Authors: Rena Olsen
I smile at her enthusiasm, but my heart constricts. Charlotte is living the life I was supposed to live. The life I thought I was living. I realize that this will be my life now, hearing about the experiences others have had, comparing them to my own, coming up wanting. But
Dr. Mulligan has already warned me against this, and I do my best to focus on Charlotte's words and the fact that she desperately wants to share her life with me, and I let the bitterness melt away. I am sure it will be back, but for now I am able to relax into the conversation.
Doug talks for a while about his job as a high school principal, entertaining us with stories of the kids he works with. I am surprised to find some commonalities, even though the way I did school was very different from what Doug is talking about. Kids are the same in so many ways, and I nod along with some of his anecdotes, being able to picture one of my girls or another trying to pull the same sorts of antics.
Finally able to speak in a steady voice, Jane talks about the work she does in a women's shelter. Her voice warms as she talks about her job and the people there, both her fellow workers, who are all as passionate as she is about these women, and the women themselves, from a variety of diverse backgrounds. She speaks with pride about the women who have gone on to finish school or get jobs or even just get back on their feet. There is sadness in her voice when she talks about the children who are at the shelter with their mothers, no place else to go. Her desire to help those who are less fortunate is touching, and I hope that I have at least a tiny bit of that in myself.
I don't talk much, just listen and soak it all in, and too soon Connor interrupts and tells my family it is time to leave. We stand, and Charlotte reaches for me first.
“We'll be back soon. My boys can't wait to meet Auntie Diana.” She pulls me close. “I'm so glad to have you back,” she says, her voice strained with emotion.
Doug pulls me into a hug next, his voice rough. “I always knew you were out there, Dee-Dee,” he says, and my heart warms at the nickname.
Last, Jane takes both of my hands and simply gazes into my eyes before pulling me close. I am taller than she is, and it almost feels like
I am hugging one of my older girls, except I am borrowing strength from Jane instead of the other way around. She stands on tiptoe to whisper in my ear. “I love you so much, Diana.”
Doug wraps his arms around his wife's and daughter's shoulders, and they walk out as a unit, Jane taking one last look behind her before the door closes. I hold back the tears as they leave the room. As soon as they are gone, I collapse back into a chair, emotionally exhausted and feeling somewhat unsettled. Connor, Jay, and Dr. Mulligan claim the chairs that had been occupied by my family.
No one speaks for several minutes. I am the one to break the silence. “What's next?”
It is auction day. The girls stand in a line from youngest to oldest, quiet but for anxious shifting. We have more auction-ready girls now than ever before. Eight of them, from ages twelve to seventeen. I will miss my girls, but I will be glad to have fewer of them around. They are all dressed in simple white dresses, hair pulled back from their faces.
“Please line up in the great room downstairs,” I say to the oldest, Rochelle, who obediently turns and leads the way down the stairs. I tiptoe down the hall to peek in on the younger girls. My next generation. Not all the girls downstairs will be taken today, and those left will be trained to help with the little ones or shunted to the brothel.
The little girls are playing with dolls. There are five of them, the youngest just six years old. I cannot imagine how a parent would not want her, but as always, I have plenty of room in my heart for her. I christened her Chloe. Samantha, who is ten and the oldest of this
group, is sitting by Chloe, trying to entice her to play. She will warm up eventually. They always do. Passion keeps the other three occupied, but I know she is paying attention to Samantha and Chloe as well. The girls who are being specially trained for their own clients are in another room, working on mending.
I slip out before they can spot me and ask me to play. I must be there for the other girls right now. I am thankful that Glen has agreed to let Passion stick around and help me. She will not listen to anyone else anyway. He threatened to send her to the brothel. It was our only major fight. I ended up with a broken wrist, but I won. Passion stayed. She will keep the little ones safe and quiet while our guests are here.
Downstairs, I find the girls standing as I have had them practice. Hands clasped in front of them, shoulders back, eyes straight ahead. Glen walks up and down the row, nodding. I pause at the bottom of the stairs and drink him in. He is so handsome. The dark blue shirt he wears complements his eyes, and his dark hair falls in carefully mussed waves to his ears. I have no trouble understanding how he is able to charm the clients. Just looking at him is enough to bring me a sense of safety and reassurance. He looks up and catches me watching him, and a smile flits across his face.
Glen walks over to me, wraps his arms around my waist, and lifts me off the step, spinning me before setting me down and planting a firm kiss on my lips. “You look perfect,” he says, and I feel a warm glow in my belly. He pats my rear before turning back to the girls. I notice some of his guards stationed around the room, and the glow from Glen's compliments turns to anxiety.
“Is it dangerous to have an auction here?” I ask. It had been planned for one of the old warehouses by our old apartment, but a couple days ago Glen came home and announced that we were hosting it here at the house instead. He didn't give a reason. He never gives a reason, and I didn't dare ask.
“Nah.” Glen shakes his head. “My guys are here mostly to make sure the clients keep their hands off the merchandise until it's paid for.”
I blanch at the term “merchandise.” Sometimes it almost seems like Glen does not see our daughters as people. I dismiss that thought, though. He loves them as I do and wants good things for them. Better than they could have had if they had ended up on the street. Or dead. I eye the large guns strapped to the backs of the guards.
“Where are all these guns coming from?” I whisper, and receive a pinch on the inside of my arm in response. I bite my lip to keep from squealing.
“You ask too many questions, Clara.” Glen's voice holds a warning. “Just stick to what concerns you. These girls.”
I nod, afraid to speak again, and Glen moves away to confer with his men. The doorbell rings, and the clients begin arriving.
Refreshments are placed all around. In the far corner of the room a table is set up to take the bids. It is a silent auction, with both clients and girls identified only by numbers. I hover near the line to make sure the girls comply with requests. The clients are not allowed to touch the girls, but can ask them to move this way or that. They are allowed to ask questions as well, to determine interests and intelligence. I am proud of my girls. They all answer their questions with great thought and articulation. Glen beams with pride from the other side of the room, and I know it is me he is proud of.
The auction moves quickly, and soon it is almost the end, and time for Glen to tally the results to find the highest bidders. Each girl has packed a small bag to take with her. Good-byes were said this morning. I search the room for Glen and find him having an intense conversation with a man who looks to be in his forties. Glen's forehead is wrinkled in concentration, and the corners of his mouth are turned down. The man is gesturing with his hands, making sharp stabbing motions in the air. I watch with interest until Glen nods. He looks up
and immediately finds me. His frown deepens, but he strides toward me, purpose in his steps.
“Clara, please go and bring the younger girls down.” Glen's voice is flat as he gives the instruction. I don't understand.
“Before the clients leave? Shouldn't we finish the auction first?”
A hand flashes and there is a loud smack as it falls across my face. My hand flies to my cheek and I gasp. The room has gone quiet. My daughters' eyes are wide when I glance at them, but my attention returns to Glen at once.
“Don't you dare question me,” he hisses. Louder, he says, “Go get the girls. Now.”
I fight tears as I stand up straighter. I nod and rush up the stairs. I pause outside the door to the bedroom. I can hear the playful tones of little voices through the wood, and I am afraid of what is ahead for them. They are not ready to leave our home. My gut tightens as I turn the knob. The girls look up at me in surprise.
“Mr. Glen would like you all to join us downstairs,” I say, trying to keep my voice upbeat. Passion stares at me, eyes wary, but she helps the little girls put their dolls away and takes the hands of the two nearest girls. I take one of Chloe's hands, and Samantha takes the other. The last girl, just seven years old, clings to my free hand. We march down the stairs in a glob, no order, nothing like the girls earlier.
The open stairway allows our guests to watch our progress, and I feel the weight of all their eyes on us. I line the girls up by age in front of the older girls, and then take Passion's arm and step back. When I see some of the clients eyeing Passion, I nudge her. “Go wait upstairs.” My voice is quiet, but I see Glen look at me. He does not contradict my order, and Passion backs away and skirts up the stairs.
I am not surprised when the gentleman I saw talking with Glen earlier is the first to inspect the younger girls. He bends down to their level and talks to them in a low voice. When he gets to Chloe, he says
something, and she giggles. I am in shock. He stands and nods, and Glen begins reading off the winners of the auction.
Each client goes with Glen into his office to settle his debt and comes out to collect his girl. Eight of the older girls find new homes. The man who made Chloe laugh is last. He and Glen are in the office for a long time, and the girls grow fidgety. Glen's men keep a watchful eye, stoic and unmoving. I suck in a breath when Glen emerges.
The man takes Chloe. And Amanda, the seven-year-old. Amanda screeches and cries, and the man slaps her across the mouth. I cannot help myself. I rush at him, shoving him away.
“Clara! No!” Glen shouts at me. He yanks my arm and throws me across the room. My head comes into contact with the railing to the stairs, and everything goes black.
We reconvene the next morning to discuss strategy now that I have decided to cooperate fully with the investigation. We're back in the questioning room, but it doesn't feel as oppressive or intimidating as it has in the past. I am no longer resisting this process. I am no longer holding anything back. Meeting my family was the last piece of the puzzle. My emotions are still raw over my decision, but I do not doubt that I am doing the right thing for me and for my child. For our future.
Connor pulls out one of his many file folders and opens it, sliding it across the table. I gasp when I see Mr. Harrison's face staring up at me. In my mind, since South Dakota, his face has been permanently etched, and I cannot think of him without a wave of nausea crashing over my body. This picture, however, was clearly taken when he was
a bit younger. He still has the creepy vibe, even through the picture, but there are fewer lines around his mouth and his eyes are not as dull as when I knew him.
“I take it you recognize this man,” Connor says, raising an eyebrow when I look at him.
I nod. “Mr. Harrison. Yes.”
“Richard Harrison was one of his many aliases. His given name was Fred Mundy. He had many dealings with shady individuals and organizations, a hand in many different jars, so it was no surprise when he turned up dead about a year ago.”
My fists clench. This must be what Glen was afraid of from the beginning. That somehow they would connect Mr. Harrison to us. His warnings make even more sense now.
“We have several guys undercover in this area, checking out various questionable organizations. A few months after Fred Mundy was found, one of them was following a lead on an illegal brothel. He went to investigate, and the girl he talked to had very distinctive markings behind her ear.”
He slides another photo across the table. It is a close-up of a small tattoo, an X with a star on each point. “This was Mundy's mark. He would tattoo his girls as soon as he got them, we think as a safeguard. Sometimes he told his business partners about them, but more often he would only bring that piece of information out when it suited him.”
I stare at the photo. I don't remember seeing this on any of the girls, even Genevieve, but it seems as if it was designed that way. I look back at Connor. “So your guys, what, figured out this was one of HarrisâMundy's girls? Why didn't you bust them right away?”
Connor makes a face. “Many wanted to, but we knew the brothel was only the tip of the iceberg. We wanted more. We'd heard about an auction going on that the big boss was running, so we waited. And planned. But when we got to the location, there was nothing.”
Auction day. The last-minute change in location. “Someone must have tipped them off,” I say, staring at the table. “We had the auction at the house. I lost a lot of good girls that day.” Young girls. Tears prick my eyes when I think about those girls, and the fact that they might have been saved if the auction had gone as planned at the warehouse. I shake my guilt off and pull my shoulders back. I won't be any good to them if I let this information crush me. I relay the details of the auction, which are still fresh in my mind. The agents scribble frantically.
Connor looks up when I finish, and his face is brighter than I've seen it since I've known him, though I feel a thousand years older. “What else?” Might as well get this all over at once.
Connor and Jay look at each other. “We've been building a case against Mae Lawson,” Connor says, clearing his throat nervously. They are not sure what my feelings are toward Mama anymore. I am not sure I even know how to feel about the woman who raised me and lied to me for my entire life. “We need your help.”