Page 23 of Another Girl Lost

She stepped into the room. “I’m sorry for yesterday and what’s coming.”

Fear spread, closing my throat. “What’s coming?”

“You’ll survive. Remember that.”

Dread tremored through my body. “Let me go,” I begged. “I won’t tell anyone. I want to go home. I want to see my mom.”

“I can’t.” She uncoiled the rope.

“Take me home! Please, take me home!”

The man from the van—Tanner, the flirting man with beautiful blue eyes from the construction site—stepped over the threshold. I looked directly at him. He had high cheekbones, thick wavy hair, and striking blue eyes. But there was nothing beautiful about him now. His smile was cold, his gaze piercing. Hands flexed slowly at his sides.

“Lay down,” Della said. “It’ll be easier if you don’t fight.”

Later, I would learn that the more I fought, the more it hurt. I would learn that if I lay still, he’d finish faster. Or if I smiled, he didn’t hit me. But I didn’t know any of those lessons. When I looked over at Della, she was crying.

Chapter Seven

DAWSON

Saturday, July 13, 2024

8:00 a.m.

Dawson arrived at the small cinder block house on Pretty Lake Avenue by the banks of Little Creek. The grass in the yard was patchy, and what was there was weedy and tall. A couple of kids’ bikes lay on the ground, two cars were parked in the gravel driveway, and the trash cans overflowed.

At the front door, he knocked on the metal security screen door. Inside, he could hear a television and then footsteps. When the door opened, he stood face-to-face with a woman in her early sixties. He’d met her at this house a decade ago, when he had darker hair and a slimmer build.

He held up his badge. “My name is Detective Kevin Dawson.”

“I remember you. You asked me about Sandra.”

“Yes, ma’am. You’re Betty Gardner? Sandra’s foster mother.” She’d gained weight, and her salt-and-pepper hair had washed out to pure white.

“Yes. You come to tell me you found Sandy after all this time?” Mrs. Gardner shook her head slowly. “It’s not good, is it?”

“No, ma’am. We believe we found Sandra Taylor’s body,” he said.

Raising her chin, she drew in her breath. Her fingers slipped into a pocket, and she removed a rumpled packet of cigarettes. She flicked a red plastic lighter and then pressed the flame to the raw tobacco edge. “Well, at least I know now, don’t I? I’m sorry I couldn’t help that girl. I tried, but she was stubborn and said she had all the answers.”

“Kids can be tough.” He wasn’t sure what else to say. Mrs. Gardner had had seven foster kids at the time Sandra had vanished.

Mrs. Gardner’s hands trembled as she raised the cigarette to thin lips. Smoke drifted out of her mouth and nose. “I been waiting for a decade for this news. I’ve imagined it a million times. Part of me hoped she’d just run off and found a new life. It’s not easy working with kids like her.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You know, her mother and father both died of overdoses. I guess expecting her to recover from something like that was asking too much.”

He’d heard versions of this story too many times. “When was the last time you saw her?” Time had a way of changing answers. What had seemed pressing or threatening in the past often faded. He knew Mr. Gardner had died two years ago.

“We fought.” She shook her head. “I blamed her for the trouble in the house, but looking back I see she was just being a moody teenager.”

“Did she ever run away?” Dawson asked.

“Three or four times. Always found a place to sleep on a friend’s couch. After a few days she always came home.”

“Did your late husband abuse her?”

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