The dark cloud of grief hovers over me as I forge ahead with my life. The urge to drink is intense, but I keep my mind occupied and my body in motion. I pack up my meager belongings from my apartment, and on Sunday morning, Calvin helps me move my three most cherished items over to the condo. A leather-top Queen Anne desk I bought at the antique mall. A bookcase I found at a yard sale and lacquered navy blue. And a made-to-look-old Oriental rug in pale shades of gray and blue that I saved for months to buy.
We rearrange Jason’s furniture to accommodate my stuff. I position the desk in front of the windows and the bookcase against his exposed brick wall. With the Oriental on the floor, the living room feels homier.
To show Calvin my appreciation for helping me move, I treat him to brunch at LuLu’s. We devour every bite of the chicken and red velvet waffles. We’re finishing our beverages—coffee for me and a Bloody Mary for him—when Calvin says, “Now that we’ve sorted your living situation, you can focus on figuring out your career.”
I shake my head. “My living situation is far from sorted. I have the yard sale next Saturday. I need this week to get ready.”
He blows air through his lips, letting out a puffing sound. “You’re procrastinating. What do you have to do to get ready? Make a few signs, throw an ad up on Craigslist, and put stickers on the furniture left at your apartment. You can do all that in an afternoon. Which leaves you entirely too much free time to get into trouble.”
By trouble, he means getting drunk.
Calvin eyes my phone on the table. “Text Winnie now. Meet with her tomorrow.”
I hesitate, trying to think of a good excuse, but I don’t have one. “I guess you’re right. I can’t put it off any longer.” I thumb off a text to the captain. She responds immediately, summoning me to her office at eight tomorrow morning.
Calvin drains the last of his Bloody Mary and sets his glass down on the table. “Ready to hit the grocery store?”
I roll my eyes. I’m tired of him harassing me about stocking up on food. “I don’t need an escort to the grocery store, Calvin.”
“Yes, you do.” He gets up and pulls me to my feet. “You won’t go if I don’t make you.”
“Fine,” I say, and let him drag me out to the parking lot.
I make out my grocery list on the drive to the Carytown Publix in Calvin’s truck. Before Jason died, I fueled my body with healthy foods. I made myself dinner almost every night and packed my lunches for work. As Calvin pushes the cart through the produce section, I load up on fruits and vegetables. The routine of shopping for groceries makes the day seem almost normal. When I get to the floral section, I pick out an orchid and a potted plant for my new home.
Back at the condo, Calvin insists on helping me put away the groceries. But when he suggests we go for a walk, I say, “It’s steaming hot out. I’d rather take a nap. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Calvin, but you can stop playing nanny to me. I’ll be fine.”
Calvin lets out a sigh. “All right. But only because I have my own errands to run. I’ll check in with you later today.”
I hold up my phone. “I’ll be waiting with bated breath.”
I walk Calvin to the door and lock it behind him.
I spend the afternoon arranging my clothes in the guest room closet. I’m not ready to clear out my brother’s things. Jason’s presence is the strongest in his room. I’ve been sleeping in his bed, where his scent still lingers on his pillows. And I’ll continue to spend time there when I need to feel near him. But I’m claiming the guest room as my own, my first step toward breaking the strong bond that ties me to my brother’s ghost.
Captain Winnie is on the phone when I arrive on Monday morning. She motions me to a chair opposite her desk. She talks a minute more before ending her call. Straightening, she returns the phone to its cradle.
“So, Jolie, how are you holding up?”
I lift a shoulder in a half shrug. “I’m hanging in there. Some days are better than others.”
She places her hands, fingers entwined, on the desk. “Are you ready to come back to work?”
“Not exactly.” I look away, unable to meet her gaze.
Irritation crosses her face. “Why are you here, then? Are you resigning?”
I let out a gush of air and lean forward in my chair. “Calvin suggested I talk to you, to express my concerns about the detective position. Even before Jason died, I was having hesitations. I miss the endorphin rush of being a first responder. Every shift is different. You never know what the day will bring.”
Captain Winnie jabs a finger at me. “You should see your face right now. Your eyes are lit up like Yankee Stadium. So, you want to be a cop again.”
I hesitate a beat. Once I make this admission, there’s no turning back. “I’m considering it.”
Captain Winnie stands abruptly. “Then we have a lot to discuss. I could use a coffee. Let’s go across the street to Starbucks. I’m buying.”
The captain grabs her purse, and we exit the building together. Over at Starbucks, she goes to the counter for our coffees while I snag a free table by the window.
Captain Winnie hands me a coffee and sits down across from me. “Let’s back up a few years. Tell me, why’d you leave the department in the first place?”
I focus my attention on Winnie’s hypnotic green eyes as I attempt to explain. “I felt like I was missing something. Like I was meant to be doing something more meaningful with my life. I have a lot to share with the world. And I’m still interested in being a journalist, but I learned the hard way, I can’t make a living podcasting and freelance writing. I’m on a journey.” I press my hand against my chest. “I feel it in my heart. Jason is guiding me. He’s showing me the way. And I have to follow.”
“Being a police officer is a meaningful occupation, Jolie. We save lives. We help the good folks and lock up the bad guys.”
I lower my gaze to my coffee. “I realize that. Truthfully, Captain, if you’re looking for a commitment, I’m not sure I can give it to you. I’m struggling with my grief. I need to work, to stay busy. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, let alone six months from now.”
“I appreciate your honesty.” Captain Winnie sits back in her chair. “You were a damn fine cop, Jolie. One of the best I’ve ever seen. I’m willing to give you a chance, hoping you’ll make this your permanent career. When can you start? Is today too soon?”
A smile spreads across my face, and a warm feeling surges through my body. Until this second, I didn’t know how much I wanted to return to the department. This feels right. Jason is watching over me. “Today is perfect. But I’d prefer to work nights.”
Captain Winnie nods. “The lonely hours. I understand.”
“But I need next Friday and Saturday off. I’m combining households, and I’ve committed to a yard sale.”
The captain rises from the table. “That shouldn’t be a problem. Let’s go back to the station and you can work out the details with Lieutenant Gannon.”
I practically skip alongside Winnie on the way across the street to the station. “Would it be possible for me to work toward a position with the tactical unit?”
“I think you’re an ideal candidate for the SWAT team,” the captain says, giving me the first glimmer of hope I’ve experienced in a very long time.
My first week back is the hottest of the summer so far. The street thugs are on edge. We make many arrests every night, mostly drug possessions and drunk-and-disorderlies. I’m partnered up with Leo, and I’m grateful he doesn’t mention driving me home after the attack. Our personalities are compatible. He’s quiet by nature, and I’m not in the mood for idle chitchat. He’s a seasoned cop. Instead of chastising me when I make mistakes, he’s patient in explaining the proper way to follow procedure.
My days fall into a routine. I work from four in the afternoon until two in the morning. I manage a few hours of sleep before I’m inevitably awakened by a recurring nightmare from the day Jason died. I head out early for my version of boot camp—a long run followed by military-style calisthenics. After breakfast, I spend a few hours creating podcasts. Mentioning no names, I tell my listeners about the people and danger I encounter on the street. My content seems to resonate with them. As a result, my following grows.
Most days, I arrive at work early. I follow up with complaints citizens make through the nonemergency police hotline. On the first Wednesday of August, I read a report from a woman concerned about the sound of her neighbor’s children crying. I disregard the report at first. Children cry. Dogs bark. But as I read further, my curiosity mounts. The woman, Linda Collins, claims she hears crying next door late at night, but she’s never seen a child enter or exit the house during the day.
Instead of calling her, I get in my truck and drive to her house, which is in an undesirable neighborhood on the outskirts of the city. Linda comes to the door wearing a housecoat with her hair in curlers.
I flash my badge. “I’m Officer Jolene Hogan, following up on a complaint you made to our nonemergency hotline.”
“Oh, right. I’m surprised you actually came.” She steps onto her covered stoop, pulling her door closed behind her. “You must think I’m nuts complaining about crying children. But the man who rents the house next door doesn’t have any kids. Or a wife.”
“Are you sure the crying you heard was a child and not an adult?”
Linda plants a hand on her hip. “I’m positive. I can hear a pin drop. My late husband called me a bat. In case you didn’t know, bats have exceptional hearing.”
I scrunch up my face. “I didn’t know that, actually.”
Linda bobs her head. “They do. They rely on their hearing to survive.” She gives me a skeptical look. “You know bats are blind, don’t you?”
“I did know that. Hence the saying, blind as a bat.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my vision. And I’m telling you, I’ve never seen a child coming or going from that house.”
I follow her arthritic finger to the ramshackle one-story house next door.
“But I hear those precious children sobbing their little hearts out at night. Just tears me to pieces inside.” She grips my arm with surprising strength. “You gotta check it out, Officer. Something evil is going on inside that house. I’m sure of it.”
I open my department-issued iPad and type a few notes. “You mentioned the house is rented. Do you know the owner?”
“His name is Clayton Murphy,” she says and recites his phone number off the top of her head.
Furrowing my brow, I thumb the number into the iPad. “Are you related to Clayton?”
“Nah. But he’s owned that house since I’ve been living here, going on thirty years. I call Clay at least once a week. The current tenant isn’t taking care of the place. Look at the yard. It’s a disgrace.”
I glance over at the yard. The weeds are knee high. “How does Clay respond to your complaints?”
“He doesn’t. He’s avoiding me. But that doesn’t stop me from calling. I leave messages all the time.”
I snap the cover shut on the iPad. “Thank you for the information, Mrs. Collins. I’ll see what I can find out.”
Turning my back on her, I dismiss the woman as a meddling old busybody. But as I cross the street to my truck, an eerie feeling overcomes me. Am I being watched? Is there more to this story than meets the eye? I look heavenward. “Are you sending me a message?” I say out loud to Jason. “Is there something more going on here?”
I think about what I confessed to Captain Winnie over coffee. I feel it in my gut. Jason is guiding me. He’s showing me the way. I have to follow.
On the way back to the station, I call Clayton Murphy. When he answers on the second ring, I introduce myself and explain why I’m calling.
Clayton’s voice is gruff. “That old woman is batshit crazy, Officer. Don’t listen to a word she says.”
“What do you know about your tenant?”
“The only thing I need to know. He pays his bills on time. If you’ve gotta problem, take it up with him.”
This doesn’t sit well with me. “Aren’t you worried your tenant is conducting illegal business in a property you own?”
“You’re getting way ahead of yourself, little lady. Call me when you have evidence to back up that crazy bitch’s story.”
“I’ll do that,” I say, and end the call.
I spend the next two afternoons parked across the street in my truck, staking out the ramshackle house. Not a soul enters or leaves the dwelling. But I can’t shake the feeling something sinister is taking place inside.
On Friday night, Leo and I are parked in Shockoe Slip, sipping strawberry cheesecake milkshakes from Cookout, when I tell him about my visit with Linda Collins and subsequent phone call with Clayton Murphy. “I agree with Clayton. The woman isn’t playing with a full deck. But she was adamant about the crying. I can’t explain it, but I have a gut feeling about this, Leo.”
“And I’ve learned it’s best not to ignore those kinds of feelings.” Leo starts the engine. “Let’s go have a look.”
On the drive over to Linda’s neighborhood, I confess I’ve done a little more digging into the current tenant’s background. “Rodney Garza has only been renting the house a few months. Prior to that, a single mother and her teenage son lived there for four years. Best I can tell, Rodney Garza is in the country illegally.”
Leo’s jaw tightens. “I don’t like the sound of that.” He turns onto Linda’s street and slows in front of her house. Lamps burn in her front living room window, but the house next door is pitch black. We idle on the curb for at least ten minutes. We’re about to drive off when a flash of light from inside the house illuminates a child in the window with palms pressed against the glass.
Leo’s head pivots toward me. “Did you see that?”
“Yep. Looked like a kid to me.”
“Same. We’re checking this out.” He calls dispatch, reports our location, and asks for backup.
Leo and I approach the house with weapons drawn. He pounds on the door and calls out, “Police! Open up!”
The door opens a crack, revealing a brown eyeball. “Can I help you?”
“Are you Rodney Garza?” I ask.
“Who wants to know?” the man says.
Leo plants his foot in the way so Garza can’t close the door. “We’re Richmond City police officers, and we have some questions to ask you.”
I hear muffled cries coming from within. “He’s not alone,” I whisper to Leo.
Leo barges into the door, knocking Garza off balance. When Garza stumbles backward, Leo goes after him while I clear the other rooms. In a tiny bedroom at the back of the house, I find at least forty children of very young ages and different ethnicities.
The kids’ eyes are wide in fear, and they shrink back when I enter the room. Kneeling down, in a soft voice, I say, “It’s okay. You can trust me. I’m the police. I’m here to help.”
A little girl rushes me, knocking me onto my butt and crawling into my lap. Her arms are tight around my neck, and she’s crying hysterically.
Leo enters the room. “What the hell?”
I get to my feet, holding tight to the little girl. She’s as light as a feather, and I can feel her rib cage through her filthy dress.
Leo calls the patrol lieutenant on duty. “We have a child trafficking situation. Get the FBI over here now,” he says and shouts out the address.
With the radio pressed to his ear, he asks me, “Can you handle things in here while I take care of Garza and wait for backup?”
“Of course.” Dropping back to the floor, I sit cross-legged, letting these children crawl all over me. Some speak foreign languages. Some speak English. A few don’t talk at all, their dazed expressions hinting at trauma that may have rendered them mute.
One little girl with haunted doe eyes says, “Hey, lady, will you help me find my mama?”
I kiss her greasy hair. “There are people on the way who will take good care of you. They will do everything they can to help you find your family.”
My heart breaks for these innocent children. I can’t imagine what they’ve been through. Where they’ve come from. The savagery they’ve endured. What would have become of them if we hadn’t intervened?
I stay with them—stroking their hair, hugging them, wiping away their tears—until the FBI finally shows up.
When I emerge from the house, Captain Winnie is standing in the front yard with an attractive young woman wearing an FBI badge pinned to her belt. Winnie motions me over and introduces me to Tamara Hale.
The captain smacks me on the back. “Excellent work, Jolie. Leo tells me you stumbled upon this operation by following up on nonemergency leads.”
My face warms. “That’s correct.” Surveying the property, I notice Linda Collins standing at the edge of the yard in the same housecoat she was wearing the other day. I wave at her. “That woman deserves the credit. She reported hearing children crying late at night but seeing no sign of them during the day.”
Tamara says, “We’ve been investigating a large East Coast trafficking operation. We suspect this is a part of that. We’ve taken Garza in for questioning.”
“Where did the kids come from?” I ask Tamara. “Were they kidnapped? Did their parents sell them?”
“Probably a mixture of both,” she says.
I watch the FBI agents lead the children out of the house to a waiting van. “Where will you take them now?”
“To a nearby facility where they’ll receive food and medical care,” Tamara says. “We’ll begin the process of reuniting them with their families.”
“And what if you can’t find their families?”
“They’ll go into the foster care system or a children’s home. More likely the latter, since the foster care system is stretched pretty thin right now.” Tamara’s expression is serious, a sign of how much she cares about these children.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Calvin’s unmarked car pull alongside the curb across the street. He notices me and hurries over. “I’m impressed, Jolie. First week on the job and you’re busting a child trafficking ring.”
I hold up two fingers. “Second week on the job. It was so awful, Calvin. All those poor little children.” My emotions get the best of me, and I burst into tears. “I’m sorry.”
“No worries.” Tamara holds up her hand. “I get it. This is tough stuff. The atrocities children face these days is unfathomable.”
“Come here.” Calvin drags me off to the side. He puts his arms around me and holds me tight. I’ve grown accustomed to his embrace. His strength gives me courage. We’re kindred spirits. We’ve both experienced tragic losses. He lowered his guard, allowed me to see his vulnerable side. The side he hides behind a wall from the rest of the world.
If only I could erect such a wall. If I could keep people at bay instead of letting them get close. Like these little children. I made the mistake of letting them inside my heart. Imagining what they’ve been through and the long road that lies ahead for them is incomprehensible. Their tear-streaked, dirty little faces have etched themselves into my mind.
I cry harder into Calvin’s chest, and he whispers to me, “It’s past two. You’re officially off duty. I’ll drive you back to the station for your truck.” With one arm bracing me, he walks me to his car.
I stare out the window on the silent drive to headquarters. Calvin has slept with half the women in the department. I understand his sexual promiscuity better than most. That insatiable need that exists deep within my core, which sex satisfies for a brief few moments. Calvin and I are birds of a feather. We get each other. Is it possible there’s more than friendship between us?
He pulls into the parking deck back at headquarters and parks in the empty spot next to my truck.
I place my palm on his cheek. “Thanks for rescuing me. I’m sorry I fell apart on you again.”
Smiling, he kisses my wrist. “What’re friends for?”
I lean across the console and press my lips to his. He jerks his head back, as though electrocuted. “Jolie . . . I . . .”
His reaction surprises and confuses me. I grab my bag and climb out of the truck. He doesn’t call after me.
I drive home with tears blurring my vision. Seated at my desk, I open my laptop and click on my microphone. I talk about busting the trafficking ring, and I pour out my feelings for those children. My emotions are raw. My story will resonate with my listeners. When I’m finished, I turn off the microphone. I will edit the podcast before airing it later today.
With a heavy heart, I traipse down the hall to my bedroom. Calvin’s emotional support has gotten me through these difficult past few weeks. I never would’ve survived without him. He gave me his friendship, and I betrayed him by hitting on him. I really screwed up. I crossed a line, and there’s no going back. But as I lie in my bed, my mind drifts away from Calvin and back to the children. I imagine their arms around my neck, their trembling bodies pressed against mine. Jason led me to that ramshackle house. He’s sending me a message. I have no clue what it means. But I know with absolute certainty, I’m about to find out.