CHAPTER 2

(November 17th)

Ben

I sit in the waiting room at St. Joseph's Emergency Room. My left leg taps an

impatient rhythm on the floor. I scan the room for the seventh time, mentally taking

notes on each person in sight. I check the hallway leading to the exit. No one. I

check the hallway behind the front desk. No one. But someone could be

approaching, just out of view. I casually stand and walk toward the entrance to the

ER, scanning for signs of anyone I might have come into contact with during my two

years working undercover. I look for signs that anyone besides me is carrying. Sharp

angles where there shouldn't be any, strange bulges in pockets or at the

waistband.

I turn and stroll up to the desk. The nurse looks up, but when she sees it's only me,

she goes back to her work. I look through the small office back to the hallway

obscured from the waiting room by two large, automatic doors I wasn't allowed to

pass through.

"When she's ready for you, an orderly will come find you," the nurse says, giving me

a stern look.

Chastised, I walk back to my seat, only to jump right back up when a man in scrubs

emerges from behind the double doors. He's not coming to speak to me.

Disappointed, I sink back down into the seat.

"Friend or family?" an elderly woman two seats over asks. She looks up at me over

the rims of her delicate glasses.

"I'm sorry?"

"Are you here for a friend or family?"

"Neither, ma'am."

"Ah, well then," the grandmotherly woman says, giving me a knowing smile as she

adjusts the ball of yarn in her lap. "She must be a very special young lady, to have

you so worked up."

"Yes, she is," I say truthfully. There's so much I don't know about Anastasia

Clarence. She's an enigma. I knew the moment I laid eyes on her that it would never

be a question of if I blew my cover to rescue her, but when . More specifically, how

quickly can I get her out of here. When I looked into her eyes, I saw the face of a

dying girl no one was going to save. Isabela.

"How about you," I ask, keeping my expression acceptably tense for what she

expects of a worried boyfriend. I smile, a carefully crafted one that says I'm making

conversation to keep my mind off my sweetheart instead of why does this girl remind

me so strongly of my dead sister . "Friend or family?"

"Oh, it's just my grandson Zachary-James. He's shoved a lego up his nose again.

My poor Mary has her hands full with the twins just being born this week, so Carl

and I offered to take the boys for the evening. I'd forgotten how mischievous the

little terrors can be."

She laughs like she just told a good joke. "Don't tell Carl I said that. He believes

those boys are God's gift to this Earth. We never had any sons, but Carl always

wanted a boy. Me, I prefer daughters. And granddaughters. But I love those little

rascals all the same."

My eye wanders to the two men who walk into the ER, one bleeding from a wound

in his arm. I focus on them, looking the men up and down for any sign of weapons.

That could be a gunshot wound. I don't recognize either of them, but that doesn't

mean they aren't here to recapture Anastasia. I start to ease my phone out of my

pocket to text Officer Jones to keep a sharp eye out. I stop. Jones is a competent

police officer. She's already very well aware of the risks involved here.

"Tell me about this girl you care about so much. How did you two meet?"

I spent two years working under a carefully crafted identity with a nuanced history

but now I have to invent a new one from scratch.

"I was at work. She was sitting there, in a chair and looked up at me when I walked

into the room. I looked into her eyes, and I just knew," I say, judging this likely to be

well-received by my audience and close enough to the truth that it's hardly even a

stretch.

"Oh, isn't that just precious," she says, clasping her hands and giving me a wide

smile. "Sometimes I worry so much about young people these days, with their

tweets and their Tinders and their online dating. Makes me wonder if romance is

dead. But then I hear a story like yours and I realize there's still hope after all."

I've been discreetly watching the approaching orderly ever since he emerged from

those impassable double doors. I turn to him as he reaches me.

"Mr. Ramirez?" he asks.

"Yes?"

"You can come back with me now."

I turn to the elderly woman. "It's been lovely talking to you, ma'am. I hope your

grandsons settle down for you and leave the legos where they belong."

She gives me another grandmotherly smile. "Thank you. I hope your girlfriend is

feeling much better soon."

"I appreciate it. Have a good night."

I turn to the orderly and follow him back into the white-walled, sterile tunnels of the

large hospital.

The sight of the girl sitting on the examination table makes my blood run cold. I

hadn't realized that I'd never gotten a good look at Anastasia while getting her to

safety. Jones had been the one to ease her out of the car and take her into the ER.

When I'd first seen her in the dim light of the room where she'd been tied up, all I

could make out were the largest of the bruises. Now, here in the bright, harsh

lighting of the hospital room, I can see every bruise, every cut, every bump in

shocking detail. Just like Isabela.

Looking at her is like looking at the photographs of Isabela's body after she'd been

murdered. Anastasia looks like my sister's corpse, the primary differences being

that her unbruised skin doesn't have the slightly blue-grey tinge Isabela's had and

that Anastasia looks to have been starved in addition to being beaten. Even her eyes

show no spark of life as they stare blankly at nothing.

Her resemblance to a corpse is uncanny. I confirm with the doctor that Anastasia is

healthy enough to be discharged now, though she's very adamant that my new key

witness needs rest, a calm, non-stimulating environment, and plenty of fluids and

nutrients. The doctor also recommends that Anastasia start seeing a psychologist

as soon as she's recovered enough.

Jones and I take Anastasia back to the precinct office. After receiving the doctor's

advice and observing Anastasia myself, the last thing I want to do is subject her to

the barrage of questions Ken is sure to have. But I barely managed to convince Ken

to let me take her to the hospital before bringing her in. He was ready to have a

meltdown when I told him I'd most likely blown the cover we'd spent so long setting

up. He was slightly less enraged when I explained that I'd found the missing key

witness in the Clarence family murder case but quickly got back to yelling at me

when he remembered her previous refusal to testify.

"If you've blown this cover for nothing, Ramirez, I'm gonna fire your ass so fast-"

I assured Ken that I'd work everything out, but I'm sure my boss is still ready to

threaten me with dismissal. I know he'd never follow through with it. I'm the best

man he's got and we both know it.

~~~

The seething look Ken is giving me a few hours later decreases my confidence in

that earlier claim. We came down here for debriefing and so Anastasia could give

her statement, but it's not going well. To be more specific, Anastasia's not talking.

To anyone. About anything. At all. She hasn't spoken a word. From the media room,

I look at the feed of her sitting in an interview room, staring at a wall and not

making a sound. When Ken steps out of the room, I elbow Jones and ask her in

hushed tones if Anastasia said anything while they were at the ER together.

"No. I haven't heard her say a single word. She wouldn't even look me or the doctor

in the eye. I've seen some bad stuff on this job, but I've never seen someone

locked inside of themselves like this before. You can tell someone's home," she

says, tapping her forehead, "but she's not coming out."

I let out a frustrated groan and my eyes sweep back to the video feed from the

interview room. Anastasia has slumped over in her chair and her eyes are drooping.

I can see we're not getting anywhere with this tonight.

"Maybe we just need to give her a few days. Let her breathe. Heal. Eat some decent

meals. Maybe if we put her somewhere that she feels safe and at home, she'll open

up."

"Where are you going to find that?" Jones asks, staring at me incredulously through

large hazel eyes. "Haven't you read her file? She watched her family murdered in

front of her eyes in her home. She was in WITSEC for all of four months, and in that

time she was nearly gunned down twice and shot out of the sky in a helicopter. Her

handler was killed on the scene, also probably in front of her, and she's been who

knows where for who knows how long until she suddenly popped up back here in

Phoenix after eight months of being missing. Where do you think she's going to feel

safe? These people found her in The Middle of Nowhere, Alaska. She'd probably still

be scared if we sent her to Mars, Ramirez!"

I stifle another groan of frustration. Jones is right. I'd had the idea in my head that

the only obstacle between me and the testimony that could bring down the Alvarez

family crime syndicate was that prison cell where I found Anastasia. This is turning

out more difficult than I imagined.

"Well how about this," I say, thinking out loud and hoping I manage to come up with

something convincing. "She doesn't trust any of us yet, but I'm the one who got her

out of there and you're the one who stuck by her side in the hospital, so we're the

ones she's known the longest and has the most reason to trust. I think we should

stay with her, to give her some sort of constant and give her a chance to build trust

with us. It's better than switching out people assigned to her protection team. And

my cover's probably blown anyway, so it's not like I'd be missing anything important

to do this instead."

"Sorry to disappoint, Ramirez, but we didn't form some magical instant-trust bond

during our awkward hour of silence after failed conversation attempts in that exam

room. She wouldn't even look at me. I doubt she'd recognize me if she saw me

again."

In the video feed, the girl in the chair is looking close to passing out completely.

"This is ridiculous," I say, standing and heading for the door. Jones follows.

In the hall, I run into Ken and pitch the idea I've been forming. He's none too

pleased about it, but he can't argue on the point that Anastasia isn't going to be of

any use to us tonight. It's already 3 am and everyone is tired. He reluctantly agrees

after threatening my job again.

When I walk into the interview room to retrieve the mute witness, I'm struck again

by how much she reminds me of Isabela. I know she's almost twenty-two, but she

doesn't look a day over Isabela's sixteen years. Every ounce of me screams that

this girl needs someone to protect her. Just like Isabela did. This time, I'm not

going to fail.

She looks like she's sleepwalking as I lead her out of the room, through the precinct

and to a waiting car. I help her into the backseat before joining Jones in the front.

As Jones drives us to the safe house, Anastasia lays down across the three seats in

the back and falls asleep again. I hope that when she wakes up next, she realizes

that it's going to be OK now.