When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(20)

But the girl is shaking too hard.

I try to soften my eyes, to be the blank stare they all expect, instead of the dark knowing that floods through me too often these days. I wish I could ask her name. I would add it to the list in my head. A name is such a precious thing. Everyone should have at least that much. A single marker to carry, leave behind, be remembered by.

And maybe my gaze is more powerful than the rest of me, because suddenly she whispers, “Stacey. Stacey Kasmer. My family—”

Cook slams both hands against the stainless-steel table. “Don’t make me come over there!”

“—live in this tiny little town, you’ve never heard of it. But if you should see them . . . get out . . . and I don’t . . .”

She can’t say the rest. We both know change is in the air. Bad things have always happened here. But now, with People Coming, it’s all happening faster. Too fast.

“Tell my parents I’m sorry,” she whispers furtively. Then bursts out loud, “Stupid Girl! Grab that plate before it falls!”

Belatedly, I grab the teetering dish, as powerfully built Cook, who likes to wield cast-iron pans, broom handles, and marble rolling pins, comes stalking over.

The knife is gone, tucked beneath the girl’s skirt. We’re not allowed pockets, so I have no idea where she’s placed it. I’d secured mine in the waistband of my underwear, which the Bad Man must’ve figured out, because after carving swirling patterns in my forearm, he took away my panties for the next six months.

Cook arrives. She grabs the girl’s shoulder, shoves her back. Then cuffs me hard. I’m not expecting it. I stumble against the sharp edge of the dishwasher, feel it gouge into my belly. Before I can recover, Cook delivers another stinging blow, then for good measure, slaps the other girl, as well.

“Back. To. Work.”

The beautiful girl drops into a curtsy. I wonder what she had been in another life. A dancer? Cheerleader? Or just a girl with ambitious dreams? Most arrive older than I was. I don’t even know how I got here.

But others . . . Some, I think, come looking for jobs. But there are also girls who speak languages none of us understand. I don’t think they choose this place at all. They never stay long. They are the Ones Who Can’t Be Seen.

Though I try to see them. I try to see everything.

The girl—Stacey—turns away. Her footsteps aren’t completely steady. Hopefully Cook will think she’s merely cowed from the blow. She makes it three steps, four, five.

Then I see it. A drop of blood. Turning into a trail.

A clatter.

The knife. It’s fallen from her skirt. Bounced onto the floor.

Belatedly I glance at Cook. Maybe she didn’t see it. Maybe I can scoot over, cover it with my own foot . . .

But Cook is staring right at the knife, the blood, the girl, who is no longer walking, but swaying slightly in place. Cook once again crosses her thick arms over her chest.

“Stupid girl,” she mutters.

I get it then, as with a little sigh, Stacey’s arms go up, her body goes down . . . She collapses to the floor, lying there, dark eyes open, in the growing pool of her own blood. She didn’t bother to wait till later. Or till they found the knife, snatched it from her, did something worse. Because they know everything, anticipate our every thought, then shred us down to the bone.

But this . . . Slicing open the artery in her own leg. Not even the Bad Man can stop this.

Stacey doesn’t make a sound. Instead, as I watch, the light in her eyes dims and dims.

A final breath, then she is gone. Frantically, I glance around. I want to see it. Her soul leaving her body. I want to watch it go up, up, up. I want to believe it sails high above us. Maybe she’s already halfway to heaven. Maybe she’ll find my mother, and my mother will fold this poor, pretty girl into her arms, and whisper that she’s safe.

Is that her soul? That smudge of purple in the corner of the room? Is a soul purple? Or maybe the color depends on the person, because when I see my mother, she is always silver to me. I honestly don’t know. I just want to believe. I need something, anything to cling to, as the pool of blood nears my feet.

“Clean up the mess,” Cook grumbles. She turns back to her cooking prep.

The episode is over. A girl is dead, but our servitude continues.

I turn off the laboring dishwasher. I finish stacking the sterilized plates.

Then I make my way carefully to the girl’s fallen form. Stepping around the spot of blood, this line, that pool.

I crouch down and gently close her eyes. Her dark sooty lashes rest against pale, pale cheeks.

The Bad Man will come, haul away the body, with a single toss over his massive shoulder. I will mop up the blood. Just another day in the life.

But for now, this single moment.

I purse my mouth. I wish again for the power taken from me so many years ago, that I could move my tongue and lips and form a single word.

Instead, inside my head, where I know all things, where I’m stronger, wiser, and braver than I’ll ever be in this world, I whisper, “Stacey.”

I hold on to her name. And vow once again to make them pay.





CHAPTER 9





KIMBERLY





KIMBERLY HAD MARRIED AN OUTDOORSMAN. Mac was a special agent with the Georgia Bureau of Investigations and was already teaching their two daughters to hunt, fish—wrestle with bears, for all she knew. Kimberly herself was a runner. She liked jogging the long winding paths around the commercial park where her office was located, or if she was feeling exotic, racing down rural roads.