Page 7 of Another Girl Lost

“Perfect. Thanks, Simon.” I set my bag on the table to be searched and walked through the metal detector.

He pushed my bag along, not bothering to look inside. “I peeked at the mural. It looks pretty good.”

“A few more hours today and I can declare my masterpiece done.”

“ThatVirginian-Pilotreporter who was here last week released her story,” he said. “The piece ran yesterday.”

The Judge, a.k.a. Judge Marcia Thompson, had volunteered me six weeks ago to paint a mural in the cold, sterile cinder block room that did nothing to comfort children who found themselves here for tutoring, classes, or seeking a haven after school. The Judge had requested a mural of a dozen laughing cartoon children. I’d said yes because I’d never been able to say no to her.

I’d been avoiding that reporter until she’d shown up with the Judge as I was packing up my paints last Friday morning. I tossed out my standard fun facts about me and tried not to sound too rude. With each pop of the reporter’s iPhone flash, I’d tensed. I’d have refused the interview, but the Judge had insisted. Thankfully, the Judge had done most of the talking.

“I didn’t see the article,” I said.

“I saved a couple of copies. I’ll bring you one.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Don’t mind at all.”

“Okay, thanks.” I shouldered my bag, smiling. “Better get going. The Judge likes me wrapped up and out of the center before the kids arrive.”

“Right.”

“See you at the reception tonight?”

“I’ll be here,” he said. “I’ll bring that article.”

“Great.”

I walked down the silent hallway, past the photographs of kids playing sports, creating art, reading, and playing board games.

In the recreation room, I found the lights on and the mural I’d been working on for the last month and a half illuminated. Painted bright sunshine dripped from the ceiling, and muddy, black earth rose from the floor.

The mural was a parade of cartoon characters all wearing brightly colored clothes covered in daisies, polka dots, or stars. Each woresneakers, but many of the laces were untied, several shirts had ripped sleeves, others had scuffed knees, and two had clenched fists. Of the ten characters, eight kept their gazes forward. Only two—the one with curly brown hair and the one with straight blond hair—looked back. All were smiling, and most would label the characters as happy. But they each had challenges. I’d created backstories for them and knew all the kids were damaged and broken in some way.

I’d painted each of the characters as independent creatures. None were holding hands; even the two in the back kept their hands at their sides. Two lessons here: You only have yourself. And under the light, there’s always darkness.

Far too much symbolism for ten cartoon characters, but the Judge knew I could get intense, and she was fine with it as long as I didn’t put it on full display. The Judge had always been a guardrail for me. She kept me on course but accepted that from time to time, I bounced off a fence. And when I did, she helped mitigate the damage.

I was willing to bet some of the kids who played here would see some of the nuances. Their lives weren’t easy or perfect, so it stood to reason their cartoon characters would mirror that. I wanted them, or at least some of them, to see that someone else recognized the imperfections behind the smiles.

When my life had been destroyed, the last thing I’d wanted was to see grins and laughing faces. But the Judge reminded me that smiles sent good and positive messages, and the kids needed that hope.

I spread my drop cloth under the last quarter of the mural and prepared my paints and brushes. Setup took a good twenty minutes. Today, I was putting finishing touches on the last kid, the one with curly brown hair and bright eyes. Technically, she was done, but like the portrait at my warehouse, I felt like I hadn’t nailed her. She was a secret-keeper, and she hoarded bits of information from everyone, especially the girl in front of her.

Unlike the portrait, I would have to stop fiddling with this painting. With the opening reception scheduled in twelve hours, I needed to put the brushes down. Time to move on.

As my brush curved along the edge of the little girl’s foot, darkening shadows for dimension, the door to the recreation room opened. I glanced over my shoulder, half expecting to see Simon telling me to wrap it up early.

The man standing at the door was about six feet tall and had a tapered waist and broad shoulders. He had an unusual look. A brawler’s crooked nose, a square jaw, short black hair, and thick brows. He wore an expensive dark suit, a blue tie, a gold watch, and polished shoes; however, the man didn’t quite jibe with the clothes. He was curating an image that wasn’t really him.

I’d seen my share of people come through here in the last month, and I was good at guessing their professions. His suit was too nice to peg him as a victims’ rights advocate, a state-appointed attorney, or a cop. Silk tie screamed defense lawyer, or maybe a corporate donor.

The guy’s gaze searched the room, and it was clear he was in the wrong place. “Do you know where I can find Judge Thompson?”

“She keeps an office on the second floor.” If he’d asked me about the restrooms, cafeteria, or basketball court, I could’ve directed him there, too.

A slight nod suggested he’d acknowledged my information and would leave. Instead, he moved toward me. “What’re you doing?”

---