Girl, 11 by Amy Clarke (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

There was a pause, and then a slow inhale. This was how Martín calmed her—he knew when he took a deep breath, she had to also. It was a reflex, contagious like a yawn. She sucked air in through her nose, closing her eyes. Her fingertips ran over the semicolon tattoo on her wrist.

“Better?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Are you having panic attacks?”

Rather than answer, she said, “They asked for my help. I don’t want to mess it up.”

“You won’t, love.”

“It’s already been more than twenty-four hours. If he planned to kill her, she has less than a one percent chance of still being alive.”

“You are living proof that there is an exception to every statistic. Please, be careful.”

Elle’s eyebrows knit together. “I will. I don’t know how long this is going to take. I was calling because . . . well, I wanted to hear your voice, but I also wanted to let you know I might not be home for dinner, depending on how things go.”

“Elle—” He paused, but then he just said, “Okay. I’ll see you when you get home.”

“Te amo,” she said. “Go kick their asses in poker.”

He laughed softly. “Will do. Yo también te amo.”

As she put her phone back in her pocket, a flash of color appeared in the corner of her eye. Elle’s gaze flicked to the townhouse again. The police had disappeared, but a young man in nothing but pajamas was rolling out of a window on the side of the house. Once he landed, he stood and started bounding through the deep snow in a poor attempt at a run. Elle looked at his open front door, but she didn’t see Ayaan or the other officers anywhere. They might not know Graham was fleeing. For a second, she considered how much trouble she’d be in if she chased him, but if this man knew where Amanda was, she couldn’t let him get away. She opened the passenger door slowly, trying not to make a sound as she got out of the car, leaving it open behind her. Graham was looking behind him to see if he was being followed when Elle held up her hands and shouted, “Stop!”

Graham obeyed, staring at her as his body trembled from head to foot, the skin on his hands and face bright red with cold. “Who the fuck are you?”

When he saw she wasn’t holding a gun, he started to move again. She had her Ruger in a hip holster, but she wasn’t allowed to pull it on him except in self-defense, and even she could see he posed no threat to her. He could barely walk as he turned and headed toward his neighbor’s lawn.

“Out here!” Elle shouted, hoping Ayaan would hear her. “He’s running away!” Then she sped after him and tackled him into the snow. He pushed against her, not quite managing to get her off. Her bulky coat was slippery and made it harder to lock her arms around him, but she was grateful for it. It was below zero outside, and she could see that the temperature was making him more lethargic every second. She needed to get him inside.

A moment later, the two officers were pulling Graham away from her and whisking him to the back of their police-issued SUV, where they had blankets and an old pair of boots to put on his bare feet.

“What were you thinking? Are you okay?” Ayaan asked once she had Graham secured and Elle back in her car.

“He was getting away—came out the window. I called for you.” Elle tried to disguise the fact that she was shaking as she held her hands up to the heat vents. “I take it you didn’t find Amanda?”

Ayaan shook her head. “He locked the door on us and ran inside as soon as we identified ourselves. We had to break the door down, and he must have sneaked out while we were searching the house. But she’s not in there, at least not that we can see.”

“You think he’s holding her somewhere else?”

The detective’s round face was grim. “Maybe. But I don’t see why he would. The townhouse isn’t exactly secluded, but he lives there alone. He has an attached garage where he could park and move her in and out of a vehicle without being seen. Why would he bring her somewhere else unless—”

Elle’s body finally grew still. “Unless he’s already killed her.”

As soon as Ayaan led Graham through the door at the station, a young woman with red hair pulled into a ponytail stood from her seat in the entryway and greeted Graham with a tight smile. Elle wondered which detective had let him make a phone call from the car on the way over here, but she wasn’t surprised. White guys getting better treatment by the police was nothing new.

“Mr. Wallace. Have you stayed silent?” the woman asked.

“I encouraged him to reserve his rights,” Ayaan said, meeting her iron-gray eyes. “Come with us, Miss—”

“Delaney.” The lawyer smirked, probably at the expression on Elle’s face. Delaney, Block & Gomez was a relatively new firm in the city, but they’d already developed a reputation for being cutthroat. And for winning. Her gaze flicked to Elle, but she continued speaking to Ayaan. “I heard you had a civilian consultant working with you. I trust she hasn’t been allowed to handle any evidence in my client’s case?”

“She attacked me!” Graham said.

A smile tugged at Ms. Delaney’s lips. “Oh, really?”

Elle crossed her arms. “That was a lawful citizen’s arrest. I’m allowed to stop anyone who is committing a crime in my presence, and he was fleeing from police.” She might not be a cop, but she had spent years in CPS, and she knew the law. Her work as an independent investigator was no good if everything she touched got thrown out in court; she knew what the rules were, and she chose very carefully which ones were worth breaking.

“We’ll see about that.” Ms. Delaney took Graham’s arm, relieving