Page 63 of Draven

“A few days after they’d taken me… at least I think it was a few days.” She rubs her forehead. “Time sort of blended, and it was always dark.”

I give her space to think, for the memories to return in their own time. I sip my almost cold coffee and wait, firing a friendly smile at Linda while Darla stares into the distance, then her gaze cuts back to me. “I woke in a bit of a daze this one day to raised voices. All the other women were still out of it from the drugs. The men were huddled outside my cell arguing. I don’t know what they were saying because they weren’t speaking English, but the voices were definitely angry. Then this one guy came storming toward them. I couldn’t see his face very well. He was half in shadow, but I heard his voice as clear as day. He hissed at them to shut the fuck up and do their jobs or he’d shoot their dicks off. He must have been the boss, because the men immediately stopped shouting at each other and bowed their heads.” She raises a trembling hand to her throat. “I can’t believe I’ve only just recalled this. The man, he was American. I’m certain of it.”

I hold my breath, my belly fluttering with excitement. This could be the breakthrough we need to crack the case. The American can’t be the boss. That’s Shala… or is it? Maybe we’ve been looking in all the wrong places. Shelton told me there was a bigger case. Shala could simply be the leader of this patch.

“Have you mentioned this to anyone? To Lieutenant Mathieson’s team?”

“No. Like I said, I only just remembered. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before,” Darla says, her expression stricken.

“It’s okay.” Linda winds an arm around Darla’s shoulders. “You’re doing so well.”

“You are, Darla. You’re so strong. A survivor. Listen to Linda, and don’t be hard on yourself. When your brain is ready, it’ll release the information.” I give Darla a coaxing smile. “Would you come back to the station with me and look at some photographs of known traffickers?”

Hopefully, I can sneak her in without Shelton spotting us.

“I already went through the pictures when the police questioned me. I didn’t like looking at them knowing they were the same as the ones who took me. I wanted to find those responsible, but I didn’t. The thought of seeing their faces again, knowing what they did to me… I’m just not sure I can.”

“But your memory is coming back now,” I say. “It’s worth a shot, as long as you’re willing. There’s no pressure,” I add, even though I desperately want her to agree to my request.

Her throat bobs several times as she repeatedly swallows. She lets out a long swoosh of air, then dips her chin. “Okay,” she whispers. “I’ll do it for Kiera.”

After grabbing two spare chairs from an unused interview room, I lead Darla and Linda to my desk. Darla asks for some water, and she downs the entire plastic cup, but when I ask if she wants another, she declines. I make her comfortable in front of the computer screen, even though her hands are trembling. She plucks at the hem of her shirt. Linda, the good friend she clearly is, places a hand on Darla’s back between her shoulder blades, and lightly rubs.

The poor, poor woman.

She’ll need friends like Linda, not to mention hours upon hours of therapy to cope with what she’s been through. The shock hasn’t even begun to set in yet. Her insides must feel numb, but when that feeling begins to wear off, the agony, the fear, the self-loathing, the blame, the guilt… they’re all going to rain down on her head. I make a mental note to mention the idea of seeing a therapist to her. May as well plant the seed now and give her time to think about it. Or maybe it’d be a better idea to mention it to Linda.

I click the mouse, and the first picture appears on screen. One by one, I move through them, watching Darla carefully for any signs of recognition. Even a flicker could take the investigation in a whole new direction. But as time passes, and Darla shows no signs of identifying a single person on screen—some of which are known traffickers, along with other kinds of vicious criminals—I begin to lose hope.

After thirty minutes, she shakes her head, and her shoulders droop. She’s had enough, I can tell.

“I’m so sorry, but I don’t recognize anyone,” she says, confirming my suspicions. “I’d like to go home now, please.”

As disappointed as I am, I immediately close the lid on the computer. “Of course. Don’t worry at all. I appreciate your time.”

“Can I use the restroom before we leave?” Linda asks.

“Sure.” I lead the way out of my office and point out the ladies’ room to Linda. Steering the conversation away from anything to do with the investigation, I chat with Darla about a show I’ve been watching on Netflix. It turns out she’s watching the same show, and her entire body relaxes as she chats about the plot and what she thinks will happen next.

Linda rejoins us, and I gesture for the ladies to follow me toward the stairwell. We’ve only taken a couple of steps when, without warning, Darla grabs my arm and skids to a halt.

“No,” she whispers, pressing her back against the wall as though she wants to make herself as small as possible.

“Darla, what’s the matter?”

“It’s him.” She clasps a handful of her shirt, the blood draining from her face.

“Who?” I ask, dropping my voice.

“The American.”

I follow her gaze. Oh, my God. My jaw slackens as I watch the man Darla called “The American” disappear into a nearby office. He didn’t once look our way.

“It can’t be,” I say. “Are you sure?”

She shakes from head to foot as if she’s freezing. “I’m positive.” She locks eyes with me. “Who is he?”

I swallow, my racing heart almost bursting from my chest at the enormity of her identification. “It’s my captain.”

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