“Nineteen,” she says, her gaze on her feet. “Now.”
Time stops. I stare at Grace, willing myself to be wrong, to have misheard, for her to say it’s nineteen o’clock. Nineteen minutes from here back to my hotel. Anything other than what I know she means. My brain automatically does the math. Nineteen minus four means Grace was fifteen when she started working for Thrasher.
“Fuck. Shit.Fuck.”
Grace lifts her gaze and watches me, unblinking. As if she can see every disgusting conclusion running through my head. I feel utterlyunworthy of being here. Of being the person bearing witness to what Thrasher did to her. What he’sstilldoing to her.
“I’m so sorry,” I say through numb lips. “Grace, I?—”
A mechanical burr rips through the air, rumbling toward us like thunder. Grace and I twirl around like we’re dancing in formation.
A huge green and grey tractor roars into view. It snarls toward us, moving way too fast for something that size. I look behind the wheel, and my vision swims. I know the guy scanning the hills for me—or Grace—or both of us. I met him in homeroom at Pukekohe High, and I last saw him at Stabbies, wearing a unicorn headband. Xavier McColl is barreling toward us, grinning like it’s demolition derby night and every crash wins a prize.
“Come with me,” I scream at Grace as I run for the fence and Cece’s car.
She yells something in her native tongue and bolts right.
“This way!” I shout. “My car’s over here!”
Grace screams something and keeps running in the opposite direction. She’s fast. I want to go after her, but I’d never be able to catch her. Swearing, I put my head down and sprint for the fence, aware that Xavier’s tractor is closing in behind me. My jeans feel like they weigh a million tonnes as I force myself to run faster and faster, my chest tight, my boots sinking into the crumbling earth. I look behind me and see the tractor’s close enough I could count the freckles on Xavier’s cheeks. He waves at me to stop.
I don’t. There’s no reason for me to talk to this bitch about how I’m trespassing on private property and vaping with one of Thrasher’s teenage victims. I hit the fence and haul myself over it, my lungs clawing for air. The roar of the tractor is so loud I’m sure Xavier’s going to plough through the wire and flatten me. Then the noise cuts off, but I don’t look back. I reach the car, rummaging through my many pockets for Cece’s keys, praying I don’t accidentally delete my recording of Grace.
“Oi!” Xavier yells. He’s behind the fence, gripping the wire like hewishes it was my neck. “Flute-Slut! Get back here!”
I unlock the Toyota and yank the driver’s side door open. “Greetings, stranger. No thank you.”
“Who the fuck were you just talking to, Ada?”
“Your mother,” I shout, as I slide behind the wheel. “She keeps begging me to fist her again. I told her I’ve got carpal tunnel, but the bitch won’t quit.”
Xavier freezes, as blindsided as he used to look when Mr. Bailey asked where his graphics calculator was. I would be proud of myself if my heart wasn’t trying to eject itself from my mouth. I shove the key into the ignition, and the engine turns over just as Xavier jumps the fence.
“Ada, stop!”
“See you at the reunion!” I yell as I slam the door shut and tear onto the road.
A glance in the rearview mirror shows Xavier standing in the middle of the road, shouting something I couldn’t possibly hear.
I put my foot down, adrenaline coursing through my body, every atom on fire. I drive without seeing until my heartbeat slows and my head clears. The clock on the dash says it’s just past eleven, but not only did I find proof that Thrasher’s a scumbag, I’m pretty sure I just found a smoking gun.
I pull over to the side of the road and grab my phone. The audio file is still recording, and when I hit save and then play, I find it’s clear as a bell. I can hear every word of Grace telling me how long she’s worked for Thrasher and how old she is. Of the tractor approaching, of Xavier yelling my name, calling me Flute-Slut, demanding to know who I was talking to.
My mind goes to Grace. I want to call the cops, but what would I say? I don’t know her full name, or if Graceiseven her real name and not an Anglo moniker she uses in New Zealand. Where is she? Where does she live? Does she have friends outside Thompson Farms? Somewhere safe to go?
I drum my hands on the steering wheel and consider my next move. If I walk into Pukekohe Police Station and play the farm recording, there’s every chance they’ll tell me to fuck off. Grace’sadmissions are only incriminating if I can prove she works for the farm. And who’s to say the cops would even give a shit if I could? That they’re not in on Thrasher’s scheme, or at least willing to turn a blind eye?
I call Betty, but she doesn’t answer, so I open my email and send her a copy of my recording and a quick summary of where I was, begging her to look for any information on a ‘Grace’ who works at Thompson Farms.
I don’t know if Thrasher assaulted her while she was underage, but the age of consent here is sixteen and fucking your employees is ‘frowned upon,’ not illegal. Still, if he’s holding Grace’s passport, it doesn’t matter how old she was when she became his ‘girlfriend,’ it’s a criminally coercive relationship. But again, I don’t have any proof of that.
I slump back into my seat. NFR took my passport away from me. It was only for a week, not anything close to what Thrasher might be doing to Grace, but it was still one of the worst experiences of my life. If what I suspect is true, I can’t imagine how powerless she must feel. Not being able to speak to her again or get her anywhere safe is fucking miserable.
Still… I could just be making this whole thing up. Playing Nancy Drew in a sleazy, but ultimately pointless, crusade for justice against some idiot boys who were dicks to me at school. Then I remember the way Thrasher looked at me across the booth at Stabbies. The way he sniffed and gaped at my tits and tried to wheedle his way into screwing me. Do I think the guy who shoved me, stalked me, and tried to bribe me into fucking him with ice cream and cocaine would do something worse to a young female employee?
Yes.
Do I think Will Sharpe, apple-chucking prick and former husband ofJenny Wallis,would extort a vulnerable woman for sex, then take a car off her anyway?
