The Girls I've Been(53)

“If she’d waited for the extraction, she would’ve had a kit.”

“But she couldn’t and she didn’t, yet she still got you what you needed. So the deal holds.”

There’s the kind of pause that has so much tension, I’m gritting my teeth against it.

“She’s not normal,” Agent North says slowly. “What she did . . . how she left . . . Can’t you see that? She could’ve called you before . . .”

“If she had called me before, Raymond Keane wouldn’t be alive right now,” Amelia says. “He’d be gator food. All of him.”

“Stop saying shit like that!” North’s distress bleeds into her voice and her pretty green eyes.

“Stop implying my sister is dangerous.”

“Isn’t she?”

“My sister,” Amelia says, just as slow, but twice as dangerous, “is a victim of domestic violence and sexual abuse at the hands of the men our mother brought around her. And she has been psychologically abused by the only parent she’s ever known. It is my job to give her the safety and space and whatever else she needs to become a survivor. So if you continue with your victim-blaming bullshit when she let that fucker live after he spent the better part of two years terrorizing and beating her, I swear to God, you’re gonna go back to your higher-ups with nothing. I’ll take the files to the DEA and ATF instead, and you’ll be left on the sidelines. Or maybe I’ll just cut all you Feds out completely. Put it on the dark web for the highest bidder.”

Agent North takes a deep breath. She’s steeling herself to fight more, to accuse me of liking it next, probably, or that it wasn’t the first time. She’d be right about the last thing and wrong about the first.

But instead of arguing, Agent North deflates. “God, Amy,” she says, the nickname falling off her lips with an ease that comes only from familiarity. “I—”

“No,” Amelia interrupts, chin up, arms crossed, so damn defensive. Every shield is up, and the way she’s telegraphing it tells me she isn’t aware she’s doing it, that this woman tripped her up once before, and she can’t let it happen again. “Just give me what we agreed on.”

“The original deal holds,” North says after a long moment when they stare at each other, hungry in a way that makes me want to look away, because it’s not faked. There’s no artifice . . . no calculation or prettiness. Neither of them wants to show it, but they do, because it’s all raw and a pulpy mess.

“Yvonne, you can come back in here,” Amelia calls.

“It’s all like we agreed,” Yvonne tells her.

“Let me have it, then.”

Silence as she reads through it. The minutes tick by. “Does anyone have a pen?” Then: “The code to the safe is 0192.”

I bite the inside of my cheek as I hear the agent punch in the code and swing the door open. “This is all of them?”

“Yes,” Amelia says, because as far as she’s concerned, that’s true. I think about the thumb drive tucked behind the toilet paper. I’ll need to move it soon.

“Let me just verify.” More silence. I can barely breathe around it. Is she going to squash the deal? Will she somehow figure out what I held back? But then there’s a snapping sound. “That’s all, then.”

“Do not come looking for me,” Amelia says, and it’s not just a warning; it’s a plea for mercy. And North is deep enough in it still to give it to her.

“Goodbye, Amy.”

My sister does not say goodbye in return. I wonder if she’s not able to. If she’ll break.

The door clicks shut, and North’s footsteps fade.

“That’s it,” Yvonne says. “Are you all right?”

Amelia nods. “Thank you for everything, Yvonne.”

I tilt my head farther to the side so I can see Yvonne pause at the door, worrying her lower lip. “Free advice?”

Amelia nods.

“Go deep, wherever you end up. He won’t stop. A little girl cut him off at the knees, and it’s not going to sit well with him or his cohorts. So get out of here. And don’t come back.”

After a moment, my sister says, “Thank you, Yvonne.”

“I would say anytime, but let’s be honest: I hope I never see you again.”

“Me too. But I owe you. If you ever need me . . .”

“I pray I never have to collect. But I will if I have to. Try to stay safe, Amelia.”

“We will.”

“You’re a good sister. Remember that.”

I hear her heels click out the door, and then it shuts. I close my eyes when Amelia starts rustling around, and then I hear the TV flick on. The murmur of voices fills the room, mindless nonsense I can’t fully make out. I let myself drift. Just to give her some time.


Act 3: Home



* * *



—

I wait a long time before I walk out into the suite, where she’s turned on an old movie and is staring at it with the kind of frown that tells me she’s not seeing or hearing any of it. I drop down next to her on the couch, crisscrossing my legs. Our knees brush, and her jeans are ripped and soft, like my sister is underneath. The exhaustion pulses through me like a heartbeat, and I want to lay my head down on her leg and let her stroke my hair off my face like I’ve seen sisters do in the movies. The impulse is something I should fight, shed like skin and strands of hair, because comfort isn’t something I deserve, is it?