Page 77 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
She swallowed, feeling a couple of hot tears leak out the side of her eyes. She closed her eyes, and she could see him as clearly as if it were right in front of her. His bright hazel eyes, his dimples, the way his expression could shift from guarded to open on the turn of a dime. She could still feel the heat of his skin, what it had felt like to rest her chin on his chest. The smell of him, the taste of him. She remembered the way he laughed. Few people made laughter sound sad, but he’d had that rare ability.
Weck sighed. “But when it came down to it, he didn’t choose you, did he, Julia? He didn’t choose his brother either. He chose the gang. A gang that stabbed him in the back of the neck in a shower stall.”
She inhaled as pain, sharp and real, sliced through her. When Weck had told her about Daniel’s death several days ago, after having first told her of Sebastián’s, she had felt nothing. She’d been numb from head to toe. Now she could only wish for such numbness.
“A gang,” Weck continued, “that’s put out an order to kill you on sight.”
As much as her mind tried to rebel against what Weck was saying, her words still sent a shiver down Julia’s spine. She heard Daniel’s voice again, and this time it frightened her.
You better run, baby.
“And I know this is hard for you to get your head around. Especially because you probably still think of Castan~o as having been your protector. Your knight in shining armor. The one who came to your rescue in that trailer when no one else did.”
Julia finally found some words to say. “He’s dead,” she croaked. “So what difference does it make to you what I think of him?” She turned her head to Weck. “Unless you want to destroy my memory of him, too.”
“No,” Weck said. “I want you to question your memory of him. Of everything that happened. Julia, you survived a traumatic experience that night with Monaghan. And trauma can manifest in all kinds of ways. One of those ways is forming strong bonds and attachments to people who we view as having saved us. I think that’s what happened to you.”
Julia just shook her head. This woman was trying to make out that her entire relationship with Daniel had just been some kind of prolonged PTSD episode.
And it hadn’t been. It had been real.
Right?
“What I do know is that you need to talk to someone about what happened to you. Someone who can help you process it. There are people who can do that, people who specialize in this kind of thing.”
Julia swallowed. Recalling that night in the trailer always filled her with panic. But there was a part of her now that also felt like it might be a relief. Painful, but necessary. Like the closing of a wound.
The special agent looked down at her. “You need to be the one to save yourself this time, Julia. You got a shot here. For a new life. A fresh start. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
Hoy vamos a comenzar una nueva vida, cariño.
Today we start a new life.
She looked up at Weck, tears falling freely now. She took a shuddering breath. And even though the movement took an excruciating amount of effort, she nodded.
Weck smiled, and it seemed genuine. “Good girl.” She stood up. “It might not feel like it now, but someday you’ll look back and realize this was the best decision you ever made.” She took her phone out of her bag. “I’ll get someone from OEO down here for a preliminary interview, then hand you over to the marshals.”
She paused tapping in numbers into her phone to look down at Julia. “They know what they’re doing. They’ll keep you safe.”
TWENTY-TWO
PRESENT
Jessica Meeks stoodin a square of light spilling from the windows of the diner behind her and took a hit off her vape. It was four in the morning, in a truck stop west of Mobile, and the air felt like hot soup.
She surveyed the gas station forecourt, but the marshal’s car was no longer parked at the pumps where she’d last seen it.
In its place was an old silver sedan. Its headlights were on, engine idling.
She blew out a stream of smoke and stared at the car. She fantasized about running across the forecourt and jumping into its passenger seat. Then going wherever it was going. North, east or west.
As she stared, a plan took shape in her mind. She’d hitch a ride to the nearest city, then change her identity the old-fashioned way, by dumping her wallet in a bin and picking out a new name at random. She’d find work at another strip club easily enough. Those places were filled with girls running away from something.
There’d be no Baton Rouge safe house. No isolation rooms, no psychologists. No marshals following her around for the rest of her life. The thought was so tempting she felt her legs twitch in anticipation of a sprint across the forecourt.
The sedan hadn’t moved. It sat gleaming under the LED canopy lights. Its driver was a silhouette behind the wheel. As if he were waiting for her.
A heavy hand gripped her shoulder. “Ma’am,” said a voice in a thick Southern accent.
