Page 89 of Prey for You

When I hung up I wanted to throw the phone against the wall. But instead I picked up the chair and sat back down at the computer and started digging deeper.

Would she avoid the places they went? Or was she drawn back to them? I knew from my counselling training that reaction was different for different people.

As the night waned on, I kept obsessively clicking links and searching—even finding a true crime site that gave a complete timeline with links to articles about the different deaths and culminating in his arrest.

But nothing, nowhere about what had happened to that little girl after the fact.

Even the stories about the court case didn’t show pictures or video of her, only relaying her testimony, because twenty years ago the media was finally getting a clue that kids could be seriously wounded by this stuff.

I was glad she’d been protected at least that much, but it left meraginglyfrustrated.

Where did she go? Every year? How long had she been doing that? Did she return to the places that hurt her. Or did she flee them? And why wouldn’t she tell me?

Why hadn’t she trusted me with this?

The answer came in that still, silent voice that God always used:Because she blamed herself for me not being there.

I felt sick, kicking myself for just assuming she’d told me everything. Why hadn’t I thought to ask more?

The reason, of course, was because I had been struck almost mute that day she turned up at the church after Cain agreed to hunt her. For a few minutes I’d been convinced she knew exactly who I was—and I was freaking out. But then it became clear she didn’t and when she told me her story she was so obviously agitated, so clearly dredging up pain from the depths of her soul…

Lord, help me. I need help. I need to see how to helpher.

The day she’d told me that story I hadn’t wanted to push. I’d known she was on the verge of fleeing and thought it was better for her to just get out what she was willing to share.

I’d urged her to tell me the after-story, the one no one was ever interested in—as demonstrated by the utterlackof interest in her life and his once the sensational trial was done. But I’d never gone back. I’d overlooked all my training and experience and just gotten consumed in her when there was still infection festering away in her mind.

I texted her again, told her to listen to the voicemail. That I wasn’t angry or upset. That I loved her and needed her.

Please don’t do anything stupid… nothing. Bridget, please… stay safe.

I was mid-prayer, asking for guidance, needing desperately to understand and know where to look for her—and how to approach this, when I opened my eyes, and for a split second the vertical blinds on the sliding door seemed like prison bars.

And even as my body flinched, it dragged up a glimpse. A memory of those days.

Specifically, a memory ofher fathersitting at one of those stupid metal picnic tables we had in the common area—of him turning and meeting my eyes for a second, then looking away. Because we weren’t friends. But we weren’t hostile either.

He was never someone I’d been close to. The man was a legend in the prison. I didn’t know how many of the stories were true, but whispered rumors said he still ran an entire network of men and resources outside.

I did know he was never alone in the common areas. His cellmate and a couple other big guys always stayed close.

He was the most relaxed person I ever saw in the state penitentiary. The inmates believed he had staff on payroll. I didn’t know. I never saw evidence of it. But I also never saw him get hurt or heard of him being disciplined. If it was true that he still ran organized crime outside, he did it through his lawyers or contraband phones.

I knew men like that—my father had been indebted to them. I’d worked for the guys trying tobethem. Even before I changed, once I was in prison, I kept my head down. I didn’t have any desire to get myself tied down to protecting one of those guys. They had too many contacts, I knew I’d get pulled back in once I got out and…

It hit me.

Maybe therewasa place to get answers about this.

29. Help

~ SAM ~

Thank God I still had connections with the prison, and contactsinside.

I wasn’t going to break the rules. But I definitely knew where and how to get them bent in my direction. By eight the next morning I was almost finished the over-an-hour drive to the State penitentiary. And I had acounseling appointmentwith none other than Gordon Reynolds himself.

The cool part was that I could take my normal car because, since I still did this for work, the Feds wouldn’t think it was odd that I was headed there.

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