Atone (Recovered Innocence #2)(60)
I hesitate. Not because I don’t trust her, but because this is the final step off the cliff. I’m really doing this. I’m really putting Javier’s nuts in a vice. I’m really becoming witness number one at his trial. I’m really giving up control of my life for the foreseeable future, maybe forever. I’m really giving up Beau. That last realization strikes a blow. My chest hitches and I can’t feel my hands as I reach into my bra and give the thumb drive to Shay.
It’s done.
She plugs it into her USB drive and clicks the file open. I know what’s on it. I pretty much have it memorized. It looks like gibberish at first, until you know what to look for. Then it’s like ripping the curtains wide open on the f*cked-up world of underage sex trafficking.
He has us listed by the names he gave us—Cherry, Bunny, Kitty, Angel, Cinnamon, Porsche, Mercedes, Lexus, Diamond, Pearl, Crystal, Jasmine, Misty, Bambi, Brandi, Desiree, Scarlet, Ariel, Lola, Candi, Rain, Chanel, Lucky, Amber, Ginger, Jade, Star, Paris, Dallas, Tawny, Roxy, Coco, Trixie, Fantasy, Heavenly…and Eden—the name he gave me. Thirty-six girls from ten to seventeen years old. Older than that and you got downgraded to truck stops and strip bars.
There’s a price list per act, from blowjobs to anal to threesomes to BDSM. The more perverted, the higher the price. The younger the girl, the higher the price. The riskier the behavior, the higher the price. Bareback cost extra, and guys had to show they’d been tested to get on the special list. One positive AIDS test and both the guy and the girl were out. If I have anything to be grateful to Javier for, it’s that rule.
I walk Shay through every bit of it, right down to the bank account numbers and password codes. Those are likely useless now. He would’ve changed everything once he realized that the thumb drive and I were gone. But the credit card numbers—how his clients paid—those can be easily traced back to their owners. Javier billed his clients using the fake company name Opentech. It was generic enough to sound like almost any kind of business on their credit card statements. The clients can provide the money half of the equation and where it all goes. They can also give up the houses where the girls are kept. I tell Shay everything…including the one thing I couldn’t tell Beau.
When I’m done, she sits back in her seat with tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“Don’t, okay? I don’t need that from you or anybody else. What I need is Marie back safe and sound. And I need Javier to not get tipped off by that f*cker right there,” I say, pointing out the window.
Shay follows the line of my finger to where two men in suits stand in the hall, talking.
“The one on the right snorts and grunts like a pig when he f*cks. Sweats like one too. About eight thrusts in and he’s done. Comes like a f*cking freight train, though, blowing and puffing. Plain old missionary for him. Always under the covers, which didn’t help the sweating. Being under him was like being in an acid-rain storm in the goddamn rainforest. Didn’t give a f*ck if I got off or not.”
As I’m talking, Shay gets up and discreetly closes the blinds, blocking the men from looking into the room.
“Some of them did, though,” I continue. “You’d be surprised how much f*cking effort they tried to put into it too. Mostly I faked it so they’d just stop, because come on, really? You’re paying for underage sex and you want to try to make it about me? Who the f*ck are you kidding?”
She sits back down next to me. I can see she’s trying real hard to keep it together, but she’s shattered. Her hands and lower lip shake. She blinks back the tears I told her I didn’t want. I have to look away from her while she tries to collect herself. I slide one of the files Mr. Nash gave her off the stack. She lets me. Beau’s neat handwriting stares back at me, and suddenly I’m struggling just as hard as Shay is to get my shit together. I push the file away and stand to pace the room.
To give myself something to do, I pick up one of the markers in the tray of the whiteboard and start drawing. I draw the layouts of both of the houses I was kept in, including where Javier’s office was. I list the names of the *s who guarded us as best as I can remember. Some of them are nicknames the guys gave one another, but I write them down anyway. I draw the layout of the councilman’s house and mark an X on the spot where his wife died. I give up every last piece of information inside me, including the name of the artist who inked my tattoo.
When I’m done I drop the marker in the tray and turn around. Shay is on her feet, her eyes wide. She motions for me to step to one side so she can snap pics with her phone.
She tucks her phone into her bag and then moves toward me. Before I know what she means to do, I’m enveloped in a hug so fierce all the air is forced out of my lungs. I self-consciously hug her back. I’m not good at this stuff. She pulls back and smooths the hair out of my eyes. This close, I can see she’s older than I thought she was. Maybe my mom’s age, if my mom hadn’t gotten herself stabbed by one of her johns.
“We’re going to burn that motherf*cker,” she says, shocking me with her language. “You and me. We’re going to take him down and all those *s in this building and anywhere else in the world who ever laid a hand on you. You stand behind me from now on, got that? I’m between you and whatever comes at you. You’re mine now, and I’m glad to have you.” Her gaze sweeps over the whiteboard. “Yes, indeed. We’re going to burn that motherf*cker to the ground.”