“How about a bath?” I ask, not missing the caked blood in her fingernails.
Her eyes well, still she nods. I know she’s sunk deep into that place within herself she finds the safest. I know not to press. It never goes well bombarding her with questions of why. If she knew why, we wouldn’t be here. All that matters is I’m here to take care of her the way she needs.
Stepping into the bathroom, I go over to the claw-foot bathtub. I knew she would love when I had it placed here. Filling it with the vanilla-rose bubble bath from the Love Apothecary. The fragrance fills the room as the steam wafts from the sudsy tub.
“Stand up for me, mi amore.” I whisper, kneeling before her small, curvy frame. Slowly, I work the jeans down her legs trying to avoid any bruises I don’t readily see.
“Good girl.” Praising her as she steps out of them, I stand pulling the Henley she normally wears for work over her head. She was closing or opening the shop when they came and got her.
They kept her in that place all day. For what? Knowing now is not the time to ask, instead I lead her to the bath, helping her get in.
“Keep your hands out of the water.”
Her nails are torn, and bleeding like my baby was fighting for her life. I guess in a way she always has been — only from demons that have haunted her for years.
Sitting on the edge of the tub, I take her hand, cleaning her nail bed and underneath, knowing how important it is for her to keep them clean for her work. She’ll be horrified to see them not pristine in the morning when she wakes.
Her fingers start trembling, then her whole body shakes uncontrollably. The moment it registers, I’m shucking off my clothes and getting into the tub with her.
“Shhh, I got you.” Pulling her tightly into my arms, I hold her, ignoring the way the hot water is scorching my sac. For long minutes, I hold her until her small frame processes the adrenaline racing through her body.
With soft, simple instructions not to put her bandaged hands in the water, I navigate through the rest of the bath. We stand together, letting the water sluice off us. Dabbing her and then myself with a bath sheet, we step out. Making her stand still, loading her toothbrush and moisturizing her before re-wrapping her in a dry sheet and tucking her in bed.
Going back to the bathroom, I finish my night routine before joining her. A little smile breaks free despite everything when she snuggles close to me.
Luminous eyes search mine. I see how haunted she is by all that’s happened, and it shatters me just knowing what the cause is but not knowing what triggered the present episode.
“Will I ever be free of this, Hadrián?” The forlorn plea cuts deep into my heart. I don’t have the answer to that, so I say instead with gentle strokes through her locs. “We will keep working on it until we find a way. You’ll never be free of me, and I’m not giving up on you.”
“Doyou think you can draw the tattoo you saw?” I ask Saban the next morning as I spoon oatmeal loaded with pecans into her bowl after she bravely tells me of all she endured the previous day.
“Sure.” Getting up from the little eat-in, two-seater table in the smallish kitchen, she pads over to the living room, pulling tracing paper from a stash inside the drafting table she uses to sketch her designs. Retrieving an art pencil, she comes back to the table and quickly sketches out the design of the phoenix rising from the flames of the crown.
“Damn.” I say, looking at the image. “That’s the tattoo the girls from the trafficking ring Rudy’s crew was running wore.” Meeting her steady brown gaze, I watch as the realization sharpens her soft features.
“Ah, that’s why it was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I got only a glimpse of it that night at the warehouse. That lady — Dr. Spencer — was so sure I was lying trying to protect someone. That’s why she wanted me held until I broke down and told them the truth. I didn’t see the girls log enough for it to register last year.” She sounds like she’s apologizing, and I don’t like that.
“It’s not on you.” Cupping her chin, I stroke the side of her cheek with the pad of my thumb. “The people behind this are the only ones responsible for the death of that girl.”
The day is sunny despite the gloom of the realization.
Rising, I call Angel to fill him in on the new information surrounding the death of the child. This has now become el Diablo business, and as in all things, we’ll handle it in-house.
“Aye, a trafficked kid was found in the Tombigbee, and she had a wrist tattoo like some of the girls Rudy’s crew brought over.” I tell him as soon as he answers the phone.
After a string of invectives, he asks. “Do they know how long she’s been here? Was this before or after the last time we intercepted one of their shipments?”
“Not sure. Saban says, her nails were freshly painted, and they said she was from Blount County, but all she saw of her was her hand and wrist.” I tell him.
“The fuck was she doing to know this?” he demands, clearly upset that Saban is involved. He loves her like a sister despite the trouble her not trusting us did to him and Easy.
“Nothing other than opening her shop. Ulysses came by asking her for help in identifying a tattoo. Only he took her to the morgue, where a FBI agent and the body of the kid were. Dr. Spencer didn’t feel like she was being forthcoming enough, so decided to keep her until she changed her mind. Then the storm hit —”
“Dammit.” He swears, well aware of Saban’s history with night terrors and panic attacks. “When I see his ass today at the event for Mathias, I’m going to have a word with him.”
“You’ll have to beat me to it. He’ll need the security we set up more than the soon to be Senator Shelby if I have anything to say about it.” I grumble.
“Bring Saban. It will be good for her to get out, and the food is guaranteed to be good. Mama-Pete has everyone in thecounty who can cook bring something, and The Camellia will have a tent. That alone should put Mathias over the top in this election.”
