Hank watches me quietly. “Based on your allegations to DHS two years ago, we know you experienced firsthand the department’s negligence when it came to victims.”
“They weren’t just allegations,” I snap, sharper than I mean to. “Everything I said was true. You read the letter he left in Tennessee. Joe is a pedophile. He preyed on me, and if what you’re saying is true, he helped others do the same. I know what he’s capable of.”
Hank raises a hand in apology. “Of course,” he says quickly. “That’s not what I meant.”
I nod, trying to quiet the tremble under my skin. I know he didn’t mean offense, but this subject… it hits raw.
“We’re almost there,” he says after a pause. “The setup’s ready. You’ll join by video, with full anonymity. You’ll be able to see them, but they won’t see you. And the voice modulation is strong. You won’t even recognize yourself.”
“Okay.” I exhale slowly. “Good.”
It helps. A little. I know those men. I grew up around them, around Joe’s precinct and his so-called friends. Barbecues, office visits, small-town smiles with dark underbellies. The last thing I want is for them to know I’m the one helping to take them down.
And Joe… if any of them still speak to him, if word gets back… I don't even finish the thought. Some shadows still chase me. Some names still freeze my blood.
But this?
This is one step toward the light.
∞∞∞
Telling my truth to a courtroom full of strangers is excruciating.
Even faceless, I feel seen. Like they can look through the static and find me anyway. I’m forced to relive some of the darkest moments of my life. The defense attorney twists my words, circles me like a shark, looking for blood, but I don’t flinch. My memories are solid. Tattooed into me. I couldn’t forget them if I tried.
When I’m finally dismissed, the judge thanks me, and the screen goes dark. Hank shuts the laptop and turns to me.
“You did good, kid,” he says gently. “What you did today… it’s going to help people. You should be proud.”
I give him a weak smile, blinking through the last of my tears.My face feels swollen. I don’t need a mirror to know I look wrecked.
“Thanks. Mind if I freshen up? I’m sure I look like hell.”
“You look like a survivor,” he says. “You’re tough. Own it. And yeah, the bathroom’s out the door, to the left, last door on the right.”
“Left, then right. Got it.”
I slip out and find the restroom easily. After relieving myself, I move to the sink and splash cold water on my face. It stings, but in a good way. Like a reset. I clean the mascara streaks with shaking fingers and blot my cheeks dry with paper towels.
By the time I make it back to the room, Hank’s packed up the electronics and is waiting for me. I’m spending the night in a safe house before flying back to Atlanta tomorrow. Short and sweet. In and out.
“Ready?” he asks.
“As I’ll ever be.”
We exit the DHS building and walk toward the curb, but the car’s empty. The driver’s gone.
“Shit,” Hank mutters. He pulls out his phone and steps a few feet away to call, probably trying to locate him.
I scan the area out of habit, just to have something to do with myself. That’s when I spot it. There’s something white tucked under one of the windshield wipers.
“Hey, Hank?” I call, pointing. “There’s a flyer or something on the car.”
At first, I think it’s just an ad. Maybe for a local diner or political candidate? But none of the other cars have one. Just ours.
Hank ends his call and strides over, plucking the paper free. It’s folded in half. He opens it and goes still. His face pales.
“Get back inside,” he barks. One hand clamps around my arm, tight and urgent, and his other goes to the concealed firearm at his waist.
