I join her in a grimace. “Gross.”
“Life at the lodge was so much better. Senators and princes and presidents and businessmen. Life there was easy, compared.”
“Who ran it?”
“Dick. He was in charge of running it, delegated even. He had been given the job as part of a family heritage thing. He was like the head pimp, but he hired a woman to do the job of running the girls. It’s all very sick.”
“Have you ever been there?”
Her eyes tell me the answer before her lips. “Got to spend all of twelfth grade there. Took that month in a cell at the cabin to convince me the lodge was the better choice and that a few of the girls there could teach me far better than my schoolteacher. It was the reason I ran away at seventeen.”
“Why’s it closed down now?”
“I have no idea. I have remained detached from all of that.” She shrugs. “I imagine since Dick died, it was harder to keep it running; with no firm hand. Or maybe they are waiting for all the snow up there to be good for skiing and not crusty. It gets crusty this time of year. It’s a winter lodge, after all. Or maybe they just are taking a break so they don’t get caught. There is no proof of any of it happening unless you go there. I know I couldn’t prove any of it happened.” She sounds detached from it as she speaks of it. It is exactly the way I would sound if it were me.
I don’t have words for any of it. “This is all so much worse than I imagined. I am sorry for coming here and reminding you of everything.”
“Don’t be. I have lived my entire life with it and never speaking of it.” She shakes her head. “I’m just glad you know about it. I’m guessing that means it will all be exposed for what it is. Modern-day slavery is just as real as the old kind. People just think ’cause a girl is smiling, she wants to play along. But there are things you can do to make yourself smile through anything.” She slides the address over to me with a shaky hand, and a single tear splats onto her pale wooden table next to an old plate of noodles. She wipes her face and smiles. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get emotional.”
“Don’t be sorry.” I lick my lips nervously, processing what to say. What do you say to someone who has had this as a life? “I will make them pay.” It’s all I have.
A smile crosses her lips. “Thank you.” The horror she’s witnessed still lives in her eyes. I can see it.
I get up and leave, taking the address with me. When we get back in the car Henrico gives me a look. “Why do I get the feeling this is about to go very badly for everyone but us?”
I nod and drive as fast as I can back to the city. “If you want to keep your job, you have a choice: look the other way and lie in the end, or get out of the car when we get back.”
He laughs. “My mother always said I was the worst liar there was. I don’t mind looking the other way, though.”
“Okay.”
21. House of horrors
Henrico offers me another gun as he stashes his third one in his jacket.
Stanley passes me the shoe polish so we can all rub it over our faces and necks. I flex my hands when I pull on my gloves, giving the guys a signal, one I haven’t used in a long time. It means it’s time to move and no more speaking unless necessary.
We hurry away from the vehicle and run along the waterfront, jumping over a fence and down a sidewalk to the dock of the property next door. It’s an estate, most likely owned by someone at Amazon, the nouveau riche in the Seattle area.
The three of us hurry along the grass and lapping waves as we get to the next yard, the one she gave the address for. The fence near the water is actually a massive rock wall. We jump it and hurry up the side yard, hugging the bricks and rocks but spread out. I get to a door in the basement and drop to my knees, picking the lock quickly.
I send the text then. Here!
Me too! He responds right away. Done!
Listening for any occupants, I turn the lock and slink inside. The light on the security system doesn’t change at all. Once all three of us are inside, Stanley stays at the door to guard the entrance as Henrico and I slither through the house, making no noise.
The basement mostly is a series of rooms. I purposely find the boiler room so I can see Amanda’s bedroom next to it. There are three locks on the door, all on the outside. I turn the locks slowly, opening it to find a cot and decorations fitting a girl’s room.
They haven’t even taken down the pictures she drew. I signal for Henrico to stay as I go inside. Her pictures break my heart. I have seen them before on the walls of kids who came from bad living situations. She draws sunshine and a garden and a sky, making it look like she had windows in the room. Each view is one from a window.