“This is your chance to live a normal life, free from all this. You’ll be off the streets. A new name and identity. A fresh start. We’ll get you into a vocational program or college, whatever you prefer, so that you can provide for yourself and have security for your future.”
“But only if I testify.” I repeated the part he had totally ignored in his impassioned plea.
“That will be part of it, yes, but a small part in the scope of your life. And think about it. You’ll get justice, and these guys will never be able to do this again.”
“What about Nikki?”
Dutch jumped right on that. “She can come with you. Of course, we’d prefer to get both of you under our protection.”
No, he wanted both of us to testify. He didn’t give a shit about Nikki or me. Just like she’d always said: no one cared about us. We were on our own. I’d have some respect for Dutch if he just admitted the truth—that he was using us as a means to an end, a way for him to close a big splashy case and be a hero.
“You can count Nikki out. She’s with them again,” I said, bursting his superhero bubble.
“Voluntarily?”
“Not sure. I think Hartman’s been pimping her out on The Stroll.”
He squinted, obviously not from around here.
“She’s a prostitute.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
He pulled a small notepad and pen out of an inside pocket in his suit jacket and jotted a few things down.
I waited for him to finish before I spoke. “If I did this, if I accept protection, can I still play my drums?”
“Sure.”
“I mean like professionally, in a touring band?”
He blinked, clearly surprised by the question. “You’re a musician?”
“Trying to be.”
Dutch shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not going to lie to you, Rory. That could be risky. There are certain restrictions for your own protection, and that includes not drawing unnecessary attention to yourself. So, yes, you can play drums, just not professionally. You need to understand—if you go into our witness protection program, Rory Higgins will no longer exist. But in exchange, whoever you become will be able to live safe and free.”
How many years had I wished for this? To cease being me? But now that the choice was here, I wasn’t sure what to do. Was I willing to give up the only dream worth living? The only thing that had even the slightest chance of getting Grace back? If I was famous, she’d see me. Yeah, giving up drumming would keep me alive, but was it worth it just to exist in a colorless world?
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m going to take my chances. I’m not ready to give up on my dreams.”
* * *
Rory, ten years old
“I’m sorry, okay?” Nikki said just after Mr. Hartman dropped us off.
I didn’t want her to apologize. I wanted her to make them stop. But she didn’t, and they kept coming back. Making us go with them back to that house. Behind the closed door.
“Are you never going to talk to me again?”
I shrugged.
“You think I like this? What do you want me to do, Rory?”
“Don’t make me go back.” I burst into tears. “I don’t want to go back there.”
Nikki was crying now too. “I’m not making you. They are.”
