they think they can walk back the addiction with no long-term problems.”
“Oh.” Amber hid a lot of her emotions, but not relief. “It’s good she’s doing better, but please. I’m not…”
“What?”
“The state will take her, right?”
No sense being dishonest. “Yes. The state will find a home for her.”
“I want her to get adopted.” Her eyes lowered. “By a good home.”
“Amber, if you want…if you really want to get her—”
“No!” Her voice sharpened enough to earn a snarl from the corrections officer. “No. I can never see her again.”
My heart broke for her. “You’ve made a couple mistakes. You’re going to pay for them. But she’s still your daughter. There are ways to fix what’s been done. We can ask that you have some contact, that you—”
“Are you insane?” Amber’s hiss interrupted me. “I don’t want anything to do with her, and she can have nothing to do with me. As soon as she can be adopted, I want the records sealed. I don’t want her to know anything about this or who she is or where she came from. And I don’t want her to know me at all.”
I stilled. “Why not?”
“Look at me, Detective! Look at who I am.”
“Who are you?” I didn’t let her change the subject. “Honestly. Tell me. Who are you?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m lucky to be alive.”
“Why?”
“Because my life means nothing. And I wish I could convince you to leave me alone. You aren’t helping me. You’re only going to ruin everything.”
“Ruin what?” I pushed harder. “I know you’re lying, Amber. The note you left in the bathroom? What you said in the parking garage? There’s something you aren’t telling me.”
“Forget it. She’s safe now. That’s all that matters.”
“First you abandon her. Then you come back for her. Then you nearly torch a hospital to take her. What the hell were you doing? Why did you try so hard to get her back?”
Amber swallowed, the shrug of her shoulders that same, reclusive surrender that she gave in the interrogation room. “I dunno.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I…I didn’t think it’d make the news. Now everyone knows.”
Every answer she clarified just tossed another question out into the muck. “You didn’t want people to know about her?”
She didn’t answer. I was on the right track.
“You thought it’d be quiet. That no one would know. But suddenly the story is all over the news. Everyone gets involved. And you realize more people than ever can see your baby. So, you decide to get her back. That way you could protect her.”
“Why are you asking these things?” she whispered. “Can’t you just let it go?”
How many times had I heard that over my career? “Not when I know I’m right.”
“Right about what?”
“You. The trouble you’re in. The danger posed to Hope. What are you protecting her from?”
She looked away. “My terrible mistakes.”
“What mistake?”
“Not killing myself when I had the chance.”
I didn’t like that answer, but I wasn’t letting it pass. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because I thought I was strong. Know what strong gets you, Detective?”
“More pain.” I didn’t have to lie. “Strength is another form of torture.”
Amber’s eyes widened. “Then why are you here?”
“Who is Hope’s father?”
And just like that, she froze. Amber shrunk down, her posture twisted and frightened. “I…who knows?”
“Do you?”
A still moment passed before she wound herself in shame and protected herself with humiliation. “God no. You don’t know how many there were. Does that give you the warm and fuzzies? The little whore, sleeping around too much and earning too little to know fathered her baby.”
“I think you know exactly who he is.”
“You don’t get it, Detective.”
“I’m giving you the chance to tell me. Let me help you. I know something—someone—threatened you and the baby. Give me a chance to make it right.”
Amber shook her head a little too much. “Come on. I’m just some stupid druggie. I’m a waste. A screw up. I have more crimes on my rap sheet than grades on report cards. No one should want to help me.” She locked her eyes on mine. “I’m asking you not to help me.”
And that was just the reason I would. “You’re going to stop fighting because you got in trouble? Because you did drugs? Addiction isn’t a punishment for personal evils.”
“No.” She took a breath. “It’s the salvation.”
God, she sounded like Hannah, wasting away in her own terror.
Maybe I could use it. Help her. Convince her to get the real help she needed.
“Amber, I know you were sentenced to a rehab facility a year ago—Grayson House.”
Her eyes widened. She stared at me,
arms crossing even tighter. “So? What about it?”
“There are adult programs too. We can get you help now, just like the help you got back then. Judge Reissing might be willing to make some calls—”
“Judge Reissing is a monster.”
The terror in her voice stunned me into a momentary silence. “He’s a friend of mine.”
“You make lousy friends. I’ll never forgive that man.”
“For what? Sending you to the best juvenile rehabilitation program in the state?”
I didn’t expect her to laugh.
Or the chills that slithered over my spine.
“You don’t understand a damn thing, do you, Detective?”
“Why did you leave the facility?” I asked.
“Don’t ask me that.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t give you an answer that you’d ever understand. I got out. That’s the end of it.”
“Did something happen there?”
She laughed again, the sounds breaking into the beginning of a harsh sob. I was close, and it scared me as much as her.
“Amber, what happened to you at Grayson House?”
“Leave me alone.” She wiped away tears only to weep harder. “Just leave me alone.”
Hannah had cried the same way.
What the hell was going on?
“Did you get pregnant at Grayson House?”
“Stop it!” Her hands thudded against the table. The officer yelled, but she ignored him, the tears straining through her pained whispers. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want your help. There is no help. No fixing me. Nothing you can do.”
“If someone hurt you, tell me. Please. There are other girls who could be at risk there.” And God only knew what someone in a position of power could do. Beat them. Rape them. Destroy them. “I have a friend there, Amber. Her name is Hannah, and she’s alone and scared. I want to keep her safe. You can help me do that.”
“If you’re helping her, she’s as good as dead.” Amber pleaded with me, her eyes wide with fear and rage. “And so am I if you don’t leave me alone.”
“I swear to you—I can help. Tell me the truth, and we can change your plea before sentencing. Get you a better deal. You can serve less time in here.”
Amber shakily backed away from the table. “Please. Please don’t make me leave. It’s safer in jail than it ever was at Grayson House.”
8
“Never trust what people tell you about me…
You have to find out for yourself.”
-Him
I expected security at Grayson House, not oppression.
I hadn’t noticed it before—the way the cameras panned the room, the self-imposed silence, the downcast eyes and forced smiles. Unlike other juvenile detention facilities, the kids didn’t act out. No fighting. No problems. Hell, they didn’t even talk out of turn.
Except for Hannah.
I’d once believed their good behavior was encouraged from their recovery and the seriousness of their time spent in a criminally mandated rehabilitation facility. Now, the very same secrets that threatened Amber and Hannah suffocated me.
Something was wrong here, and I’d be damned if I let anything else happen to the kids trapped within the walls.
If they let me inside.
I waited in the visitor’s center, my ID and badge both screened and my gun checked. Procedures had changed. I wasn’t permitted into the facility without a proper escort. Of course, the administrator’s warning came with a smile.
The director is tending to a disciplinary problem. You should probably come back later.
Absolutely not.
I’d lost enough sleep worrying about what was happening in the night’s dark and twisted hours. The girls’ desperation was as familiar as it was frightening. Ten years ago, I’d sounded exactly like them. I’d begged James for the same reprieve. To just let me go, let me hide in the shadows and forget everything that had happened.
I’d endured enough of that hell. No one else should have experienced that same trauma.
How many others were trapped inside Grayson House’s cement walls, suffering the same horror? Girls parroting the fading motivational posters from their unlockable dormitory rooms. How watchful were the gazes of the male guards and administrators?
Grayson House looked new, clean, and comfortable from the outside, but this wasn’t a real home. The kids living here had been plucked from their families and mandated by the court to stay in the minimal security detention center. They were prisoners. It made any allegation of abuse even more unconscionable.
What was really going on here?
I waited for forty-five minutes before Patricia Carson slithered through the door, greeting me with her own scoffed veneer of cordiality.
“Detective McKenna.” Patricia didn’t offer her hand to shake. It was the least of her offenses. “What can I do for you?”
A good question, and not one I’d answer directly. Amber had refused to speak of her abuses or name the man who’d hurt her. I needed to find someone who would confide in me, someone who trusted me more than she feared the administration.
“I’m here to see Hannah Beaumont,” I said.
Was her bun so tight it stretched her face into a twitch, or did Patricia deliberately hesitate?
“I’m sorry, Detective. Hannah is no longer a part of Grayson House.”
My stomach dropped. “What are you talking about?”
“After the altercation a few days ago, Hannah absconded from our facility.”
No way in hell. “You let a potentially suicidal girl leave a secure rehabilitation facility?”
“Security measures are in place to ensure the location and safety of all residents,” she said. “But, unfortunately, some children are unwilling to commit to our court-mandated rules and substance abuse policies.”
“Hannah had no behavioral problems.”
Patricia sighed. “Resident disciplinary reports are confidential, so I am not at liberty to discuss prior incidents. However, what you witnessed the night you intervened was not an uncommon occurrence.”
That didn’t make sense. “You’re saying Hannah was out of control?”
“The facility is equipped and trained to handle outbursts of a physical and emotional nature. However, we have a zero-tolerance policy should any resident abscond, even in periods of psychological distress.”
“Why?”
“Grayson House is one of the premier juvenile residential substance abuse facilities in the country, and our methods have resulted in an unprecedented success and rehabilitation rate. As a result, our services are in great demand. If a resident leaves of her own free will, then her space is reallocated to a new resident, hopefully one more committed to their wellness and recovery. Ms. Beaumont chose to leave, and, as a result, she is not permitted to return to this facility. The court will assign her to a more appropriate location.”
It didn’t take a bloodhound to smell the bullshit. “When did all this happen?”
“You’ll need to check with the night staff. If you like, I can leave a message for the floor administrator—”
“Take me to her room.”
“I’m afraid we can’t have unauthorized members of the public trespassing through the facility.”
This lady did not want to fuck with me. “Hannah Beaumont is sixteen years old.”
“I’ll have to check the records—”
“Did you notify the authorities that she was missing?”
“The facility’s juvenile parole officer is aware of the situation.”
“Excellent.” I pushed past her and out of the visitor’s area. “I’m sure his office will be in touch with mine. Until then, we should begin the Missing Persons investigation now. Every minute is precious.”
“Detective, you can’t bully your way into this facility. This is a secure location.”
“Then how did Hannah managed to escape?”
I rounded a corner, taking the
stairwell to the second-floor girls’ dormitories. Patricia followed, the clip of her heels as sharp as her voice.
“We are not a maximum-security detection center. Freedom is a privilege offered by our facility. They are trusted to remain in their rooms and follow procedures. All residents understand they are not permitted to leave.”
Hannah’s door stuck closed. I shoved it open. The squeal of the wood echoed in the hall. No one would have miss that sound, especially a screech like that in the middle of the night.
“What about people coming into Grayson House?” I asked.
Patricia frowned. “Any visitors are absolutely safe provided they follow the facility’s rules—”
“I wasn’t talking about the visitors. How safe are the kids?”
“Don’t insult me, Detective. The children are always safe here.”
My voice faded as I stepped into Hannah’s room.
Completely empty.
The facility had stripped the room of all bedding and curtains, clothing and personal belongings. Only the cement walls, steel bed frame, and naked mattress remained. I walked the perimeter, checking the drawers. Empty. The closet was the same, not even a plastic hanger left on the bar.
“What happened here?” The icy edge in my voice was nothing compared to the chill that swept over my spine.
“Hannah absconded from the facility.”
“And you packed her room already?”
“Packed?” She snorted. “We threw out her belongings.”
“Excuse me?”
“We attempted to contact her mother, but the phone number she gave us had been disconnected. We then sent a certified letter to her address, but the post office returned the mail. She no longer resides at that location. With no means to communicate with her mother, and no forwarding contact information provided, it is our procedure to dispose of personal effects. The room has been cleaned and is now assigned to an incoming female—preferably someone committed to wellness and recovery as opposed to disruption and insubordination.”
Hannah spent her childhood cowering from an abusive father, nearly ended up on the street with her mother, and turned to drugs to cope with her PTSD. But she was not a danger to herself or others. And even when she’d been arrested for theft and possession, she never acted out, never made trouble for the arresting officers, never displayed any sort of rebellion or disrespect.