For all their sakes, I hope she’s okay.
At their father’s insistence, the police are heading up a manhunt looking for them. They’re not doing any better than RJ, though.
Meanwhile, it took a few days for the girls who were going to be trafficked to realize they weren’t at the wedding as promotional models, but rather as victims. Summer worked on the girl she knew, and then that girl broke it down for the other girls. I hear they’re mostly in shock right now. Trips has already set aside money for each of them to get therapy, and RJ’s building a scholarship program for survivors of human trafficking, in case that’s the direction they want to go with their lives.
But there isn’t enough evidence to put Trevor behind bars. Not yet, at least. The police are working through everything RJ gave them, along with the girls’ statements. The threeempty storage units owned by the family are suspicious, and the girls’ stories about their portfolio shoots there match with the images the cops have on the dark web auction site.
Just like the girls themselves match.
Reed says it’s just a matter of time. Someone will turn against Trevor in exchange for a reduced sentence. Yet another predator will get a slap on the wrist, skirting the consequences of their actions. I hate it. And until they get someone to sing, Trevor frolics free—you can’t accuse a political figure until you have every bit of evidence locked down. Unfortunately.
At least one part of the plan went better than we expected. It turns out the clearing where I burned all the blackmail had secrets of its own. The kind with dental records.
RJ got his hands on some preliminary paperwork the country cops have, and the pyre was right over a stash of old bones. Clara and Trips said just enough those first few days for us to worry about fresh bodies with their DNA on them, but so far, everything’s old, old, old. And after an uncomfortable chat through IRC with Jasmine in Chicago, we learned that the ‘cleaners’ both her family and Trips’ use don’t bury onsite.
Either way, the cops have called in cadaver dogs to clear the rest of the woods. We’re just glad that Clara and Trips don’t have to worry about the people they were forced to kill coming back from the dead with DNA evidence that points straight to them. A small win, I guess.
But even out in the boonies, the police work slowly and carefully, not wanting to upset such a powerful family.
Justice and molasses share too many traits in my opinion.
Another good thing is that, as far as RJ can tell, Trips’ father hasn’t realized there are cops all over his rural property. I guess, having lost his blackmailed manpower, he can’t keep up with all his evil plans.
And he was full of evil plans. Clara and Trips haven’t been able to give us a full account of what happened, but what they have shared was horrifying.
That the only repercussions so far seem to be nightmares for Clara and even worse insomnia for Trips might seem like a blessing. But it’s not. They’ve been through so much, they’ve changed, and it scares me. Because I’ve changed, too.
Once this calms down, will we be able to get back to where we were, where we always should have been? Will we be closer, or do our jagged edges no longer fit together?
Clara shifts her weight, a shuddering breath leaving her as she forces herself to her feet. “I think I’m ready,” she whispers.
Our group shuffles out of the pew, Emma and Summer with us, and follow Clara to the front. She motions for us to stay back as she approaches the casket. A trailing bit of a white flower dangles over the side of the burnished wood.
Clara whispers to the wooden box, pressing her forehead to the smooth surface. My heart aches, having stood in the same place, whispering words to my dad that I’d never get to say to him in person. Gone too soon. A foundation crumbling.
Her mother’s sobs get louder as Clara says goodbye, drawing my attention from where it should be to her furious form. She glares at her daughter, trembling. Everyone near her turns away, not wanting to watch the woman lose it. But then she’s flying at Clara, her screams garbled and unintelligible, snatching the back of Clara’s loose curls with clawed fingers.
RJ gets to her first, snagging the woman around the waist and hoisting her away, even as Clara stumbles back with a whimper, her hair locked in her mom’s fist.
“This is all your fault!” her mom screams.
Clara says nothing, just untangles her hair from her mom’s fingers, tears clinging to her eyelashes. The rest of us slide between the two women, a living wall between them. But Clara acts like she doesn’t notice the drama, her mother flailing her legs hard enough for one heel to clatter against the floor as her wails grow louder. Instead, my girl turns back to the coffin, her hand stroking the side. “Love you, Dad,” she says.
Trips rushes to help RJ drag her mother away as she gives yet another strangled shout.
Not wanting to watch another person try to hurt the girl I love, and not able to sit in her grief without baring the weight of my own long ago loss, I turn to the mostly empty church, seeking something to hold my attention before I sink any deeper and get stuck some place in my mind I can’t get out of.
A figure sneaks into the back of the chapel, and a flicker of rage overtakes my grief—his mock sympathy is not welcome here.
I elbow Walker, pointing at the interloper, and he throws his shoulders back, as ready to deal with this as I am. He whispers something to Emma, and she steps up to Clara, opening her arms. Clara dives into them, and they stumble back to our pew.
Walker and I stride down the aisle as Trips’ father takes in my shorter hair, the black washed out after way too manyshowers with dandruff shampoo and baking soda. His eyes skirt over the added piercings on my face before he glances at Walker beside me, his hair a mess from worry. “Such a sad day,” he says as we reach him, completing his perusal.
“You’re not welcome here,” I state.
“I would say I’m exactly where I should be. This is my daughter-in-law’s father, after all. What kind of family doesn’t support each other, especially during such a difficult time?”
Walker takes a step forward, but I clutch his wrist, not sure he’s in control. He’s become more volatile. Honestly, we all have. The urge to throw a punch aches in my bones where my urge to make others laugh usually dances. “It looks like this difficult time is taking its toll on you as well,” Walker states, his dark eyes flashing as he inspects Trips’ father the same way he did us.
