Say the Word (21 page)

“I’m sorry to just show up like this,” he said, dual red spots appearing on his cheeks. “It’s just, well, you seem distant. I wanted to see if you were okay.”

Shit. Of course he had to be the most considerate guy on the planet. Why couldn’t he be a selfish jerk? That would make things so much easier for me.

“I’m really sorry, Desmond.” I took a deep breath and tucked my legs up beneath me on the sofa cushion. “You’re completely right. I’ve been distracted and upset and… well, just a mess, lately.”

“What’s wrong?” He reached across the space between us and settled a large hand on my knee. His comforting squeeze made my eyes fill with tears. “You can tell me, babe.”

“I’ve been completely unfair to you,” I confessed, my voice shaky. “You deserve someone much, much better than me.”

“What?” He stared at me, taken aback by my words. “Lux, that’s crazy.”

“You don’t know about my past.” I took a shuddering breath, trying to regain control. “I had a relationship when I was young that didn’t end well. For either of us. And I thought I’d never see him again, but last week I bumped into him at
Luster
, of all places. Now he’s pretty much my boss for the next few weeks. I just don’t think I can handle all the history that seeing him dredges up while trying to start a new relationship with someone else.”

I looked at him apologetically, dreading his response. Hurting such a good guy felt supremely shitty, but it was necessary. It wouldn’t be fair to string him along while my thoughts were
wrapped up in Sebastian. 

Desmond squeezed my knee reassuringly. “And this guy, he’s—”

“He hates me,” I blurted out. “And I don’t blame him. But it doesn’t make it any easier to see him, or be around him.”

“And there’s no possibility of a future toge—”

“No.” I cut him off.  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be burdening you with this.”

“Hey,” he said, reaching out and entwining his hand with mine. “Don’t worry about it, Lux. I know all about first loves — they’re complicated and messy, and they rarely end well. I understand if you need some time and space to sort out your thoughts.” He took a deep breath. “And maybe I’m an idiot for telling you this while you’re in the process of breakin
g up with me, but I’d be an even bigger idiot for walking away without telling you that I think you’re amazing. I’ve never met someone like you before. And I’m not saying we’ll be able to just put things on hold and pick them up exactly where we left off. But maybe in a few weeks or a few months, when you’ve figured things out… give me a call.”

I felt my chest swell with feeling. He was seriously the perfect guy. Something was definitely, fundamentally, inexplicably wrong with me for walking away from him right now and sabotaging the only shot I had at happiness. Any girl in the world would be lucky to give her heart to a man like Desmond, because he was one of the rare men out there who’d be sure to treasure it forever.

But I’d given my heart away a long time ago, and I’d never gotten it back.

He cupped my face between his hands and dropped a kiss onto my forehead. I squeezed my eyes shut, unsurprised when tears escaped beneath the lashes and tracked down my cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“Don’t be,” he whispered back. “I’m not. And… maybe someday.”

“Maybe someday,” I echoed quietly as he walked out the door, my mind a messy snare of conflicting thoughts. If I moved on, if I loved someone else — even if it wasn’t the epic, once-in-a-lifetime kind of love I’d shared with Sebastian — was I betraying the memory of that love? Would loving a man like Desmond detract from the memory of my love with Sebastian?

And, the real question: did I want it to? 

Because those memories, though they gave me pain, were a part of us. A part of
me
.

Maybe I wasn’t the kind of girl who wanted a simple love, with the joys of shared conversations and mutual interests. Maybe I didn’t want Valentine’s Day cards, a chore wheel to split up domestic tasks, or nothing-fights in the supermarket about whether or not there was any laundry detergent left at home.

No.

Maybe instead, I wanted the kind of love that devastates you. The kind that rips your insides open and leaves you gutted, out in the cold. Maybe I wanted that great, epic, once-in-a-lifetime love, that consumes with the brightest of flames. And maybe, even though I knew the hottest fires often burn out the fastest, even though it couldn’t last… it was worth it.

People say love isn’t supposed to be painful. But maybe the best things in life are the ones that hurt the most after they’re gone.

The next day at work was better and worse, all at once.

It was better because Sebastian wasn’t there. Whether his absence had anything to do with our scene on the table after hours last night, I had no idea — and, frankly, I didn’t want to. Seeing him would only add to the tangled bird’s nest of thoughts and emotions I’d yet to begin to unravel.

It was worse because, without Sebastian there to rein her in, Cara was more demanding than ever. After another morning spent doing coffee runs for her and her friends — seriously, pumping that much artificial vanilla sweetener into a latte could
not
be good for you — Cara decided that I could run the rest of her errands while I was at it.

“Here’s my grocery list,” she said, staring down at me from her perch on a director’s chair in the fitting area. “Go to Whole Foods, then bring everything to my apartment. My address is on the list. I’ve already called the concierge — he’s expecting you.” She smiled at me, extending the list with one manicured hand.

“I’m not doing your grocery shopping, Cara.”

“What’s that?” she asked. “Did I hear someone protesting? Because I’m pretty sure I have your boss’ number right here in my phone. Want me to call her? Give her a little progress report on your work ethic?”

I glared at her, watching as her finger scrolled through her contact list and hovered over Jeanine’s name.

“I’m sure she’ll be upset to hear about your performance as a
Luster
representative.” Cara shook her head in faux sadness. “Such a shame for you to lose your job over a little laundry.”

“Laundry?” I bit out between clenched teeth.

“Oh, yes. I’ll need you to pick up my dry cleaning as well. Didn’t I mention that before?” She smiled at me maliciously.

“No,” I snapped, snatching the sheet of paper from her grasp. “You didn’t.”

“My mistake.” Her tinkling laugher filled the air, mocking me. “I’d hurry up, if I were you. It’s already past noon, and you’ve got a full day of errands to keep you busy!” She clapped her hands together excitedly, like a giddy child.

I turned to go, defeated. Cara might look like a total bimbo, but apparently she possessed enough brains to blackmail me. If she called Jeanine, I had no doubt I’d be out of a job. And no job meant no paycheck, so I’d be out of my apartment and living on the streets in a matter of weeks.

She had me cornered, and she knew it.

I’d gotten about five feet from her when her voice rang through the air, loud enough to draw attention from nearly everyone on the floor.

“Lux!”

I turned and faced her, filled with foreboding. Her expression was gleeful, but her eyes showed a deep malice. I wasn’t sure what I’d done to this girl, besides accidentally drop a salad she likely had no intention of ever consuming, but she seemed to hate me a great deal.

“I forgot to put condoms on the grocery list. Would you be a dear and swing by Duane Reade to grab some? Oh, and Seb—” She broke off, grinning at her
accidental
slip up. “My
boyfriend
has been practically insatiable for the last few days, so make sure it’s the jumbo pack.”

Her words were a kick to the gut. I nodded robotically and turned on my heel, so I didn’t have to look at her anymore. An icy weight dropped like a stone into my stomach and my limbs felt leaden and uncoordinated, as though my neurons had frazzled and the entirety of my system was shutting down.

I made it to the elevator on autopilot, trying my best to tune out Cara’s triumphant laughter. When the doors closed behind me, I leaned back against the mirrored wall and forced deep breaths into my lungs. I hated how much her words had affected me, but the thought of him going home to Cara after what had happened between us last night made me feel physically ill.

The worst part, though, was that Cara had only been toying with me — piling on one more degrading task to my list of chores. She wasn’t even aware how deeply her words would cut or how very personal her attack had been. If she ever found out about my past with Sebastian, I could only imagine the extent to which she’d go to torture me.

I prayed that day would never come as I hailed a cab and headed off for an afternoon of errands.

My gaze scanned the coffee shop twice as I walked through the doors, but I didn’t spot Miri anywhere. I was running twenty minutes late, so I hoped she was still waiting for me. As it turned out, Cara actually did ingest more than Starbucks lattes and salad; her grocery list had been quite extensive. I’d spent most of the afternoon trying to discern the difference between sushi and sashimi, attempting to track down the exceedingly rare — and apparently highly in-demand — imported white sapote fruit so Cara could make her morning smoothies, and asking three different Whole Foods employees to help me find a very specific brand of raw milk artisanal cheese. Though my own eating habits had evolved in recent years to include
Merlot and the occasional box of macaroons, for a girl who grew up on spray-cheese and Spam, I was a bit out of my comfort zone.

In a shocking turn of events, I’d “forgotten” to swing by Duane Reade to restock Cara’s condom supply.
Oops
. Thankfully, picking up her dry-cleaning had only taken a few minutes and, as promised, her concierge was expecting me when I arrived at her building. He’d helped me lug the grocery bags up to Cara’s apartment and even stayed to unload them with me.

Still, getting across town during the evening rush was always a nightmare, and by the time I reached the Village I was late for my meeting with Miri. Hopefully, she was still around here somewhere and we’d get a chance to talk. I approached the counter and ordered a chai tea latte. After the day I’d had, I was in desperate need of something soothing to sip on while I waited.

“Name?” the girl taking my order asked, her sharpie poised over my paper cup.

“Lux.”

She stared at me for a beat, her dark blue, heavily-lined eyes evaluative. When I blinked and averted my gaze, unsettled by her intense stare, she scribbled my name onto the cup and passed it down the line to the barista.

“Were you meeting someone here?” she asked, rather strangely.

My eyes flew back to her face and I nodded.

“Young girl, around fourteen? Brown hair? Foreign accent?”

“Miri,” I breathed, instantly uneasy. “I was supposed to meet her here at six, I’m running late.”

“She left this for you,” the girl said, reaching one tattooed arm beneath the counter and revealing a sealed white envelope. I grabbed it from her hand, staring at the three swirling cursive letters that had been scribed across the front:
LUX
.

“What did she say?” I asked, my eyes fixed on the envelope as I handed over a
five-dollar bill.

“Not much.” The cashier shrugged and passed back my change. “Seemed kinda scared though. Flighty. Looking around in every direction, like someone was watching her or something.”

My heart picked up speed and my fingers itched to tear open the letter.

“Thanks,” I murmured.

As soon as the barista called my name, I headed for a small table in a quiet corner of the cafe with my latte in hand. My drink sat before me untouched, growing cold as I read Miri’s letter over and over. My eyes scanned the handful of short lines so many times they began to blur together into one smeary brick of black text.

Lux,

I’m sorry I couldn’t wait for you. Santos was standing outside
my apartment when I got home yesterday. He was watching me. I’m scared, Lux. They can’t know I talked to you, or I’ll disappear like Vera. Please don’t come back to see me. It’s too dangerous. I’m sorry again. Your friend,

Miri

PS: Be careful. He’s a bad man.

I sat for so long the sun set and gave way to full darkness outside the cafe windows. Miri’s words played on a never-ending loop in my mind, stirring within me a tidal wave of guilt, despair, and fear so strong I worried I’d be pulled under, never to resurface.

They can’t know I talked to you.

I’ll disappear like Vera.

Be careful. He’s a bad man.

Had I put an innocent child’s life in danger with my foolish insistence to get involved? My intentions had been pure, of course, but did that matter when Miri, a
fourteen-year-old girl, was afraid for her life?

Her request was a
double-edged sword. If I went back to see her, I might endanger her further; if I followed her wishes and stayed away, I’d live in a constant state of worry that something awful had happened. Either choice would slice me open.

No matter how much I wanted to make sure she was okay, I couldn’t risk another trip to Two Bridges. If she was right, rather than just paranoid, my presence in her neighborhood might make her situation worse. But I couldn’t just walk away from this — not now that I knew girls were disappearing by the handful.

Santos.

The police officer who watched the young girls. He was the only clue I had to go on. I hoped it would be enough, as I rushed from the cafe to the closest subway platform. It was time to do some research.

I quickly discovered that finding Santos might be a bigger feat than I’d originally estimated. He was one, small navy-uniformed needle in the mountainous haystack that was the NYPD.

Hunched over my laptop with one hand clutching my phone to my ear and the other holding a very full glass of wine, I tried to convince my best friend that I wasn’t crazy.

“You’re nuts,” Fae said, snorting into her receiver.

I was off to a good start. “I’m not nuts!”

“You honestly think Vera’s disappearance has something to do with the NYPD?”

“Miri said Vera isn’t the only girl who’s disappeared. And, Fae, the stuff I’ve been reading…” I trailed off, eyes peeled on the screen in front of me. “It’s messed up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you know the NYPD employs over 50,000 people? That’s more than the entire FBI! And there are thousands of stories posted online about police brutality and internal corruption on the squads.”

I heard Fae exhale a long huff of air.

“I’m not making this up, Fae. I’ve been reading this stuff for the past few hours, and there are more on-duty murders and cover-ups than you can imagine. Just go online, it’s all there at your fingertips.” My voice was intent. “Plus, did you know $4.6 billion dollars from last year’s city budget went solely to fund the police force? Our freaking mayor referred to the NYPD as the ‘seventh largest army in the world.’ Don’t you think that’s a bit excessive?”

“Excessive, maybe,” she agreed. “But it doesn’t change the fact that you sound like a crazy conspiracy theorist.”

“Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely,” I muttered into the phone.

“Don’t quote Lord Acton to me,” Fae protested. “I was a freaking History major in college.”

I sighed. “Well, I found a picture of Santos and it’s beyond creepy. Maybe you’ll change your mind when you see it.”

“Maybe,” Fae said, humoring me. “I have to go, the delivery guy is here with my Chinese. Promise me you won’t obsess over this all night.”

“Yep. I promise,” I agreed, rolling my eyes as I hung up.

Clearly, I wasn’t going to get much support from Fae. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was on to something.

My first hour of searching had been spent mainly sloughing through internet archives filled with useless factoids and anecdotes about the police force. I hit my first stroke of luck when I typed the name
Santos
in combination with my NYPD search and found a story from last August on the
New York Daily News
website. The article itself contained useless information on new city transit laws, but it was accompanied by a photo of a man in a navy blue uniform surrounded by a group of small children. One of the little girls, who was no more than five or six, was wearing his peaked officer’s cap and giggling at the camera as the brim fell down over her eyes.

The caption read:
Officer Martin Santos, fifteen year NYPD officer and investigator for the narcotics unit, shares a laugh with neighborhood kids on their way to school in Little Italy early Friday morning.

Officer Santos wasn’t “sharing a laugh,” or even looking at the camera; his gaze was focused intently on the laughing girl wearing his cap. Despite the matte photo, his eyes appeared to gleam with excitement and one corner of his mouth was lifted in a knowing smirk.

My stomach turned at the sight of him.

If I had to describe Santos with one word it would be
nondescript
. He was utterly unremarkable, average in every way — medium height and build, with slicked-back dark hair and brown eyes so light they were nearly colorless. He was maybe in his late thirties or early forties; stocky without being overweight, his hair thinning out but not balding, and his features plain but not unattractive.

He was someone you wouldn’t look twice at if you passed him on the street.

Well, I planned to do more than look at him, I thought, as I scribbled down the address of the downtown precinct that served as home base for the NYPD Vice Crimes unit. I was going to track him down and shadow him for the day. And if I got so much as an inkling that Officer Santos was somehow involved in the disappearance of underage immigrant girls…

I was going to take him down.

With a deep sigh, I swallowed a large gulp of wine and set the empty glass on my bedside table. My fingers hovered over the keys for a minute and I contemplated what I was about to put into my search engine. A string of simple words I’d never have guessed I’d one day find myself typing.

Immigrant girls disappearing.

In a fraction of a second, Google had retrieved over 10,000,000 results for my perusal.

I read, with a growing sense of horror,
about young girls all over the world who were being lured away from their families and forced into pimp-driven prostitution rings or escort services. I was haunted as I saw, over and over, the same words flashing across my screen.

Sex trade.

Human trafficking.

Child slaves.

The thoughts were so revolting, my first instinct was to shy away, to deny that it could be possible. Things like this didn’t happen in this day and age. And certainly not in America.

Right?

I refined my Google search to sex trafficking in the United States and forced myself to look on. My eyes blurred with tears as I read firsthand accounts from girls who’d escaped. Adolescents, barely on the cusp of adulthood, who were promised money or fame or fine clothing, and who instead received nothing but a short life on a dirty mattress in the back room of a modern day brothel. Most of them never saw a dime of the spoils earned from the exploitation of their bodies.

I read stories of preteens who were snatched off the streets. Often, they were drugged, raped, and beaten into submissi
on by a sadistic pimp. Their spirits broken, their childhoods stolen, their lives eventually lost.

And what of the victims who hadn’t escaped? For every one who broke free of this life and somehow gathered the courage to discuss it afterward, there were countless whose stories went unvoiced.

This seemed like some alternate reality — some other, darker version of the nation and the city I’d come to love. This was America. The best country in the world. Yet, for all our prosperity and progress, it seemed that the gross majority of us — myself included — walked around with bags over our heads, so blissfully ignorant and caught up in our own lives that we didn’t even blink when children disappeared from our streets without a trace.

I felt a chill race down my spine as I stumbled onto a website with statistics. Though data was scarce, there were a few persistent trends. For one, the girls were almost always poor immigrants, between the ages of twelve and sixteen. They were usually undocumented, so no one took notice when they vanished. Plus, even if someone were to notice, the girls had no real legal status in our country — no protections against predators.
As a port city with a large unregistered population, New York was one of the biggest trafficking hotspots in the country.

Could Vera somehow be caught up in all of this?

I wasn’t sure. But it seemed far too coincidental that several young girls were now missing from the same neighborhood. And now that I’d dragged Miri into the fray, I was even more obligated to find out what was going on.

My fingers traced over the shiny silver cuff on my right wrist. I thought of Vera, her beautiful warm brown eyes dulled and lifeless as heroin thrummed though her system, while a man grunted and sweated and stole her innocence for a flat rate in a cheap motel room, or on a seedy street corner somewhere. Her inner light snubbed out into eternal darkness, on a semen-stained mattress in a room full of strangers.

My eyes pressed tightly closed at the images I’d conjured, unable to bear the thought of my sweet friend meeting such an end.

Jamie’d always said that the people who most deserve our help are the ones who’d never ask for it.

Vera hadn’t asked, but she needed someone to stand for her. To fight for her. And maybe there were more qualified people out there, who’d do more good than I could. Maybe I was the wrong girl for the job. But I’d never be able to meet my own eyes in the mirror again if I didn’t at least try to figure out what was going on.