Page 61 of Another Girl Lost

“I was a prosecutor, and now I’m a defense lawyer. I’m used to looking at the other side of an equation, the side no one else wants to see.”

“Justified motivations lurking under the bad actions.”

“Something like that.”

Tanner does this because he cares so much about you.Della’s words rattled. “But sometimes good motivations can be twisted. They don’t always excuse the actions.”

“Is that how you felt about Tanner Reed?”

Hearing Tanner’s name was jarring. First Dawson and now Luke. Twice this week.

“Does my directness bother you?” Luke asked.

“It’s unexpected. Few ask about him anymore.”

“If you’d rather not . . .”

The trailing comment belied the intensity in his gaze. “Most of my recollections of Tanner are tangled with my memories of Della. It’s as if they became one. His words became hers. She kept telling me he was saving me from my mother, who had substance abuse issues. Dellaoften explained and justified what he did to me. She encouraged me to be nice to him.”

“How did Tanner know about your mother?”

“Tanner was a carpenter working on a renovation project across the street from my mother’s house. He was nice to me. Charming. He showed interest in my art. It felt good to be noticed. And after he took me, he apparently spoke to my mother often.”

Luke nodded. “He liked having a secret and seeing her distress.”

“That’s the thing: she wasn’t distressed. The drugs threw off her sense of time.”

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen.”

“A child.”

“Ironically, I thought dealing with my mother’s addiction had made me worldly and careful. I thought I had it all under control. But Mom’s disinterest made me incredibly vulnerable. Looking for love in all the wrong places kind of thing.”

Luke nodded slowly. In the prosecutor’s office, he’d likely seen his share of groomers. I didn’t need to fill in the gaps for him to see a bigger picture.

“He was nice to me at first, and he got me talking, I guess so I’d become more relaxed around him. I looked forward to seeing his truck. I told him about my dreams of being an artist, and he encouraged me. It was nice to have someone care. Or seem to, anyway.” I had accepted that only raw curiosity was keeping Luke in the chair. I understood when the questions were satisfied, he’d pay the tab, wish me my best life, and leave. There was something freeing about not feeling as if I had to try to be normal.

“Why did you get in his van?”

“Della,” I said. “Della, the one no one believes existed, coaxed me to the van. I was selling my art on a street corner, and she convinced me to follow her. The rest is available in the interviews I gave to the cops.”

“You were very detached in those interviews.”

“You pulled up my interviews? They aren’t available on the internet.”

A slight lift and fall of his shoulder. “I know people.”

“Detective Dawson?”

He frowned. “I wouldn’t reach out to him, but there are others.”

“I suppose that makes sense.” I sipped my wine. “Detached is how I survived—survive. Some survivors get caught in loops of fear, some race toward trouble with a death wish, keep dating abusers praying for reform. Some scream and yell. And some slide behind a wall of ice and keep the pain at arm’s distance.”

“You’re the latter.”

I tapped the tip of my nose.

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