Chapter Twelve
Is it weird that I’m having dreams about Elliot? After what he did to me, I should be having nightmares, but they’re all pleasant dreams that have me waking up sad. In one, we’re at the coffee shop down the street from the tutoring center where I gave lessons five days a week. Nothing significant happens in this dream. I’m playing on my phone, and Elliot is reading a battered copy of some sci-fi novel. We spent a lot of time like that, in quiet parallel company. I know it seems weird, but it was just the kind of relationship we had.
In another, we’re walking in the park near our house. There’s a duck pond there, and I have a bag of day-old bread I picked up on the way over. Elliot watches me as I feed the ducks, and I’m laughing as he assigns them all names like Goofy and Squiggy and Blackjack. I look up to say something, but he’s walking away. I call to him, but he keeps going. With each step he takes, he fades a little bit until he’s transparent.
This is the dream that I always wake up crying from, and when I do, Atticus is there to wrap his strong arms around me. I was embarrassed to tell him about the dream at first. Why should I subconsciously feel longing for someone who betrayed me? I’m angry at how hard it is to let go of someone who literally sold me. But Atticus holds me while I cry, and tells me he understands. Loss is loss, he says, whether it’s by death or betrayal, and it’s okay to grieve for what was, or even for what you thought something was.
He makes love to me then, slowly and tenderly. Atticus uses sex like other men use language. Sometimes, it says, “Your body is mine for the taking.” But as he moves gently inside of me, his eyes riveted on mine, his hands moving over me in soothing motion, it says, “Your heart is mine for the healing.”
I treasure these quiet moments because I know things are coming to a head with the investigation. Atticus and his team spend more time conferring. As they do, I meet some of the other girls and realize that Atticus was right when he says I’m one of the lucky ones. He introduces me to Lila, a waiflike twenty-two-year-old blonde who could easily pass for fourteen. I learn that she was targeted for her youthful appearance. She was homeless when she was lured to an apartment by an older man who claimed to be a talent scout. She had only nine dollars on her when she accepted his offer. He gave her a drugged drink and she woke up chained in a barn. Like me, she was sold to another member of Atticus’ team, but they weren’t able to track down the real identity of the man who sold her. He gave them a location of where she could be found once payment was arranged. Today she works as a receptionist at The Fort with her girlfriend, Tara. She has a tattoo of a cracked manacle on her foot, which she says symbolizes her freedom.
Hearing her story, and the story of others, gives me a sense of purpose. Perhaps what I’ve been through happened for a reason. I ask Atticus to point me to articles on human trafficking. I spend a lot of time studying, and growing angrier at the horrors that humans can inflict on one another. My anger fuels me. By the time Atticus and his team come to me to tell me what my part will be, I am ready.
I get the news over breakfast. Atticus asks me if I’m sure.
“I’m sure,” I say, and I mean it. “What do I have to do?”
“You’re going to be the bait,” Atticus says. “You’ll contact Elliot and tell him you’ve escaped.” He gives me the backstory that I’ll have to convey to my former friend.
“Do you think you can act?” he asks.
I think of how I pretended to be brave. “Yes. I can act.”
“Elliot is going to know you’re a liability. He’s going to want to get rid of you. But Elliot is a coward. That’s why he never went the abduction route. He’s going to have no choice but to reach out to his contacts, to tell them that your escape has put them all in danger. I’m certain they’re going to want to personally see that you’re eliminated as a threat.”
Eliminated. The word carries ominous connotations, and I’m grateful that Atticus isn’t soft-pedaling this. It’s serious business, what I’m about to do.
“And where will you be?” I ask.
“In a van, tracking you,” he says. “You’ll be wired, Maeve. Everything that’s said will be recorded. When all is said and done, your friend will be the one in chains.”
I try to conjure an image of Elliot in a jumpsuit, pacing in a cell or—worse—hunkering over a crappy Dell during the one or two hours a week he was allowed to spend time on what would surely be a highly restricted computer. It would be a living hell for him, with no place to hide. DarkArt87 would just be another inmate, and his physical weakness would give him an appreciation for the helplessness bought-and-sold women feel against unwanted sexual advances. Weeks ago, I’d have not been able to do this to Elliot. But at the time I was only aware of my situation, my circumstances. What I’ve learned since has hardened my heart against anyone who engages in the flesh trade, including Elliot.
The call to let us know everything is in place will be made any day now, Atticus tells me. And I nod, and go to the gym, where I repeatedly punch a bag that I’ve named DarkArt.