This back-and-forth was the first moment that felt even remotely normal.
“I hope whatever it is isn’t because of me,” Natalie whispered.
Gaby reached for her hand. “No, honey. We’re both stubborn, and what’s between Rhys and me is on us.”
A soft knock on the door rescued her from the topic of Rhys, thank goodness. But she would have gladly rewound and done it over again when a woman in her mid-forties, casually dressed, with a kind face, walked in and introduced herself.
“I’m Dr. Rachel Howard, victim advocate and liaison with the task force. I’ve reviewed the case file and your medical record.” Formalities completed, she looked at Natalie and asked softly, “How are you really doing?”
Her sister looked out the window, shrugging as she said in a barely audible voice, “I don’t know how to answer that yet.”
“That’s okay. Understanding takes time.” She laid a business card and pamphlet on the bedside table then glanced at Gaby. “Are you family?”
“She’s my sister,” Natalie said flatly, still staring out the window. “We can talk in front of Gaby. She knows everything. She helped rescue me.”
“Is that so. Miss…”
“Flores. I’m her older sister. The only family she has in Florida.”
She nodded, looking back to the shaken young woman on the bed. “We want to help you get through this, Natalie. We have calm, compassionate counselors. And we’ll support you through the legal process. The police will want to know everything. If it’s too soon to talk, we’ll help with that too.”
“I want them to pay. All of them.”
“Of course you do. It will prevent others from falling victim. But when you speak to the investigators, you don’t have to be alone. I’ll have someone there to support you. And you can stop at any time if it gets overwhelming.”
“When?” Natalie asked, fingers still gripping Gaby’s tight.
“When you’re ready.”
“I’m ready now.”
“Natalie, are you sure?” Gaby asked. “You haven’t been back a full day.”
She lifted her chin. “I don’t want to live my life waiting anymore—not for questions, or answers, or to be rescued. I want to get it over with, so I can move on.”
The advocate said, “You’re in control of this, and your life now. I’ll set it up.”
***
Two days later, Natalie was stable enough to talk—and determined not to wait any longer. Gaby paced the hall of the federal building, on the same floor where Viktor Leonovich had once been questioned. Natalie’s experience would be vastly different. She wasn’t being interrogated. She had a story to tell. This interview wouldn’t end anything. It was one step on a long road toward healing.
The witness room was more like a comfortable suite. The goal here wasn’t to intimidate but to put traumatized victims, often key witnesses, more at ease. No cold metal chairs, no harsh lights, no obtrusive audio-visual equipment. The equipment was there but artfully hidden. And no mirrors that anyone who’d ever watched a crime show would recognize as one-way glass.
Dr. Morales met them in the lobby and explained the process again. Gaby rode the elevator up with Natalie, but, as a witness herself, wasn’t allowed inside. She was directed to a small lounge off the hallway to wait.
Gaby didn’t even attempt to sit or pretend to distract herself with one of the outdated magazines. She paced. Not slowly or calmly—more like a caged animal. She checked the time on her phone repeatedly. Twenty minutes felt like two hours.
Halfway through another circuit of the confined space, she heard footsteps approaching.
“Jesus, Flores,” a familiar voice muttered. “You’re going to wear a trench in the carpet.”
Gaby turned, caught a brief glimpse of Mateo’s face before she was swallowed into a bear hug. Boy, how she needed it.
“You haven’t slept,” he declared, holding her at arm’s length. “How are you even upright?”
“Fueled by caffeine and triple-chocolate lava cake,” she replied dryly. “There’s a restaurant near my apartment with the best in the city. They deliver.”
Mateo laughed. “Of course, they do.”
