Inside. Back booth. Just me.
It's not entirely a lie. Jackie can't see Marc from here, and bringing visible law enforcement would end this before it starts. These women were threatened by a federal agent. They don't trust badges.
The door opens. A woman enters, maybe late twenties, dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. She scans the diner with the kind of hyper-vigilance that comes from surviving the worst. Looking for exits. Counting threats. Assessing whether this is safe or a trap.
I recognize her from the photo Cara pulled from Emma's files. Thinner now. Harder than when she arrived. Survival leaves its mark.
She spots me, hesitates, then crosses to the booth. Slides in across from me but keeps her coat on. One hand stays in herpocket. I'd bet money there's pepper spray or a knife in there. Smart. I'd do the same.
"You're the nurse," she says. Not a question.
"Sela Mitchell. I worked with Emma Blackwater at Palmer Regional."
A lie. But a necessary one. Jackie needs to feel connected to Emma, needs to believe I understand what Emma was doing. The truth—that I found Emma's evidence after her death—sounds too convenient, too suspicious.
Her expression doesn't change but her shoulders drop half an inch. "Emma's dead."
"I know."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because Emma documented what happened to you. What Haywood did. And I need to know if you're willing to testify."
Jackie's laugh is bitter. Humorless. "You've got to be joking. You have no idea what you're asking me to do."
"I do, actually. I found Emma's evidence. Her recordings. Her surveillance photos. And the moment I reported it to the FBI, somebody tried to kill me—not once, but twice. So yeah, I know exactly what I'm asking. I know what Haywood's capable of. I know the risk. But Emma died trying to expose him, and if we don't finish what she started, he keeps doing this to other women."
Jackie stares at me. The waitress appears, refills my coffee, asks Jackie if she wants anything. Jackie shakes her head without looking away from me.
When the waitress leaves, Jackie says, "Emma was different. She actually gave a shit. Most of the staff at the ER, they'd treat the injuries and move on. Didn't ask questions. Didn't want to know. But Emma asked. And when I told her what happened, she believed me."
"I need your help."
"Why? You've got her recordings."
"Because audio files aren't enough. Defense attorneys will tear them apart. Emma was a civilian. She had no legal authority to make those recordings. We need live testimony. Someone willing to stand up in court and say what Haywood did. Will you testify? Or can you help me find other survivors who might?"
Jackie's hand tightens around whatever she's holding in her pocket. "You know what happens to people who testify against guys like him?"
"I know what happens if nobody does."
Silence. The diner noise fills the space between us—dishes clattering, low conversation from other booths, the hiss of the grill.
I wait. Let the silence do its work. In the ER, I learned that survivors need presence, not pressure.
Jackie pulls her hand out of her pocket. Empty. She's made a decision.
"I came to the US on a work visa," she says. Her voice is flat. Clinical. Like she's reporting facts instead of reliving trauma. "H-2B visa for hospitality work. Resort in Seward hired me. Said I'd be working the front desk, guest services. Good pay. Room and board included."
I don't interrupt. Listen. Let her tell it at her own pace. I watch her hands, her breathing, the way she holds herself. Looking for the signs I learned to recognize in the ER.
"First week, they took my passport. Said it was for safekeeping, that they had to submit copies for visa verification. Then they moved me to a different location. No resort. No guest services. A house with other women and men who told us we owed money for our travel expenses, our housing, our food. That we'd work it off."
"What kind of work?"
"Cleaning at first. Long hours. No days off. They paid us almost nothing, said most of it went to our debt. But the debt never got smaller. It just grew." She looks at her hands. Studies them like they belong to someone else. "Then they started moving some of the women to different houses. Said they'd make more money faster. I knew what that meant. So when they tried to move me, I ran."
"How'd you get away?"
