her.
At first, she had her back to us, faced the window like she hadn’t heard us enter, or wanted to pretend we weren’t there.
“Hello?” I said.
She shifted slightly and turned to see us out of the corner of her eye. I could only see her cheek from across the room, the skin creased and pockmarked. When she came all the way around to face us, her head held dark eyes set deep into their sockets, peering out at us. Her face was scratched. Maybe they were bites. Her neck had the remains of a wide bruise, now just brown and yellow.
I didn’t recognize her from any of the pictures I’d seen in the victims’ apartments, but she would’ve fit right in with the others—once. Now she looked like those had been the good times, before the lean. She’d lost too much weight, likely snorted too much meth to ever get back an appearance of “health.”
But something else had happened, something worse: this girl had been beaten, perhaps to within an inch of her life. Now she was halfway healed.
She offered us her arms, wrists up, scarred and scabbed, as if we should cuff her, even though she hadn’t done anything wrong, yet. So far she was the only thing right about any of this.
Maybe.
I knew I should go to her, protect her, and greet her like a hostage, but I was paralyzed. I didn’t know if the room was clear, and I also felt like an intruder in a place where I didn’t belong.
A quick scan showed a kettle, a hot plate, a large dresser, two straight-backed wooden chairs by the table.
Behind me, Hendricks said, “We’re here to help you. Do you know where Father Michael is?” He nudged me forward to enter the room.
Then she stepped down from the bed, one thin leg at a time. I could tell by her gauntness and the way she moved that she wasn’t all there; something was wrong. She had an air of discomfort about her, like one leg was longer than the other. Maybe something was broken. I wondered at what all she had been through.
Her arms clenched around her ribs like something inside her hurt.
“Get an ambulance down here,” I said to the officers in the hall.
Her cheeks were pinched in, hollow. She didn’t smile. Her gaze stayed on the floor.
Then a low whine started in the back of her mouth, almost her neck.
“Stay where you are,” Hendricks said.
She didn’t act like she could hear, just kept coming. By the time she reached me, she was crying. Then she fell into my arms, and I caught her. She surprised me by how little she weighed. I held her there at the entrance to this small, strange room with my feet on the cold floor.
Noises came out of her throat, sounds like she was trying to say no over and over but couldn’t make the word. She kept her mouth closed the whole time. It sounded like she didn’t have a tongue.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
MICHAEL
In the courtyard of St. Boniface, just beyond the palm tree, was a large azalea bush that needed trimming often. Someone had to keep it looking neat and tended to, and I took pride in that being one of my contributions. Over the years, I changed its shape, pruned it back, even rooted it more solidly. I took my duties regarding the general facade of the church most seriously.
As I snipped at the azalea with my shears, I watched the lunch line across the street. All sorts of sinners waited on the sidewalk outside St. Anthony’s with blank, guilty faces. They were cast aside by life time and time again. Not of their own choosing. Still there was responsibility in them all—their choice of certain ways.
Some of them were worth pity and love. Sadness and shame. But He didn’t feel shame for them; He imposed His direction and will toward all equally. It was our lot to make the most of both sunshine and rain, treat them equally as gifts.
Some of the needy held wet cardboard over their heads, hoping to deflect the rain. Still their jackets were wet.
Suddenly He blessed me with a new vision, a message. I saw the world clear-eyed as I hadn’t in some time,
At first, she had her back to us, faced the window like she hadn’t heard us enter, or wanted to pretend we weren’t there.
“Hello?” I said.
She shifted slightly and turned to see us out of the corner of her eye. I could only see her cheek from across the room, the skin creased and pockmarked. When she came all the way around to face us, her head held dark eyes set deep into their sockets, peering out at us. Her face was scratched. Maybe they were bites. Her neck had the remains of a wide bruise, now just brown and yellow.
I didn’t recognize her from any of the pictures I’d seen in the victims’ apartments, but she would’ve fit right in with the others—once. Now she looked like those had been the good times, before the lean. She’d lost too much weight, likely snorted too much meth to ever get back an appearance of “health.”
But something else had happened, something worse: this girl had been beaten, perhaps to within an inch of her life. Now she was halfway healed.
She offered us her arms, wrists up, scarred and scabbed, as if we should cuff her, even though she hadn’t done anything wrong, yet. So far she was the only thing right about any of this.
Maybe.
I knew I should go to her, protect her, and greet her like a hostage, but I was paralyzed. I didn’t know if the room was clear, and I also felt like an intruder in a place where I didn’t belong.
A quick scan showed a kettle, a hot plate, a large dresser, two straight-backed wooden chairs by the table.
Behind me, Hendricks said, “We’re here to help you. Do you know where Father Michael is?” He nudged me forward to enter the room.
Then she stepped down from the bed, one thin leg at a time. I could tell by her gauntness and the way she moved that she wasn’t all there; something was wrong. She had an air of discomfort about her, like one leg was longer than the other. Maybe something was broken. I wondered at what all she had been through.
Her arms clenched around her ribs like something inside her hurt.
“Get an ambulance down here,” I said to the officers in the hall.
Her cheeks were pinched in, hollow. She didn’t smile. Her gaze stayed on the floor.
Then a low whine started in the back of her mouth, almost her neck.
“Stay where you are,” Hendricks said.
She didn’t act like she could hear, just kept coming. By the time she reached me, she was crying. Then she fell into my arms, and I caught her. She surprised me by how little she weighed. I held her there at the entrance to this small, strange room with my feet on the cold floor.
Noises came out of her throat, sounds like she was trying to say no over and over but couldn’t make the word. She kept her mouth closed the whole time. It sounded like she didn’t have a tongue.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
MICHAEL
In the courtyard of St. Boniface, just beyond the palm tree, was a large azalea bush that needed trimming often. Someone had to keep it looking neat and tended to, and I took pride in that being one of my contributions. Over the years, I changed its shape, pruned it back, even rooted it more solidly. I took my duties regarding the general facade of the church most seriously.
As I snipped at the azalea with my shears, I watched the lunch line across the street. All sorts of sinners waited on the sidewalk outside St. Anthony’s with blank, guilty faces. They were cast aside by life time and time again. Not of their own choosing. Still there was responsibility in them all—their choice of certain ways.
Some of them were worth pity and love. Sadness and shame. But He didn’t feel shame for them; He imposed His direction and will toward all equally. It was our lot to make the most of both sunshine and rain, treat them equally as gifts.
Some of the needy held wet cardboard over their heads, hoping to deflect the rain. Still their jackets were wet.
Suddenly He blessed me with a new vision, a message. I saw the world clear-eyed as I hadn’t in some time,
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