Clarity - Nicole Dykes Page 0,16
to me now. I don’t know what brought her here to my shop, but fuck, maybe we’re kindred spirits or something. I can’t explain it, but I know I'm supposed to help this kid.
I’ll be damned if I let that fucker ever touch her again.
“What’s your name?”
“Bree.”
I nod my head, liking that she doesn’t ask me mine. I haven’t earned her trust yet. Good girl. “I’m Rhys.”
She just gives me a curt nod because she’s a tough kid. Taken in by a sick, twisted rich motherfucker who dresses her up like a doll.
“How old are you?”
“Eleven.”
I fight the bile trying to rise in my throat. I can’t puke in front of her. That won’t inspire any confidence.
“Okay, Bree. I gotta make a call, but the door is locked. Just stay here.”
She doesn’t move, and I go to the back to grab my cell phone and dial the only person I think I can remotely trust right now. Logan’s stepmom. She’s a social worker in Kansas City, and even though I’d rather cut off my arm than talk to another social worker again, she’s pretty decent.
“Hello?”
“Gillian, it’s Rhys.”
There’s a beat. I wonder if she’ll even talk to me. Quinn is her stepson’s girl, and when she first moved in with Logan’s parents, it was after I had fucking hit Quinn after a bender. My stomach aches, thinking about that. I hit her. I did so many shitty things when I was high.
“Hi, Rhys. Are you okay, sweetie?”
I flinch, not liking any term of endearment. “I’m fine, but a kid just came into my shop. She ran from her foster father, and she told me he hurts her.” I swallow the sickening feeling and press forward matter-of-factly. I don’t want her to read me. “I can’t give her back to that sick motherfucker.”
She takes all the information in. “Okay. I’ll give you a contact for St. Louis. If she has bruises or any proof.”
She won’t. Not anywhere they can see, and she won’t let them dig too deep. Because she’s fucking terrified. “This contact, they’re legit?”
“Of course.” She thinks they are. I know the system. I’ve been fucked many times by the system.
“And if she doesn’t have any visible bruises?”
She’s quiet. “If she’s afraid and tells them that, they’ll investigate.”
I lean my back against the wall, the phone pressed against my ear. “She’s scared.”
“It will be okay, Rhys. You’re doing the right thing. You need to take her to Family Services there and ask for Morgan Winters. She’ll help.”
I nod and then hang up, walking back to the girl. Bree.
“I’m going to help you.”
She looks frightened and so very alone. “You’re gonna take me to the social workers.” She says it like she already knew what I’d do. Because a kid in the system knows it better than anyone else.
“Yeah.”
She stands up, her shoulders drooped. “They’ll just put me back in his house.”
“I won’t let them.”
Her head moves from side to side sadly. “He has money.” Her head lifts, and she looks at me, her gaze so fucking heartbreaking I want to punch a hole through the wall. “A lot of it.”
My stomach wretches, but I don’t let myself throw up. “Let’s go. I’ll protect you.”
And I mean it even if I have no idea how I can do that.
I drive her to Family Services, and we walk inside. The way she walks slowly at my side, it’s like I'm guiding her to her slaughter. I fucking hate every step.
We go into the main office, and I holler, “Is there a Morgan Winters here?”
Not too much later, a woman in her forties comes to our aid. “I’m Morgan. Are you Rhys?”
So Gillian called ahead. “Yes.”
She smiles warmly, like they’re trained to do, as she looks down at Bree. “And you are?”
“Bree.”
Morgan nods her head, still with that friendly smile. “Is that your full name?”
The girl huffs, probably having been through it all before. Looking much older than her mere eleven years. Because kids like us grow up fast. “Aubrey Lynn Prescott.”
Morgan looks pleased, nodding in approval. “That’s great. What a pretty name. And your foster father’s name?”
“Mr. Herrington.”
Morgan has a little notepad she’s scribbling on, nodding her head faster now. “Great. And is he married?”
Bree nods her head. “Yes.”
“Okay, that’s wonderful. Let me go and do a little bit of research, you guys are welcome to wait for me in the waiting area over there.” She points to a line of chairs next to a rack of magazines.
The setup is one I'm