Say the Word(147)
“Vera,” Miri breathed, leaning close to her cousin. “Can you hear me?”
The injured girl was still and silent, lying unresponsive on the cold stretcher. Tears tracked down my cheeks as I reached out to gently cup the non-battered side of her face. I bent forward, so my lips touched her ear, and saw my tears fall like raindrops onto her dirty hair.
“I don’t know if you can hear me, but I have to tell you how sorry I am,” I whispered, my voice hollow. “I’m sorry it took me so long, Vera. I’m so sorry.”
A sob rattled in my throat as I leaned over her, and Bash rubbed a soothing hand over my back.
“You did everything you could, Lux. She knows that.”
The paramedics were eager to wheel her away. I brushed a final kiss against her forehead and pulled back, allowing Bash to wrap me up in his arms. I reached out blindly for Miri, and felt her small hand slip into mine.
“Lux?” The ghost of her voice was nearly undetectable, softer than the scrape of two butterfly’s wings as they beat against the air, but somehow, I heard it. So did Miri.
We turned, as one, back to the stretcher, where Vera’s eyes were fluttering open. She wasn’t lucid, but she was conscious — a good sign, I hoped, as I slipped my hand into hers. “I’m here,” I whispered. “It’s Lux.”
“I’m here too,” Miri added, her voice cracking with emotion.
Vera’s eyes seemed to focus for a moment as she scanned from my face to Miri’s. “Hi,” she croaked in an uneven voice.
I felt a smile break out across my face.
“Hi,” I echoed.
***
“Did you see it?” Simon gushed, throwing open the door to Sebastian’s loft with Fae short on his heels.
I lifted my head from its resting place on Bash’s chest. We were lying on the couch with our limbs entwined — we’d barely moved from this spot in the two days that had passed since the night on the freighter. In part, because we were both happy to be alive, unharmed, and reunited after everything that had happened. Mostly, though, it was due to the media circus that the Labyrinth bust had set off.
A famous family in trouble with the law always captured the attention of gossip magazines and news outlets.
But when both parents in a rich, famous, politically-connected family were involved in a sex-trafficking ring, which was brought down by their son and his girlfriend — well, you could only imagine the press. We couldn’t step outside without being bombarded by questions and photographs so, for the time being, we were stuck in our private bubble in Bash’s apartment.
I pressed a kiss to his t-shirt in the spot directly over his heart and smiled. I was more than okay with our temporary confinement.
He sighed and climbed to his feet, pulling me up after him. Simon and Fae were milling about the loft like two five-year-olds hopped up on too many Pixy Stix.
“Did you see it?” Simon repeated, shoving a newspaper into my hands. My eyes fell to the printed black script, instantly recognizing the ornate block font. The New York Times. I allowed my gaze to drift down an inch and felt my heart stutter to a stop when I read the front-page headline.
“I HAD TO FIND THEM”: ONE REPORTER’S INVESTIGATION CRACKS NYC SEX-TRAFFICKING RING WIDE OPEN
“Ohmigod,” I squeaked. “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod.”
“What is it?” Bash asked, plucking the paper from my trembling fingers with impatience. His eyes scanned the front page. “Oh my god,” he whispered.
“I’m above the fold,” I breathed, turning to him with wide eyes. “My story is in The New York Freaking Times! ABOVE THE FOLD!”
Bash grinned and tossed the newspaper onto the coffee table, his arms hooking around my body and lifting me into the air. I laughed down into his face as he spun me in a circle. “You are incredible,” he told me, lowering my body just enough that our lips could brush. “And I am so f*cking proud of you.”
Our kiss was interrupted by Simon’s voice.
“No, no, no. That’s not what I meant at all.”
Bash set me down and we both turned to face my deluded friend as he retrieved the newspaper from the coffee table. Holding it open, Simon pointed to the photograph that took up a large portion of the front page, accompanying my story. The picture had been snapped by a news photographer as he’d arrived at the scene. In the foreground, a departing ambulance was speeding for the nearest hospital with one of the injured girls inside. The background showed the freighter, illuminated by spotlights from several news and FBI surveillance helicopters as they circled overhead. And in the center, a couple stood, locked in a comforting embrace.
The woman was dressed in a fabulous — though slightly tattered — ice blue ball gown, her harrowed eyes fixed on the ambulance as it pulled away. The man’s face was shown in profile, his forehead resting on the woman’s hair and his arms wound tightly around her body, as though he couldn’t bear to let go.
The caption was simple enough: Sebastian Covington, son of alleged sex-trafficking ringleaders, embraces girlfriend Lux Kincaid, whose investigation was vital to the tracking and eventual capture of the criminals. Behind them, the freighter where nearly thirty victims were held for transport.
“It’s a photo of us,” I said, looking up at Simon. “I see it.”