Page 100 of Trapper Road

He waits for me to sit first before following after. The chairs are far enough apart that I feel confident that were he to make a move I’d be able to reach my gun in time to defend myself. It allows me to relax slightly, but still I keep my guard up.

“So, tell me about Juliette,” I say once he’s settled.

He blows out a breath and sinks back into the chair. “Jesus, where to begin?” He thinks a moment, then says, “I grew up in the Midwest — Iowa. I moved to Gardenia after college. I knew no one and nothing about the town, but United Methodist was hiring, and I was looking for a job while I applied to seminary. I wanted to be a youth pastor.” He shakes his head bitterly.

Even though I knew he’d worked at the church, I’m still surprised to learn he’d intended to go to seminary and become a priest. He’s so bitter and full of resentment. It’s hard to imagine him preaching about love and acceptance.

“Juliette was one of the girls in the group. She didn’t stand out much — early on she only showed up occasionally but then she started attending more often until she was a regular. Over time, slow enough that I didn’t notice it happening, things began to change. She became…” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Attentive.”

It’s a curious word choice. “In what way?”

He shifts, uncomfortable. “She’d arrive early, help me set up. Stay late to help me clean up. She asked questions about me and my life. It’s so hard to explain because nothing really stood out on its own. It was the cumulative effect of everything. She began to dress more… revealingly. Small tank tops that made it clear she wasn’t wearing a bra — she’d find excuses to bend over or brush against me. Like I said, attentive.”

I wonder how much of this is true and how much was in his imagination. If maybe he misinterpreted her intentions because he wanted to believe she might be interested in him. It wouldn’t be the first time an older man ascribed sexual intentions to innocent behavior. “How old was she at the time?”

“Fourteen when it started.”

I must have made a face because he sighs. He’s not exactly defensive when he responds; it’s more like he’s weary. “Look, trust me when I say I know what you’re thinking: I’m a predator. I saw what I wanted to see. Juliette was just an innocent girl, and I was the one who sexualized the relationship. Am I right?”

He’s not wrong. Sure, some fourteen-year olds can be precocious, but they’re still practically children. There’s a reason young teens aren’t tried as adults — their brains aren’t fully formed. “It’s hard to imagine a fourteen year old girl understanding what she was doing.”

I expect my answer to upset him, but it doesn’t. Instead, he agrees with me. “I would have thought the same thing. Then I met Juliette. She understood exactly what she was doing.”

He makes her sound like some sort of devious monster, which is difficult to believe given what I’ve learned about her over the past several days. Nothing in her file even hints that she was anything other than a good student, a loyal friend, and a loving daughter. There was nothing of interest in her school records, no suspensions or discipline for bad behavior. “What happened?”

He looks off across his yard. “I made a mistake.”

In my experience, most people are unwilling to admit doing anything wrong. Usually it might make me find someone more credible, but I’m still unsure what to make of Josiah. “What was that?”

“I let myself be flattered by the attention.”

I try to keep my expression neutral, but am not sure I succeed. The idea of being flattered by a fourteen year old’s attention unsettles me. Fourteen is still a child. Still innocent.

Then I think about Connor — only one year older and he’s already been through more in his life than most adults. He’s seen his mother arrested, his father sent to death row. He’s been kidnapped, chased, shot at. He’s seen people die.

But Connor isn’t like most kids his age. He’s a very old, mature fifteen. Whereas Juliette lived a sheltered life in a small southern town, circumstances forced Connor to grow up fast.

Maybe, though, that’s been part of the problem. It’s easy for me to think of Juliette as a child, naive in the ways of the world, but because of Connor’s maturity and experiences I’ve treated him like he’s older.

I’ve left him on his own to handle the fallout from the shooting earlier this week. I thought I was doing the right thing by giving him space to work through his feelings on his own, but maybe that was a mistake. Look at how much I’ve been struggling since the incident at Salah Point, and I’m an adult. How can I expect so much from someone who’s still so young?

I shake my head, not sure what to believe anymore. In the past I relied on my gut and instincts to tell me what Connor needed from me, but experience has proven both unreliable. I feel lost, unmoored.

Now isn’t the time to dissolve into doubt, I tell myself. I’m on a case. I owe Trevor’s grandmother my best effort, and getting distracted by my personal demons helps no one. Besides, those demons will still be waiting for me once I’m finished talking to Josiah. I can deal with them then.

Josiah blows out a breath, oblivious to my internal struggles. “I should have dissuaded her earlier. Instead, it came to a head. She made a move one evening when we were cleaning up alone after a meeting. I turned her down. She fled, embarrassed. I thought that was the end of it. She was absent for a few weeks, and when she returned, it was like nothing had happened. She apologized, said she was mortified, begged me not to think poorly of her. I agreed.”

I try to focus on what he’s saying, watching for any tells that might give insight into his inner thoughts. I look for his eyes to shift or his voice to rise in pitch, which might indicate he’s lying. He’s agitated, that’s obvious, but also understandable given the subject matter. Otherwise, there’s no indication that his story is rehearsed or made up.

“I honestly thought that was the end of it,” he continues. “She stopped dressing provocatively, stopped trying to be alone together, stopped being suggestive. She was just… back to being a normal kid.” His mouth twists. “I was such a fucking idiot.”

The bitterness of his curse surprises me. There’s a constant stream of anger simmering beneath his words. I wonder if it has ever ignited, if he’s ever turned violent. “What happened?”

He runs a hand down his face, steeling himself before continuing. “She came to my apartment on a Friday night, and she was sobbing. She looked terrible — hair a mess, face swollen from crying. Her clothes were dirty, the hem on her shirt torn.” He pauses, as if seeing the scene in his head all over again. He shudders.

“I couldn’t turn her away, not like that. So of course I let her in — what else was I going to do? She told me she’d been out with a guy friend of hers, and they’d started to make out. He wanted to take things farther. She refused, and he started to force her. She fought him off, hitting him with her purse. He grabbed it from her, and she ran. Once she was sure she’d lost him, she realized her phone had been in her purse so she couldn’t call anyone. She remembered that I lived nearby, and so she came to my place because she didn’t know where else to go where she’d be safe.”

I frown at this new information, not sure whether to take Josiah’s words at face value. There’d never been any indication that she’d been assaulted, not even a hint. I shouldn’t be surprised, a lot of victims keep abuse to themselves out of shame or fear. I know all too well how much kids can hide from their parents.

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