Keep Her Safe(131)

“And you are one hundred percent positive this is her?”

“More like ninety-five. But we can close that gap quickly by going up there and asking her.”

Noah shakes his head, unconvinced. He’s had that same skeptical look since we turned into this neighborhood of sprawling houses and huge properties and manicured lawns, one of the wealthiest in Austin according to him. “Gracie? What do you think?”

I think that my mom’s necklace is going to cut into the palm of my hand if I don’t stop squeezing it so tight. “There’s only one way to be sure.” Wouldn’t it be something—a sexually abused girl from a trailer park who was picked up by a human trafficking ring, now living in this mansion where she quietly plucks weeds? Seemingly at peace.

Noah sighs. “If you guys are wrong, this is going to be a really fucking awkward conversation, isn’t it?”

“Maybe we don’t lead with ‘were you a prostitute’?”

My heart is racing as I step out of the car to follow the two FBI agents up the interlocked path, Noah at my side.

“Mrs. Mandy Wheeler?” Kristian calls out.

Mandy Wheeler?

The woman turns, her platinum-blonde bob peeking out from beneath the rim of her hat. “We don’t accept door-to-door solicitation,” she responds in a crisp tone. Cool green eyes drift over us, stalling on me for a moment. They’re even lighter than mine.

And they definitely look familiar.

“We’re not here to sell anything, ma’am.” Kristian pulls out his FBI badge.

Wariness creeps into her features. She glances around to the neighbors on both sides. “What is this in regards to, then?”

“Are you Elizabeth Richards, originally from Tucson, Arizona?”

“No.” Her face pales a few shades.

She’s lying.

“Your mom’s name was Peggy Richards,” I hear myself say in a shaky voice. “Your father was Brian. You had an older sister named Dina, and she married Abraham Wilkes. They had a daughter together, named Grace. That’s me. I’m Grace.”

“How did you . . .” Her whispered words drift as her wide and teary eyes flitter between us.

Kristian opens the file folder tucked under his arm and holds up a mug shot of a woman with long, scraggly blonde hair in an orange jumpsuit. “You assumed the name of Mandy Hawkins. You served ninety days in Beaumont for prostitution charges in 2007 after—”

“Okay.” She stops him with a raised hand, her face pinched.

I hold my breath, afraid she’s going to tell us to go away, to never come back. That she doesn’t care about me or my mom, or what happened to my dad. “I was wondering if this day would ever come.” She doesn’t look at all happy about the fact that it has.

I have so many questions. About what happened to her; about what she knows of my father, and what happened to him. But right now, one seems to outweigh all the rest.

“Why didn’t you come home?”



* * *



“It’s been forever since I’ve heard that name, ‘Betsy.’?” She sets glasses of water on the island countertop in front of us.

All I can do is stare at her.

I can’t believe we’ve found my mom’s sister. My aunt. The girl who ran away from home, who my dad tried so hard to find.

Who my dad died trying to find.

She definitely has the Richards eyes. She has the same face shape, same jaw as my mother, too—wide and angular. The rest of her features are daintier than my mom’s, though.

I see my nan in her, too. In her looks as well as in her mannerisms. The way she’ll stare intensely at you for a few seconds and then glance away, as if she can’t bear the connection for one more second.

She doesn’t smile much, just like Nan didn’t smile much. Or, at least, her smiles are tight and reserved, and she lets out a small huff right before she lets you see them. Also like Nan.

And she’s been wiping that same spot on the counter with a cloth for several minutes now, just like Nan used to do.

She clears her voice. “I saw the news. How’s Dina?”

“In rehab. We’re hoping it’ll stick this time.”

She nods. “Was there something you needed from me? Or . . .”

I open my mouth to explain, but I don’t know where to start. And both Kristian and Agent Tareen have been uncharacteristically quiet so far.

“It’s a bit of a story, ma’am,” Noah says, reaching over to place his hand on my knee. An offer of reassurance. He’s not used to seeing me so flustered.

“I have a bit of time.” She pauses to take a long sip of her drink, her hand trembling slightly. “Who are you, exactly?”

“Noah Marshall, ma’am. My mother was Chief Jackie Marshall.”

That earns a flash of surprise in Betsy’s eyes, followed by softness. “I’m sorry about what happened to her.”

Noah simply nods.

Betsy’s gaze turns to Kristian, hardening a touch. He is the one who produced her mug-shot photo, after all, and it’s clear she’d rather keep that part of her past buried. “And you two are the FBI agents investigating Abraham’s death, I take it?”

“Yes, ma’am. And we have some questions for you.” Kristian flashes an easy smile.