I mutter, “Who the hell am I kidding.”
I don’t bother making it a question, so maybe that’s why I don’t feel the need to answer myself. I can stand here for another five minutes, another ten minutes, another half hour, making excuses and plans and reasons not to go through with those plans, but in the end it won’t matter what I decide to do, because I know exactly what’s going to happen next. I’ve known since earlier today, standing in that rest area with Leila Simmons while the tractor-trailers and pickup trucks roared past us.
One of the girls I met with recently. I heard that she was taken.
The disposable still sits on the kitchen table. The disposable that I should have disposed of earlier in the day after I’d watched Leila Simmons drive away with Star. Stripped the battery from the back, dropped it in one trashcan, dismantled the rest of the phone and left pieces of them all over town. Not that I expected anything would come of it had I kept the phone—which I had, after all—but that was my mindset.
Wait, no. That wasn’t my mindset, not really. Not for Jen Young, the new person I’ve become. That would have been Holly Lin’s mindset. And Holly Lin doesn’t exist anymore.
I shake my head, mutter a curse, and cross over to the kitchen table. Pick up the phone and key in Leila Simmons’s number and hit the green button to complete the call.
It rings three times before she answers, her voice hesitant, hushed.
“Hello?”
“This is Jen. From earlier today.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Is everything okay? You sound quiet.”
“I’m at home. My husband is in the other room. What can I help you with, Jen?”
“I wanted to ask what happened to Star.”
“Star?”
“Juana’s baby.”
“Yes, of course. Everything went well. I found an emergency foster parent to look after her tonight, and we’re working on getting things situated so that she can be adopted.”
“That’s great.”
“Yes, it is. Thank you again for reaching out to me.”
I say nothing, suddenly unsure of what more I should say. While I of course wanted to learn what had become of Star, that’s not the reason I called. And maybe she senses it on her end, probably standing in another room of her house, keeping her voice lowered so her husband doesn’t hear. Not that she should be afraid of hiding the conversation from her husband, but in her line of work privacy is vital, and so it’s probably second nature to immediately find a quiet space to answer a call.
Leila Simmons says, “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Actually, there is. When we spoke earlier, you mentioned one of the girls you met with recently having been taken by those men.”
Her voice, already quiet, somehow becomes quieter.
“Yes, I did. I apologize. I shouldn’t have said what I said. Please forgive me.”
“No, it’s not that. I think I might be able to help you.”
A beat of hesitation on her end as she mulls this over.
“What do you mean?”
“I know a cop. A Colton County sheriff’s deputy. He’s a good man. He can be trusted. If you tell me where you think this girl was taken, he’ll be able to help.”
The silence on her end lengthens. I picture her biting her lip, looking back over her shoulder at her husband in the next room as she weighs the pros and cons. She doesn’t need to know the truth—that I have no intention of telling Erik anything—but the fact that I’m presenting it as the selling point should help.
Finally she says, “I don’t even know for sure she’s there. Even if she was there before, she might not be there now.”
“That doesn’t matter. Either way, wouldn’t it ease your conscience knowing for sure?”
She doesn’t answer, and in my head I picture her finally sitting down, leaning forward, staring off into space as she continues to try to make up her mind.
“Leila, I understand your hesitation. But believe me, this is for the best. Either she’s there or she isn’t. Don’t you want to know for sure?”
“But what … what if she is there?”
“If she is there, it’s vital that she’s rescued as soon as possible, don’t you think?”
Keeping the phone to my ear, I move from the kitchen and into the bedroom. I flick on the light and crouch down in front of the dresser. Pull the bottom drawer out and dig down beneath the sweatshirts and sweatpants and bring up my other gun.
It’s a SIG Sauer TACOPS 1911. A bit heftier than the P320 but this one has a five-inch barrel with an eight-round mag already loaded with .45 Autos.
Also buried under the clothes is a SOG Strat Ops automatic folding knife. It has a 3.5-inch steel blade that’s spring-loaded to release at the touch of a button.
I toss the 1911 and the SOG on the bed as I stand back up and realize the silence has gone on much too long.
“Are you still there?”
Leila Simmons issues a hesitant whisper.
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to pressure you, but I don’t think there’s anything to debate. You said yourself these men are dangerous. Hell, I saw one of them kill Juana last night. We don’t want that to happen to this other girl, do we?”
Saying we makes it seem more like she and
