Keep Her Safe(133)

This is as good a time as any. I lay the charm necklace next to the card. “My mother never took this off.”

Betsy’s eyes gloss over as she paws at her neck, empty of jewelry. “Damien took my half. He didn’t want anything that could identify me.”

“People cared, Betsy.”

She swallows hard. “I called the number on the card, but it was disconnected. I didn’t know he had died until much later. I didn’t know much of what was going on back then at all. They shuttled us from one city to another. Someone was always with us or nearby, watching. Making sure we did as we were told, reminding us what would happen if we didn’t. They’d make us do lines of coke, and then bring us to hotel rooms to work. That’s how I usually found out where I was—a flyer in a hotel room. All I knew back then was that if I did what Damien asked, I’d get my next fix and he wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Where’s this Damien guy now?” I ask through gritted teeth. Because I want to kill him.

“He went to jail. He could still be there. Or maybe he’s dead.” She sounds hopeful about that.

“What else do you remember about that client?” Kristian asks, pulling the conversation back to that night.

She tops up our glasses with water, her eyes glued to the pitcher. “He was like all of them. Middle-aged. Married, with kids.”

“What did he look like?”

“Forties . . . but a lot of gray hair. Fairly fit.”

“Was his natural hair red-colored?”

She frowns, in thought. “No, I don’t remember him being a redhead.”

“Any idea what he did for a living?” Klein asks.

“We didn’t talk much.” Her cheeks flush.

“Right. Just . . . anything at all. Guys like to blow off steam, talk about things they shouldn’t talk about with girls who only pretend to listen.”

Betsy chews her cheek in thought. “No. I’m sorry. He was nice, if that helps. Some of them were . . . not nice.” She runs the tap to rinse out her glass, only to fill it back up with water from the pitcher again. “How’s my . . . how’s Peggy?”

“Nan died about five years ago of a heart attack.”

She presses her lips together and nods quietly.

I can’t help but ask. “Why didn’t you come back? We were still in Tucson. Still in The Hollow.”

She buys herself time, finishing her drink. “Did your mom tell you about my dad?”

“I just found out. Nan kicked him out right after you ran away. Did you know that?”

She shakes her head. “Once I left, I never looked back. It’s a hard thing, you know, to get the guts to go to your mom and tell her what your dad’s been doing to you when she’s out late at night. And when she tells you that you’re making things up . . .” Her eyes begin to glisten. “I hated her so much for that. Hated them both. Couldn’t wait to get away. And then I met Damien. He was older and attractive and doted on me. He bought me things and drove me everywhere, told me how beautiful I was and how much he loved me. He’s the one who put the idea in my head to leave. I mean, I’d thought of it plenty, but I was barely fourteen. I had nowhere to go. So when he said he’d take care of me, it was an easy decision. I packed my backpack, wrote a letter, and left. Met him a few blocks away.”

“My dad drove to Tucson, and came looking for you.”

“I’m not surprised.” Her bottom lip wobbles. “We headed to California for a bit, down near LA. It was exciting. No curfews, no rules, no school. Just partying in different people’s houses every night. Damien started feeding me alcohol and drugs. A joint here, a pill there.” She hesitates. “Then one day his friend came over and told me how pretty I was and that he wanted to sleep with me. Damien told him it was okay, that he could. He convinced me to do it, that he’d love me more for it. I was fourteen. I was stupid. And I just wanted to be loved.”

“You’re not alone. That’s how most girls get pulled into this. These guys know who to target,” Kristian says softly.

She smiles appreciatively at him. “And then it happened again with another friend, and then another, until I started to wonder if they were really his friends. Finally I told him that I didn’t want to be with anyone but him. He got so angry. He hit me a few times. I was scared that he’d dump me. Can you believe that? That’s what I was worried about.” Betsy’s face pinches, like admitting all this is painful. “I’m not sure when I actually figured out that Damien was selling me.”

“Why didn’t you run, then? You could have come back.”

“To what? A father that . . .” She doesn’t bother to finish.

“Still . . . all these years later. What happened to you?”

“When Damien was arrested, I had this brief glimpse of freedom.” She laughs bitterly. “It lasted all of an hour, and then this other guy took over me and two other girls. His name was Naseer, and he taught me just how good Damien had actually treated me. He got me hooked on cheap smack and locked me in rooms for twelve hours, letting a parade of guys come through and use me. He’d beat me, too. I mean, Damien hit me, but not like Naseer did, not on a daily basis.

“He told me that he knew where I was from and that I was disgusting, that my family would never take me back. He convinced me that he’d find me and hurt me if I ever tried to go. I believed him. I was scared. So I kept turning tricks, until one day I got busted by an undercover cop down in San Antonio and thrown in jail. And it was the best thing that ever happened to me. I got away from Naseer, from the life, and got clean in the inmate drug rehab program.”