"I'll stay put," I assure him, then hesitate before adding, "Except for the shelter. Maggie asked if I'd help there. Legal paperwork, that kind of thing."
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Is that a good idea right now?"
"It's exactly what I need," I counter, meeting his gaze steadily. "Purpose. Usefulness."
He studies me for a long moment, internal conflict visible in the tension around his eyes. This is the new dynamic between us—his protective instincts warring with respect for my autonomy.
"At least take a burner phone," he says finally. "Check in regularly."
"I will."
He nods once, decision made. "Be careful, Cara. Hargrove has reach, and he's getting desperate. Anyone connected to the case against him is at risk."
The warning should frighten me. Instead, it solidifies my resolve. "I survived five years with them. I can handle a few hours at a women's shelter."
Something like pride flickers across his face before he masks it. "I know you can."
Our eyes hold for a beat longer than necessary before he turns away, called back to planning by Vulture. The brief exchange leaves me unsettled, not with fear but with the realization that something fundamental has shifted between us. Where once was hurt and anger now grows respect, cautious but real.
The New Beginnings Women's Shelter feels different with purpose guiding my steps. Two days after my conversation with Maggie, I enter not as a visitor but as a volunteer, my borrowed clothes replaced with simple business casual attire from a shopping trip with Tessa.
"Legal consultation room is through here," Maggie explains, leading me through the now-familiar house. "Nothing complicated today—help with restraining order applications, housing paperwork, maybe some benefits forms."
The small office she shows me is modest but functional—desk, computer, filing cabinet, and a comfortable seating area designed to put clients at ease. Resources line the walls: pamphlets on victims' rights, housing assistance, job training programs.
"I'll introduce you to Miranda first," Maggie continues. "She came in three days ago, high-priority case. Escaped trafficking operation in Seattle, needs significant paperwork help."
My pulse quickens at the mention of another trafficking victim. "Recent escape?"
Maggie nods gravely. "Less than two weeks ago. Found her way to a Seattle shelter who connected her with us when they learned she's originally from this area."
Miranda turns out to be younger than I expected—perhaps early twenties, with dyed black hair and wary eyes that scan every entrance and exit upon entering a room. I recognize the hypervigilance immediately; it mirrors my own.
"Miranda, this is Cara," Maggie introduces. "She's going to help with your paperwork today. She has legal background and..." Maggie hesitates, looking to me for permission.
"I'm a survivor too," I say simply. "Five years in trafficking before I got out three weeks ago."
Miranda's eyes widen, reassessing me with new understanding. "That recent? And you're already... functioning?"
The question holds no judgment, only desperate hope. I offer a small smile. "One day at a time. Some better than others."
After Maggie leaves, Miranda slowly begins to open up. As we work through her paperwork, fragments of her story emerge—a boyfriend who turned out to be a recruiter, eight months of captivity, transportation between Seattle and Burns Harbor regularly.
"They had different levels," she explains as I help her complete a victim's compensation form. "Most girls were lower tier, but some of us... they'd clean us up, dress us nice. Send us to fancy places with rich men."
My hand stills over the keyboard. "Private clients?"
She nods, tension radiating from her hunched shoulders. "Hotels, mostly. Sometimes private homes. They took pictures of us, showed them to potential... buyers." She spits the last word.
"Did you ever see who was in charge?" I ask carefully, maintaining a professional tone despite my racing heart. "Any names you remember?"
"They were careful about names," she says, echoing my own experience. "But there was one man—everyone treated him differently. Expensive suits, gold watch. Older, gray hair." She hesitates, voice dropping. "I saw him once at a hotel. He was with the mayor of Burns Harbor. Shaking hands, laughing."
A chill runs through me. "Would you recognize him if you saw him again?"
Her eyes meet mine, fear and determination warring in their depths. "I already did. His picture was in the paper last week. Some charity event." She pulls a folded newspaper clipping from her pocket, hands shaking slightly as she passes it to me.
The headline reads "Hargrove Foundation Donates $2 Million to Children's Hospital." Below it, William Hargrove smiles benevolently beside the hospital director, the irony so bitter I can taste it.
