Collared(85)

God, she makes that sound bad. He isn’t just someone who lied either—he’s a priest who lied. That would make it a hundred times worse if this were released.

“Please, don’t,” I say, but my tone is more reminiscent of begging. “He saw me. I remember.”

Reyes lifts her hands as I start to warm up. “Jade, it’s okay.” She keeps them lifted for another second before setting them down. “I knew Torrin was lying when he came barreling in here, ordering every man in the department load up and show up at Earl Rae’s house.”

I blink at her. “You knew? How?”

Reyes checks the cameras stationed in the room. She told me they weren’t rolling or anything since this was a courtesy interview and not an official interrogation, but I get the feeling she’s double-checking because she doesn’t want what she’s about to say filmed.

“I didn’t work your case at the beginning.” Her gaze shifts from the cameras. “I didn’t get it until recently, but I know the detectives who worked it after you went missing. They told me all about Torrin Costigan and how during that first year, he was in here every day looking for an update or delivering one himself. He called them on their days off and called them even after they retired. He didn’t know the meaning of giving up.” Reyes slides the folder down the table. “That kind of person does not get a glimpse of the girl he’s been looking for for ten years and turn around and walk away. Torrin Costigan wouldn’t catch a glimpse of a shadow of you in a hall, or see your old shoes or a strand of hair he suspected was yours, and let the door close in his face, walk down the front porch steps, and wait two days for you to be rescued.”

Reyes pauses like she’s waiting for a confirmation from me, but I’m not opening my mouth and saying anything else that could get him in trouble.

“If Torrin Costigan saw you that day, nothing would have stopped him from bringing you home. And yeah, we might have found Earl Rae’s body one day, but the bullet in his head wouldn’t have been from his own doing.”

I shift in my seat, unable to find a comfortable position anymore. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

Reyes shrugs. “Because he was right. You were there.”

“He never told me . . . my dad, he never even told me. I had no idea.” My head feels thick with confusion. “Why didn’t they tell me?”

Reyes’s eyes narrow a little as they glance at the door. “Your dad doesn’t know. As far as the official report goes, it was an anonymous tipster who gave us what we needed to find you.”

My eyes widen, but I stay quiet because even though my first instinct is to assume Dad would go bad cop all over this place if he ever found out, I remember something he’s been telling me my whole life—he’s a dad first and a cop second. I was home—the how that went into that wouldn’t matter much to him.

“And as for why Torrin hasn’t told you or anyone that he was the one responsible for bringing you home, I think it’s because he doesn’t want the notoriety or the recognition or anything that comes with that. All he wanted was to find you. All he cared about was bringing you home.”

I have to bite my lip to keep from crying. He found me. He didn’t just look for me. He didn’t just keep believing. He found me.

He failed better until he got it right.

Those ten years I thought I was so very alone, I really wasn’t. He was still there, looking. Searching. Finding. That tether might have stretched and pulled and neared its breaking point, but he never let go. He was with me then too.

“Listen,” Reyes says, “I didn’t tell you any of this at first because I knew you had enough coming at you. I wasn’t going to tell you at all because it doesn’t change anything about who he is and who you are.”

I wonder if this is the whole reason she asked to meet. Not so I could tell what was missing from my story but so she could tell hers. “Then why are you telling me now?”

“I thought you’d want to know.” She taps the table with her palm. “I thought you’d want to know that when everyone else was giving in to the statistics, he was looking for you. I thought you’d want to know that when everyone else said you were never coming home, he brought you back. He refused to believe you were gone—he just wouldn’t accept it. I thought you’d want to know because I sure as hell would.” She shakes her head, and for a moment, she’s not here in this room—she’s somewhere else, with someone else. “I’d want to know that a man was willing to give up everything for the fraction of a fraction of a chance that I was in that house and the fraction of a fraction of a chance that I was still alive inside. That kind of love, friendship, whatever you want to call it, is worth crossing lines for.”

I inhale, understanding. She’s rooting for the happy ending. She’s advocating the fairy tale. Seems strange coming from a tough police detective.

“Even if that person is a priest?” I glance at her.

She lifts her eyebrows and stands. She doesn’t blink when she answers. “Even if that person is the motherf*cking pope.” When I wrestle with a smile, she raps on the table a few times before heading for the door. “There are thousands of priests in the world to spread good, do good, and be good . . . but there’s only one him.”