Defending Zara (Mountain Mercenaries #6)(82)

She was doing all right until a female reporter stood up and asked, “Why didn’t you do more to find help when you were first dropped off in the barrio? I mean, there had to be someone who spoke English who you could’ve gone to. Or who could point you in the direction of the US embassy. You could’ve been home years ago.”

The question didn’t surprise her. The FBI had asked the same thing, and she’d read comments online from people wondering the same. But it was annoying as hell that no one thought she’d done anything to try to help herself.

“Do you have children?” Zara asked in a surprisingly calm voice.

“Yes,” the reporter confirmed with a nod.

“How old?”

“I’m not sure that’s relevant,” she said uncertainly.

“How old?” Zara insisted.

“Five, eleven, and thirteen.”

“What’s the first thing you taught your kids to do if they’re lost? Like if they go on a hike and get turned around and don’t know which way to go?” She didn’t wait for the answer. “You tell them to stay where they are. That someone will find them. The worst thing they can do is wander around, because that makes them even harder to find.

“My parents taught me the same thing. So when those monsters dropped me off in that barrio, I did what I thought was right—I hunkered down and waited to be found. But the kicker was that no one was really looking for me. Everyone thought I was dead.

“Think about your own child being in a situation like I was. How well do you think he or she would do? Did you teach them what to do if they get lost in a huge city they’ve never been in before? Have you taught your kids how to communicate with people who don’t speak the same language? Have they experienced hunger so intense they would literally eat dirt just to have something in their bellies?” When the reporter shook her head silently, Zara continued.

“There I was. Ten years old, not able to speak the language, hungry, dirty, and traumatized from seeing my parents killed before my eyes—and I did what I was taught. I waited. And waited. And waited. But no one ever came. When I had to come out of my hiding place, I was terrified. No one could understand a word I said, and I couldn’t understand them. I got chased away from trash cans by men shouting at me in a language I didn’t know, and other children threw rocks at me to keep me from getting scraps of food.

“You want to know why I didn’t continually approach people and ask, in English, where the US embassy was? Because the few adults I tried to talk to ignored me. Or they looked at me with a bit too much interest . . . if you know what I mean. And the one policeman I approached took a swing at me with his baton. I didn’t know where I was, what direction the embassy might be in. When you’re ten, the world is a scary place, and even scarier when you’re all alone.

“You might be thinking, okay, but what about after you learned Spanish? After you got older? Why didn’t you ask for help then? Because by then, I was too busy trying to stay alive. To eat. To avoid the people who wanted to prey on a defenseless child.

“But what I really hear when I’m asked that question—or any question that starts with ‘Why didn’t you . . .’—is blame and judgment. I’m being judged for my actions. The actions of a horrified little girl. Let me tell you something: if I could go back and do things differently, I would. I wouldn’t have been a brat to my parents at dinner. I would’ve walked faster so we could’ve been at the hotel before those men crossed our path. I would’ve screamed as loud as I could when they first pulled out a knife. I would’ve run. I would’ve walked the miles and miles from where they’d dropped me off back to the hotel where we were staying, or at least tried. I would’ve learned Spanish faster. I would’ve befriended people sooner. I would’ve been more assertive and begged someone to help . . .

“But I can’t go back. And you have no right to sit there and judge me for what I did do. I did the best I could when I was ten. And eleven. And fifteen. And twenty. I pray to God that you are never in a situation like I was. One where you’re scared out of your mind, lost, terrified that everyone who crosses your path is out to hurt you. There is literally no way you can ever possibly understand why I did what I did unless you’ve lived through the same situation, and I hope for your sake that you never understand. But until such time, you have no right to judge me for my actions. To blame me for the situation I was in and what happened.”

The room was silent after Zara stopped speaking, and for a second she thought the woman was going to cry. But she simply nodded and sat back down, her eyes trained on the pad of paper in front of her.

Zara took a deep breath, ready for the crowd to turn against her. For them to ask an inappropriate or downright ridiculous question. But before someone could ask how she’d dealt with her period while she was living on the streets, or if anyone had ever figured out she wasn’t a boy and raped her, the chief of police politely wrapped up the press conference, thanking everyone for coming.

He took Zara’s arm and gently led her to the side door, whisking her away from the reporters and the cameras.

Before she could take a breath, Meat was there. He wrapped his arms around her, and Zara buried her face in his chest, happy to be able to escape the real world for just a second. Standing in his embrace, inhaling his unique woodsy and pine scent, she could almost forget everything that she’d been through.