“I’m sorry,” I say, my lips pressed into his shoulder. “It just … it felt a little ridiculous, you know? Being afraid.”
It’s not the truth, exactly. But it isn’t a lie, either.
“You’ll be fine, Chloe. You don’t have anything to worry about.”
My mind flashes to that one morning with my mom, with Cooper, twenty years ago. Crouched in the hallway with our backpacks on. Me, crying. My mom, comforting.
She does have something to worry about, Cooper. This is serious.
“This guy, whoever he is, he likes teenagers, remember?”
I swallow, nod, and my mind formulates the words I already know he’s going to say before he has the chance to say them. As if I’m standing in that hallway again, letting my mother wipe away my tears.
“Don’t get into a car with strangers, don’t walk down dark alleys alone.”
Daniel pulls back and smiles at me, and I force a smile back.
“But if getting a security system installed will make you feel better, I think you should do it,” he adds. “Call this guy and get him over here. At the very least, it’ll give you peace of mind.”
“Okay.” I nod. “I’ll look into it. These things, though, they’re expensive.”
Daniel shakes his head.
“Your peace of mind is more valuable,” he says. “Can’t put a price on that.”
I smile, a genuine one this time, and wrap my arms around him one last time. I can’t blame him for being angry with me, for being curious. I’ve been secretive these last few days and he knows it. He still has no idea I’m not actually shopping for security systems, that I’m investigating the man on the screen and not the piece of equipment he installs, but still. I can tell that the emotion in his voice is authentic. He means it.
“Thank you,” I say. “You’re amazing.”
“As are you,” he says, kissing my forehead before standing up. “Now I’ve got to go. Get some work done, and I’ll text you when I get there.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
As soon as I see Daniel’s car pull out of the driveway, I run back to my computer and grab my phone, starting a new text to Aaron.
Bert Rhodes lives here. In Baton Rouge.
I don’t know what to do with this information. It’s a lead, definitely. It has to be more than coincidence. But still, it’s not enough to approach the police with. For all I know, they haven’t made the connection with the missing jewelry on their own, and I still don’t want to be the one to bring that up. Seconds later, my phone vibrates with Aaron’s response.
Looking into it. Give me ten minutes.
I put the phone down and glance back at my computer, at Bert’s image still glowing on my screen, his own face proof of the trauma he has experienced. When people get hurt physically, you can see it in the bruises and the scars, but when they’re hurt emotionally, mentally, it runs deeper than that. You can see every sleepless night in the reflection of their eyes; you can see every tear stained into their cheeks, every bout of anger etched into the creases in their foreheads. The thirst for blood cracking the skin on their lips. I hesitate for a minute as my eyes drink in the face of this broken person. I start to empathize, and I start to wonder—how could a man who lost his daughter in such a tragic way turn around and take a life in the exact same manner? How could he subject another innocent family to the exact same pain? But then I remember my clients, the other tortured souls I see day in and day out. I remember myself. I remember that statistic I learned in school, the one that made my blood run cold—forty percent of people who are abused as children will go on to become abusers themselves. It doesn’t happen to everyone, but it happens. It’s cyclical. It’s about power, control—or rather, the lack of control. It’s about taking it back and claiming it as your own.
I, of all people, should understand that.
My phone starts to vibrate and I see Aaron’s name on the screen. I pick it up after the first ring.
“What did you find?” I ask, my eyes still glued to my computer.
“Assault resulting in a bodily injury, public drunkenness, DUI,” he says. “He’s been in and out of jail over the last fifteen years, and it looks like his wife filed for divorce a while ago after a domestic violence dispute. There’s a restraining order.”
“What did he do?”
Aaron is silent for a second, and I can’t tell if he’s reading his notes or if he just doesn’t want to answer the question.