by Elle Gray
I nod as I walk over and sit down on the arm of the love seat. “In theory, yeah. Or he can pin me to the wall.”
“Then I guess you have to play nice with this clown, don’t you?”
I laugh softly. “You been talking to my boss?”
Kit grins as she sets her book down and gets to her feet. “Come on. It’s time to eat.”
“Eat?”
“Call it my olive branch,” she says. “I realize what a jerk I was last night, and I wanted to apologize for jumping down your throat the way I did.”
“You’ve been through a lot, Kit. More than I can even imagine,” I tell her. “I’d be more shocked if we didn’t have some emotional blowouts from time to time.”
She nods. “Yeah, I suppose so,” she replies. “Anyway, let’s eat. I’m starving.”
I give her a smile. “Yeah, I’m pretty hungry. What did you make?”
“Make?” she laughs. “I don’t cook. I do, however, order Thai food off Postmates like nobody’s business.”
I laugh as I follow her into the dining room. She’s already got plates and the food all set out, ready to eat. I take a seat as she drops into the chair across from me. As I look at my sister, things start falling into place in my head. Things I haven’t really had the time, or perhaps the inclination, to really think about before. It’s just that as I give some thought to her now, I see certain incongruities that should have been obvious from day one.
It strikes me as odd that if Kit’s been living as a prisoner—as a victim of trafficking, as I’ve assumed from the start—she’s strangely conversant with things like internet apps. She’s obviously been well-educated and seems like she’s been very well taken care of. She’s healthy, fit, has all her own teeth, dresses well, and seems to have a bit of money. She doesn’t look like she’s been mistreated, malnourished, or abused in any way. She doesn’t have that haunted look I see in the eyes of the trafficking victims I’ve run across in my career.
In my experience, trafficking victims—if they’re ever set free—come out of it used up. They come out hard. Torn up. Most are in very rough shape. They certainly don’t look healthy, aren’t educated, and don’t acquire skills like internet proficiency. The sad fact is the vast majority never truly get their freedom. They never live to see the other side of the horrors they were forced to endure. And those rare exceptions to that rule bear very visible scars from their experience being trafficked.
But not Kit. Just by looking at her, you’d think she was the product of any normal household. She looks and acts like a normal, well-adjusted, well-rounded woman who’s been educated and grew up in a regular, suburban household. She sometimes gets a haunted look in her eyes, but it’s not the same as the trafficking victims I’ve dealt with before. It’s something darker and more primal. There’s a rage I see in Kit’s eyes that I don’t usually see in girls who’ve been trafficked. Those girls usually look defeated. Like they’ve had the life beaten out of them.
It’s an incongruity that I should have seen from the jump. But I was so overcome with emotion about seeing Kit alive and well that I wasn’t able to focus on the things I probably should have. I’ve been so happy to have her back that I’ve blinded myself to the things I would have normally noticed before. To the questions I should have been asking from the moment I saw her sitting in Annie’s house. But right now, I’m wondering if all the assumptions I’ve made about Kit and her situation have been wrong from the jump. Just because I assumed she was trafficked doesn’t mean she actually was.
I know I can’t come right out and start peppering her with questions though. She’s smart and cagey. More than that, she’s got that infamous Wilder temper. I don’t want to set her off. If I’m going to get any information out of her, I’m going to have to be subtle and clever about it. I don’t necessarily like the idea of grilling my sister like she’s a perp, but she’s so closed-off and secretive that it’s all I can do if I hope to get anything out of her.
“Well, thanks for putting dinner together,” I smile.
“Absolutely,” she replies then jumps to her feet. “Oh, I forgot.”
She goes into the kitchen and comes back with a couple of wine glasses. Kit sets one down in front of me and pours a glass of a pinot noir. My stomach instantly lurches. As I watch the red wine filling the glass, my heart begins to race and my breathing picks up. I lick my suddenly dry lips and feel my hand begin to shake.
“Are you okay?” Kit asks.
I clear my throat. “Yeah. I’m fine,” I reply shakily. “I just—I don’t drink red wine.”
She quickly takes the glass away and sets it on the counter in the kitchen, then comes back and takes her seat again. Kit cocks her head and looks at me.
“What’s going on with you?” she asks.
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” she replies.
“I’m fine, Kit.”
I know how ridiculous this phobia of mine to the color red is. It’s silly. I’ve talked about it at length with my therapist, Dr. Reinhart, over the years, but we’ve never really been able to make any progress on that front. We’ve done a lot of good work and she’s helped me overcome a lot of my other issues. But that’s one we haven’t been able to conquer, regardless of how often we’ve talked about it.
“Talk to me, Blake,” she says softly.
I sigh. “It’s stupid.”
“If it bothers you this much, it’s not stupid.”
She looks at me with an expression of sincerity on her face that makes my heart swell. She reaches across the table and takes my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Kit’s smile is small but warm and I can see she really does want to help me if she can. I know that for me, trust is earned. It’s never given. And I’m getting the impression that Kit is much the same way. If I expect her to confide in me, I see now, I’m going to have to confide in her. I can’t expect to get if I don’t give. She’s my sister, if I can’t talk to her about my silly phobias, who can I talk to about them?
I raise my eyes to her. “Ever since that day—the day our parents were killed—I haven’t been able to tolerate the color red. I don’t wear red, I don’t use red pens, I don’t have red anywhere in my house, and I don’t drink red wine,” I explain, feeling sillier with every word that falls out of my mouth. “Even took me a few years before I could eat a tomato or a bell pepper, and even then I have to look away from the plate. Just the sight of the color makes me squirm.”
Kit looks at me for a long moment. “It’s extreme, but I can’t say I don’t understand,” she says. “Trauma manifests itself in a few different ways.”
I nod. “It was seeing that pool of blood on the tile that did it. That turned me off to the color red,” I say. “I can’t see anything red without thinking…”
My voice trails off and Kit gives me a sympathetic smile of understanding. I frown and shake my head.
“Compared to what you’ve seen, I feel silly about it,” I admit.
“You shouldn’t. You went through trauma too,” she replies. “That’s going to leave scars on your psyche. That’s nothing to be ashamed of, sis. I know I have my triggers too. We all do. We’ve all gone through things that have left an imprint on us.”
“You sound like you’ve taken psych classes.”
“I read a lot,” she says with a noncommittal shrug.
“What happened to you, Kit? Where have you been all these years?”
She looks down at the table and a shadow crosses her features. Her eyes brim with such a sharp look of pain it hurts my heart for her. Wherever she was and whatever she did has left deep scars on her. She finally raises her eyes to me, that expression of pain still on her face.
“I can’t tell you everything right now. It’s really complicated,” Kit says. “And believe me when I say it’s better that you don’t know everything.”
“Kit—”
“Listen, I got involved in some bad things and I’m in a little bit of trouble and
I’m getting myself out from under it, but it’s going to take a little bit. I just need you to trust me,” she gets out in a single breath, as if she wishes she didn’t have to say it out loud. “And I need you to believe that this isn’t a drug or a prostitution thing.”
“Then what is it, Kit?”
“As I said, it’s complicated.”
“Then let me help you. I’ve got resources—”
Kit shakes her head. “No. I don’t want you anywhere near this, Blake,” she replies, her voice firm. “I just need you to trust me. This will all be over soon.”
“I’m scared for you. I just got you back,” I whisper, emotion welling up in my own voice. “The last thing I want is to lose you again. Please, let me help you. Just tell me what’s going on.”
“You’re not going to lose me. And like I told you, I don’t want you anywhere near this, Blake. Just—trust me. Everything is going to be all right. I promise.”
I sit back in my seat and let out a long breath as I look at my sister. She’s calm and confident. She looks like she can take care of herself in a scrap. It’s a side of my sister I haven’t seen before. But then, I haven’t seen her since she was nine years old, so I’m sure there are a lot of sides to her I’ve never seen. Whatever the trouble she’s found herself in, her insistence on going it alone worries me.
Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not legal—not with the way she’s acting. Which probably means it would be better if I didn’t get involved. But it adds even more layers to the mystery that is my sister. Who is she and what has she gotten herself into? It also reinforces my idea that she wasn’t trafficked after she was taken. There’s something more going on here. Some bigger picture in play but I have no idea what it is.
“Can you do that for me, Blake? Can you trust me to handle this situation on my own?”
I bite back the questions that threaten to bubble up out of my mouth. It’s clear to me that she’s stubborn as hell, and the only thing I’ll accomplish if I keep pushing her is to drive her away. She clearly has a plan and doesn’t want anybody mucking around and making a hash of it. That’s something I can absolutely relate to.
I guess I can’t blame her too much f0oor being so guarded with me; I’m keeping my own secrets from her as well.
“I’ll back off and let you do your thing if you promise me one thing, Kit.”
“Name it.”
“That if things start getting too hairy, you’ll let me help? That you’ll actually say the words and ask me to help you.”
She nods. “I promise.”
I look at her for a long moment before finally nodding. “All right then. Let’s eat,” I say. “I’m starving.”
Her smile is wide, and she nods. “Same here. Let’s dig in.”
And after that, it’s like a dam broke. The conversation is light and free and full of laughter. We steer clear of the sensitive subjects, but it doesn’t seem to matter—there is surprisingly still a lot left for us to talk about. It’s the sort of conversation I always used to dream about having with my little sister after we were all grown up. I always imagined that even as adults, we’d be the best of friends and spend a lot of nights talking and laughing with one another just like this. Sitting here with her feels good. It feels natural. It feels right.
But underneath it all, my curiosity is still bubbling. There is still so much I want to know. So many questions I desperately need answers to. But I’m smart enough not to press her on it just now. I know I need to let it go for now. But for the first time, I’m filled with the feeling that the answers will come. In time. I just need to be patient—and trust her.
Nine
Office of Senator Daniel Graham, Russell Senate Office Building; Washington DC
“It’s nice to see you again, SSA Wilder,” Senator Daniel Graham starts. “And I’m glad we could meet under less—adversarial—circumstances.”
“Yes, me too, Senator. Thank you for inviting me to chat,” I smile, knowing I really had no choice other than to show up for this meeting and doing my best to play nice.
“Of course,” he replies.
Senator Daniel Graham is a tall, physically imposing man. He’s around six-three, with broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and a trim, fit figure. His hair is as black as the midnight sky and his eyes are dark pools that seem bottomless and give off no hint of emotion. He’s got a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, and teeth so white, they remind me of the giant Doric columns that line the face of the Russell Building. He looks like one of those Hollywood actors who is clearly too handsome to actually be a real Senator but plays one in the movies. I’m sure that contributed to his electoral success as well.
Graham’s office is plush and elegant. Everything is done in a dark oak that’s been polished to a glossy sheen, the carpet is a dark, rich blue, and the pristine, white walls are artfully decorated in classic American works of art. His desk is flanked by a pair of large bookcases filled with knick-knacks and keepsakes but very few actual books. The few books he does have on the shelves are law journals and first editions of classic novels—books I’d bet my entire pension he’s never read. They’re simply window dressing, just like the rest of this office: staged perfectly to make him appear like the All-American man.
A folded American flag in a shadow box sits on the top shelf of the bookcase on the right. His diplomas from Harvard and Yale hang prominently on the wall between the bookcases along with a myriad of photographs of him with various politicians and celebrities. Senator Graham comes from a very notable and well-connected family, and his path was pretty well set from the moment he popped out of the womb. He puts on a charming, gregarious façade, but deep down, like most trust fund kids I know, he’s spoiled, entitled, and acts like he’s better than everybody.
And Rosie actually expects me to play nice with him?
Instead of meeting me in the sitting area near the windows with a nice view of Capitol Hill, Graham is sitting behind his desk while I sit in one of the plush wingbacks in front of it. It’s more than obvious that it’s a naked power play. The size of the desk conveys power, as does the office. Graham is literally using the power of his office and title as a US Senator in an attempt to intimidate me.
Bless his heart. His power doesn’t work on me, but brownie points to him for trying. I’m not the sort of person who will quiver and cower in fear just because somebody comes from a wealthy family and has a fancy job title. As far as I’m concerned, US Senators are just people. They’re as full of crap as any of the rest of us mere mortals. At least he had his secretary bring in some coffee for us. I guess that’s something.
“So, has the Bureau made any progress on getting the footage from inside the situation room the day of the raid on Haven?” he asks.
I pick up the cup of coffee before me, taking a slow, measured sip before responding. I want to give myself a moment to think about the answer. I set the cup back down on the saucer, then set that on the edge of his desk and sit back.
“There’s apparently been a slight technical glitch, but the techs are working on getting it sorted out,” I lie smoothly. “But that’s not why you called me out here. You could have gotten that information with a phone call. So, why am I here, Senator?”
He chuckles to himself. “Direct and to the point. Believe it or not, I do appreciate that about you, Blake—may I call you Blake?”
“If you’d prefer,” I say.
“Great. Feel free to call me Daniel,” he flashes that million-dollar grin. “And to answer your question, the reason I invited you out here was to talk a little bit more—off the record—about the allegations you dropped on us all at the hearing.”
“The allegations about Kathryn Hedlund, I assume you’re referring to.”
“You would be correct about that, Blake. I just wanted to explore that with you a little further,” he nods.
“All right, what can I tell you?”
“I just want you to walk me through the sequence of events that culminated wi
th that tragic raid at the compound.”
I pick up the cup and take another sip of coffee and sit back, still holding onto the mug. I tell Graham about the entire investigation of the disappearances of several college-aged girls in the Seattle area. I start at the beginning: with Representative Hedlund making a personal request to my team to find her daughter, and her insistence that she be looped into the case far more than normal protocol dictates. I walk him through our incorrect assumptions and our surprise at finding all the missing girls—save Stacy Burkett—alive, well, and voluntarily living at the compound. I tell him that Hedlund’s daughter Selene met with me and left a message for her mother that she would never be returning because she was living a new life at Haven.
And I tell him that Hedlund herself called me into the situation room to watch as a team of agents descended upon Haven, and how I stormed out in disgust
Graham listens to it all, absorbing every word of what I’m saying. It’s as if he’s searching for something in my words, looking for something incriminating he can use. Whether he’s looking to use it against me or Hedlund is a toss-up at this point, though.
And when I’m finished, he sits back in his own oversized captain’s chair and takes a drink of his own coffee. I can see the wheels in his head spinning as he processes it all. Graham turns those dark eyes to me, and I swear it feels like he’s looking straight through me. Like he’s trying to see into me. See into my thoughts. All I have to say to that is good luck. I pride myself on my ability to keep a straight face; trying to read my emotions is an exercise in futility. It’s come in handy more times than I can even count. I learned long ago how to keep my thoughts and emotions hidden from people when necessary.
“So, you’re alleging that Representative Hedlund took the intelligence you developed during your investigation and then initiated this raid with the backing of Bureau higher-ups, causing the death of her own daughter?” he asks, his voice thick with skepticism.
“That’s exactly what I’m alleging.”
“And why would she do that?”