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I don’t ask who he is talking about. I don’t have to. Michael has driven the girls up to his mother’s for the afternoon to get away from everything—namely, all of the foot traffic on our lawn. I stayed behind, feigning the need for a b
it of quiet and, with any luck, a nap. “See what?”
“Nothing...never mind.”
Shrugging nonchalantly, I pull out a barstool and motion toward it. “Sit.”
I can tell he’s still angry with me over the unfortunate events that took place during our last flight. But, I can also tell that this isn’t the half of it. “It doesn’t make any sense,” Henry says, perching himself on the seat. “You’re wearing three-hundred-dollar pants. Meanwhile, he’s driving around in a beat-up Honda.”
Refusing the bait, I tap the back button, rewinding the video fifteen seconds. The muffled voice plays again, seeping equally with desire and control. “You think he’s using a voice changer?”
“It’s possible.”
As the girl pulls the T-shirt over her head, I watch intently hoping to see something I missed before, although what exactly, I’m not sure. A clue, a birthmark, anything.
“She can’t be more than thirteen,” Henry says, staring over my shoulder. The girl covers her chest with the crumpled T-shirt and both hands.
“Why are you here?” I ask, addressing the elephant in the room.
“You mean other than the fact that you’ve majorly fucked up?”
“Yes—other than that.”
“Because I wanted you to see this.”
I refuse to indulge Henry in his games. At least not in the way he wants. Which is why I don’t respond. It’s easier to let him drive his point home. Mostly because I’m aware this is not the only reason he’s here, sitting in my kitchen, at my bar. This is Henry’s way of once again making one of his points.
“Two guesses who’s behind this?”
I give him a sideways glance. The truth is it could be anyone in the video. Sure, the M.O. closely resembles that of Geoffrey Dunsmore. Buy a girl, keep a girl, film the girl, discard the girl by whatever means strike his fancy. But that isn’t saying much. This world is full of small time traffickers, but we’re rarely paid to dispose of people involved with one of those. It’s the more nefarious rings we’re paid to infiltrate, those who have select clientele, those who are competition for one reason or another, those who think they’re immune to getting caught—those who make a big production of it, like the one we are watching on Henry’s phone.
The doorbell rings. Henry’s eyes dart toward the front of the house.
“It’s probably just a neighbor. You wouldn’t believe how many friends I’m making.”
Henry rolls his eyes. “Because that’s exactly what you need.”
“You have no idea.”
The bell chimes again. I pull up the doorbell camera app on my phone. “Nope, it’s someone from the media.”
“How long can this go on?”
“I don’t know.”
“I saw the interview, by the way.”
Shoving my phone in my pocket, I walk around the counter toward the coffee pot where I refill my mug. Eventually, I turn and meet Henry’s eye. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah—and well, let’s just say you put yourself—you put all of us in a compromising position.”
The coffee burns my mouth. I hardly notice. “What was I supposed to do?” I ask, considering how much time a hot cup of coffee might buy me. “I have a life, Henry.”
“So?”
“So this is not what I expected either,” I tell him, thinking about how it could just as easily be my daughter in that video, thinking about how sometimes you get too close to a thing before you realize the trouble you’re in.
You have to be careful. Evil is like a dandelion that spreads and spreads until they’re at your very own back door. Until they’re in your kitchen. And worse, you realize you invited them there. “You think I asked for that guy to shoot up the supermarket? As you can see, there are people all over my lawn. Neighbors are coming ’round at all hours. I can’t even leave the house.”
