Page 20 of Another Girl Lost

When he smiled, I churned. “She did.”

“Ah. She’ll keep you busy.”

“So I’ve been told.” A beat of silence hummed between us. “How did you meet the Judge?”

There’d been a time when I made up answers to hide the past, but this time I broke with the norm and told the truth. “She was my foster mother for a couple of years.”

A brow arched. Did I not fit the mold of a foster care kid? “I’ve heard she does that.” He didn’t press me for details, but if he’d worked enough juvenile cases, he could fill in the blanks. “Looks like you turned out okay.”

Normal uncoiled and tried to rise, moving like an old woman with bad joints. “Good to know.”

Judge Thompson stepped up to a microphone in front of the mural. “Ladies and gentlemen ...”

Finally, an excuse to turn away from Luke’s sharp gaze and focus on the next challenge.

“I’m so thrilled you could be here for our dedication,” the Judge continued. “Let me offer a special thank-you to Scarlett Crosby, the artist who painted this stunning mural.”

Eyes shifted toward me, and several people clapped. I stood my ground, scrounged up a smile, and waited for them all to move on to the next thing.

“Scarlett, come up onstage with me,” the Judge said.

Tension climbed up my vertebrae, coiling around my neck and settling heavy over my shoulders. Crowds came with lots of eyes and many memories. Someone would put the pieces together. Their whispers would stir uncomfortable questions that triggered inevitable nightmares.

“It’s not a firing squad,” Luke whispered.

Annoyance snapped when I looked at him.

He grinned. “Ouch. If looks could kill.”

That tamed the anger and coaxed a smile. “That obvious?”

“Afraid so.” He leaned forward a fraction. “They can’t eat you. Find a smile on the way to the stage. Everyone is here to celebrate your work.”

Thanks to Della, I could shove my fear down until I couldn’t feel it. Later it would scratch its way to the surface, but that was a problem for another time. “You’re right. Thank you for saying that.”

His eyebrows drew together as I turned toward the stage and walked through the parting crowd. I kept my arms pressed tight to my body and my gaze on the Judge.

I stepped up on the stage, unearthed a brittle smile as the Judge detailed her dream to make this recreation center more approachable for children. She raved about the work I’d put into the mural, my dedication to my craft,blah, blah ...

When the crowd clapped, I smiled on cue, fielded a few questions about my work, and did my best to provide answers that didn’t sound surly or impatient. The reporters’ questions stuck to the project, and none delved deeper. After a decade, I always hoped my former troubles were long forgotten, pushed out of the headlines by the serial killer onLong Island and the plane that went down in the Atlantic last year. One psychologist called it “bread and circuses.” I was one of a million sensational stories that grabbed public attention for a little while and then were soon forgotten. However, those who wanted to remember me only needed a five-second internet search.

A few folks in the crowd expressed their delight at my work and thanked me for my service. A few said they’d bid on the print I’d donated. All in all, it wasn’t terrible, but the attention was too much. I made my escape out the side door less than an hour after my arrival.

As I crossed the dimming parking lot, a car’s headlights flashed, drawing my attention to a black sedan to my right. The beaming bright lights dilated my pupils, effectively blinding me. The sedan’s engine rumbled. The car didn’t move. Odd. And I didn’t like odd or being around cars.

My eyes adjusted, and I realized no one was behind the wheel. Then a thirtysomething woman with short blond hair, dressed in jeans, a silk top, and heels, weaved her way through parked cars toward the sedan. Her downcast gaze didn’t dart in my direction as the confident click of her heels telegraphed an enviable nonchalance. Door open, purse tossed on the passenger seat, and a check of her lipstick in the rearview mirror.

I’d never seen the woman before, but a shrill of recognition rattled through my body. My thoughts skipped to the portrait of Della alive with dark curly hair, a round face, and wide doe eyes. Nothing about my Della jibed with this woman, but an oily familiarity coiled in my chest. My breath caught in my throat as my thumb slid to the button on the pepper spray attached to my key chain.

The woman closed her door, fastened her seat belt, and slid the car into gear.

I never walked through a parking lot without my keys and pepper spray in hand. And I never looked at my phone. Never. My focus was always on my surroundings. I never lost track of my truck. I memorized landmarks, remembered lot numbers, and counted spaces to the end of the row.

As the car zoomed past me, I wanted to yell out a warning.Be careful! Pay attention!But I didn’t. I stood silent, wondering why I was suddenly so worried for a woman I didn’t know.

“You all right?”

Luke’s voice startled me, and I turned to see his gaze idling on me. His expression was part curious and a little concerned.

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