Page 39 of Graveyard

I hang up the phone and walk away, turning from him before I let the grief overtake me.

Despite what Meredith may think about what she deserves, I won’t let this go. She doesn’t deserve to be in prison right now. She doesn’t deserve to take the fall for helping vulnerable children. This is a huge fucking nightmare, and it’s time I step in and help.

I rush into the hospital, my heart pounding in my chest. Meredith forgets that I’ve seen her before. I saw her here at the hospital years ago. I remember a child she brought in. If I can find that record, maybe I can find more. We have to find one kid to prove that they’re safe and she was doing them a service.

I can’t get the image of Meredith’s face out of my head. Her devastation when I told her about Charlie was palpable. I wanted to pull her into my arms and hold her, to tell her everything would be okay. It will be. We won’t stop fighting for her, not for a second. She has no idea what we’re capable of.

I go to the records room and look through files from two years ago. That’s when I remember seeing her here last. It takes a few minutes, but I find a file that matches what I saw. A girl was brought in with horrible headaches. She was small, malnourished, and severely underweight. She was brought in by a sister, who’s listed as Mary Smith. That has to be Meredith. She had a violent reaction to the staff and had to be sedated, by me, of course.

I copy the address and phone number listed in her file. They’re surely irrelevant now, but they’ll be a good place to start. I spend the next several hours poring over pediatric files, flagging anything that stands out to me. The pattern is there. Children who are clearly neglected, possibly abused. They’re brought in by a sister or an aunt or a female social worker. They aren’t all violent, though some were treated for severe malnourishment.

The name of the adult with them always changes, but I know it’s her. All in all, I find twelve files from the last five years. Every time, the charges were paid out of pocket. Meredith has spent thousands of dollars getting these kids medical care, and these are only the files I find from my hospital. I don’t know how many there are—probably dozens more over the years. This is who she is. She selflessly gives so they can be safe and well cared for.

I’m suddenly furious. Furious that all she’s done for years is help these kids and now she’s being blamed for a city-wide epidemic that has nothing to do with her. Pocus told me that they’ve checked. None of the children she rescued were involved in gang activity. That doesn’t answer the question of where they are now, though.

I have a list of phone numbers and addresses. I’m sure the numbers are for burner phones. The addresses are probably fake, but they have to get me somewhere. If nothing else, they’ll help Snake find her on surveillance, perhaps track her phone records during these periods.

We need one person to come forward, and there will be reasonable doubt. Though it doesn’t seem like the police care about justice. For some reason, they’re using her as a patsy, a scapegoat. I want to know why. Of all people in the world, why are they targeting her?

I text Snake everything I’ve found and head to the clubhouse. It may be several days of sleepless nights, but I’ll find one of these kids. I’ll find out exactly what Meredith is running from.

CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE

Itake in Graveyard’s appearance. “You look like shit.”

Deep bags hang under his eyes. He hasn’t shaved for several days. His clothes are rumpled. I’m not used to seeing him so disheveled. He’s been pulling long hours trying to investigate the missing kids Meredith kidnapped. Or, allegedly kidnapped. Pocus and Seer have also been pulling long hours. It’s taking a toll on all of them.

Pocus has been taking calls to find Charlie. He and Abigail are worried sick about her. I’m worried about her too. She made a huge impression on Juliana and me. She doesn’t deserve to be another faceless name in the system.

“Can we just go?” Graveyard bites, bitterly. Of all of us, he’s usually the coolest and most composed, but he’s taking this situation the hardest. After all, he’s the one who brought them into our lives. He feels responsible.

“I’m not sure why you wanted me to come,” I tell him.

“I don’t know what we’re walking into.” He pulls on his helmet and climbs on his bike.

We ride a few minutes out of the city, toward a very affluent suburb. The houses here are larger than the clubhouse and more modern. They’re built to look old, but these developments have been around for less than a decade. It’s a mixture of new money and old money that feels like NOLA is going to shit. They’d rather abandon the city than work to make it better.

We pull off on the side of the road near a smaller mansion with a long driveway. Graveyard parks his bike, and I follow his lead.

“If we ride in our bikes, they’ll immediately distrust us,” he says, which makes me laugh.

He hasn’t looked in a mirror today. He doesn’t look like a friendly bible salesman. He kind of looks like a meth addict. But he’s on a mission. I’m here as backup, so I’ll follow his lead and do as he says.

He knocks on the door confidently. We wait for several minutes. I start to doubt anyone is home.

“How exactly did you find these people?” I murmur.

“It wasn’t easy. I spent days poring over medical records and phone records and hit a wall. I don’t know how much Pocus has told you, but when Meredith placed a child in a new home, she was extremely thorough. She wanted to make sure none of them were found.”

“You think this is a good lead?” I question, not following.

“This is the one family I was able to trace. The only one connected to New Orleans in any way. I’m guessing they stayed because they have enough money to protect their new son.”

“They also have enough money not to open the door for the likes of us,” I quip. “I hate to say it, man, but maybe you should have called.”

He knocks again, more urgently this time. A bewildered-looking man finally opens the door. “I don’t want trouble,” he says immediately, eyeing us warily. “Take whatever you want, I won’t call the cops, but you will not touch my family.”

I can’t help it. I laugh. The man is a good foot shorter than Graveyard, with glasses and a bushy mustache. He’s very thin. I could probably snap him in two. But man, he’s got some balls. If we were trying to rob him, I’d have major respect for his bravery. As it stands, though, he’s profiling us based on our looks. That’s annoying as shit.

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