She continues talking. “This scheme basically involved human trafficking. These rich older men and all their friends wanted supposed maids—young, pretty girls who could pass as help—but they were really just sex slaves.”
The files. Those girls were all kidnapped and turned into sex slaves? The girl in my basement?
Now, more than ever, I feel like I’m going to throw up—but there’s nothing to throw up.
Even though it’s not necessary, I ask the question anyway. I want to hear her admit it. “Where did you come in?”
“There was no set schedule, but we had approximate timeframes and goals. During these particular timeframes, I had to make sure I had a room available. They’d bring these girls to Denver in the back of a cattle car pulled by a semi. They had it specially built so she would be hidden in case they were stopped by police. But once they got to Denver, Don and another man would deliver them here.”
“And so once they got here, what did you do?”
“I ordered what I called an amnesia regimen. Electroconvulsive therapy combined with a cocktail of drugs designed to help with memory loss. Sometimes it’s temporary; other times, memory loss is permanent. But even if they could remember certain things, I could prescribe drugs that would make them more docile, more pliable, more enjoyable to my clients’ liking.” My gut is simmering right now, but I keep my mouth shut. This is what I wanted—to know everything. “Most girls were ready to go after a month.”
I see Joe shift out of the corner of my eye before he says, “So where does Anna fit into all this?”
“She saw too much.”
“Obviously,” Joe says, making his voice sound like she’s an idiot for assuming the same of him. “But she wants to know how she got here. You can at least do her the courtesy.”
My heart swells a bit, reminding me that I already love this man—and I’m starting to trust him again. Someone who didn’t have my best interests wouldn’t ask these questions.
Would he?
“There was a delivery coming that day, and the semi pulling the cattle with one lone girl broke down about thirty miles west of Denver. Don and one of his guys met the delivery and took the girl so they could get the diesel repaired. I was at a conference on the east coast that day but flying in late that afternoon. I had planned her intake for around midnight. Later in the evening always worked best, because there’s less staff to deal with.
“Because Don couldn’t reach me, he had the girl in his car, but she was noisy and attracting attention, so he and his henchman took her to your house. It was temporary, he said. He restrained her in the basement and then made some calls. He couldn’t reach me because I was in the air, flying home, so he wound up renting a van as well as obtaining some Rohypnol. But, when he got home, ready to get her out of there, you had already found her. You’d come home earlier than he’d planned. So he used some of the drugs on you and brought you both to me for processing.” Her icy stare almost makes me shiver. “He would have killed you if your kids hadn’t shown up. Instead, he brought you to me and told your kids and the press that you’d tried to commit suicide.”
“And he put me here,” Joe says, “to keep an eye on you. He said you were dangerous. I couldn’t quite understand why he wanted me here but I figured it was temporary—that, once I could let him know how you were doing, I’d be gone.”
The sneer on Dr. Wilson’s face makes me sick. I can tell that she’s mad she got caught, that the feels like we should have been too stupid and too drugged up to catch them. There is not a single drop of remorse in her eyes.
I know enough now. Whatever I might have thought about this woman before, now I despise her. “I’m not even going to address what you did to me. But don’t you feel awful about those girls? Ripping them from their lives just so some disgusting dirty old men could feel good about themselves?”
“You don’t understand, Anna. These girls? They were living in deplorable conditions—runaways, drug addicts, from bad homes, living on the street. I don’t feel bad because we were giving them better lives.”
You can’t reason with evil.
She says, “Is there anything else I can clear up with you? Or can I go now?”
Joe shrugs. “Anna?”
“Just one more question. Why’d you keep those files in your office? What’s the point?”
“Your husband. He wanted evidence and leverage against the men he gave the girls to—just in case. And he obviously couldn’t keep them at home or in his office. And my real files are up for inspection at any time, so even though I kept dummy files on them while they were here, I destroyed them after they were picked up.” Lifting an eyebrow, she says, “Now can I go?”
Joe asks, “You good, Anna?”
“Yeah, I think so.” I hate, absolutely hate to the bottom of my gut, the idea that this vile woman is going to get off scot free—but Joe made a deal with her. And if we can tell the authorities everything, hopefully there will be enough, between my memory, the old cell phone, and the files that we can at least throw Don in prison. And now, knowing what I know about him, I have no doubt he’ll turn in all his rich friends to save his own ass.
Dr. Wilson nods. As she turns away, I expect her to go to her car. After all, she said she was going to leave. But then I realize something. “Joe, she’s going upstairs.”
“So?” he says, holding up Don’s new phone. “Let her.”
“What if she destroys the files? We can’t let her do that.”
“Oh, shit.”
Dr. Wilson must have heard me, because she starts sprinting toward the elevator.
26
For a hefty woman who walks like every step is torture, Dr. Wilson is hauling ass.
Joe’s head is in the van. “Where’s that fucking card?”
“What card?”
“The white one that let us in the garage. I’ll take the stairs and beat her to her office.”
“If the card will work there.”
But he doesn’t hear me. He’s already moving across the garage like an Olympic runner. “Stay with Don. The cops are coming.”
How does he know that?
But I’m watching him run, and Dr. Wilson’s already out of sight. More vehicles are driving through the garage, arriving for work, and I tiptoe back some so I won’t be obvious.
It’s then that I feel his hand around my neck from behind. At first, I’m confused. Is it Joe? Did he somehow sneak around with the intent to kill me, because his place in all this is more than I realized?
Or is it Don? Was he able to escape from the drapery ties?
I try struggling, but his hand is tight, strong against the delicate bones of my neck. “You just couldn’t leave it alone, Anna, could you?”
Oh, it’s definitely Don. I’d know that voice anywhere. How the hell did I ever fall in love with this vile human being?
I can’t breathe. But I can move my hands—and, in this position, there’s only one thing I can think of to do. I reach behind in the space between our bodies and I grab at his junk. Taking his dick and balls in my hand, I squeeze and twist and it’s not long before he violently slams my head into the side of the van. My temple connects with metal frame between the passenger door and the sliding door at the back, because both doors are open. It hurts, but I’m not incapacitated from it.