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THIS IS THE LAST CHANCE!
DO NOT SCREW UP. YOU OR YOUR MAN.
OR HER BLOOD IS ON YOUR HANDS.
Her?
Almost immediately another message bubble popped up.
Maggie gasped.
The message had no words, only an image.
It was a close-up photograph of the face of a very young brown-skinned girl, maybe ten or eleven, her head turned at a sharp angle. A strip of silver duct tape covered her mouth. Her big dark eyes were looking as far left as they could possibly turn—toward her temple, where the muzzle of a big black pistol was pressed.
Oh my God . . .
Maggie’s mind flooded with thoughts.
The first, which caused Maggie to begin tearing up herself as she stared at the young girl’s tearing eyes, was: That is the look of total terror.
The next was: I can’t tell who that is. It could be Janine. But does it matter who it is?
Then: What have I done? This is crazy. Completely out of control.
And finally: I give up. Now there’s only one option. . . .
[FOUR]
New Hope House
Hazzard Street, Philadelphia
Monday, November 17, 6:22 P.M.
After Payne and Byrth made their introductions, Byrth showed Eldridge his phone with the photograph from the Department of Transportation ID.
“Elizabeth Cusick,” Byrth said, “age twenty, five-one, one-ten, blonde, blue eyes. The address on this ID is this address.”
“Beth?” Eldridge said, nodding. “Sure. She was here maybe two months ago. And most girls use this address, especially when they apply for SNAP?”
Payne nodded and said, mostly for Byrth’s benefit, “Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program. Food stamps.”
“Right,” Eldridge said. “She came with a friend, nice-looking girl afraid of her own shadow. Hardly ever talked, this girlfriend. Beth did most of the talking. But when she did, it was with an accent. I’m guessing Russian?”
Payne and Byrth exchanged glances.
Byrth then said, “How long were they at your flophouse—”
“‘Transitional housing,’” he interrupted. “We prefer that. Lots of folks winding up here first got referred to other homes right out of jail. To get in those, though, they got to be clean. Which sometimes the jail time does for them. But when they sometimes slip—and most times they slip—they’re thrown out. Tragic cycle, sad to say. That’s how come we tell them to be clea
n, just don’t demand it. We’re hoping they can ease off the addiction.”
“Does that work?” Byrth asked, his tone skeptical.
“Sometimes. It ain’t easy. Ever. Believe me, I know. I’ve been fighting my own monkey on my back longer than I care to say.”
“What about this Cusick girl?” Byrth said.
