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

“Were there any other cars in the parking lot besides the van?” Sam asked. His arms were folded, weight resting on the balls of his feet like he was ready to jump out of his skin.

“I don’t know.”

“Think! This is really important, man. Don’t you get it? A little girl’s life is at risk here.”

“Okay, okay!” Eduardo shut his eyes, his eyebrows drawn together in a harsh V. He put his hands out, gesturing with his left. “The van was over here, right in front of the door. He was parked in the disabled parking spot; I remember that. Then my car was in the back of the lot, in the corner.” He pointed to the left. “I think there was another car there. On the right. I remember because I didn’t think there would be anyone left by the time I finished my shift. This was at, like, one a.m. But there was another car there, besides the van. Yeah.” He opened his eyes, meeting Elle’s gaze.

“Do you remember what it looked like? Color? Make?”

He shook his head. “All I know is that it was a dark sedan; I couldn’t make out the color. And I don’t even know if it belonged to the guy. He went inside once he gave me the keys to the van. How would he have driven the van there if he’d brought the car too?”

“There’s a bus that goes between the campus and the city center,” Sam said. “He could have caught that, especially if he lives near the city. Or he could have taken a taxi. Do you remember anything else?”

“No, sorry. I . . . I never would have gotten involved in this if I knew—”

“We know,” Elle said. She couldn’t speak for Sam, but if anything was going to, this case would probably be the thing that scared Eduardo off crime for good.

“Thanks for your time,” Sam said, reaching his hand out. Looking surprised, Eduardo took it for a firm shake. “If you think of anything else, please call us right away. Day or night.” He handed the man a card.

Taking it, Eduardo looked up at him. “Is that really it? You’re not going to arrest me?”

“You’re not the one we’re interested in, Eduardo. Consider this a late Christmas present.”

Sam and Elle turned and started down the hall, toward the parking lot where Eduardo said he got the van. It probably wouldn’t do any good, but it would be useful to get an idea of how big the parking lot was, at least.

“Hang on, I just thought of something,” Sam said when they’d almost reached the exit.

“What?”

But he ignored Elle, turning back around. “Eduardo?” he called out.

Eduardo paused in the act of putting his headphones on and looked at them.

“Did you say the guy went into the building after he gave you the van?”

“Yeah.”

“You saw him go in?”

Again, Eduardo nodded.

“Do you think he works here?”

Eduardo thought for a second. “Yeah, I guess he would have to.”

“Why?” Elle asked, taking a few steps back to him.

“Because he’d need a key to get into that building after hours.”

31

Justice Delayed podcast

Recorded January 18, 2020

Unaired recording: Elle Castillo, monologue

Elle:

I was right. Everything is adding up to show that I was right. There are too many coincidences for me to write off, but still no one sees it.

When I was a kid, my father used to read me stories of Greek mythology. Something always drew me to Cassandra, the priestess given the power to accurately predict the future, and then doomed to never be believed. Her gift of prophecy was bestowed by Apollo as a seduction, and when she refused to love him, he turned the gift into a curse. Cassandra’s story is a familiar one. She’s no different from all the women whose lives are destroyed by the spite of a jilted man—women who speak their truths and are never believed.

I don’t think I’m always right, but I know I am right about this.

Another girl was taken yesterday. The world might not know who she is, but she is special to me—the perfect target to isolate in order to break me. Natalie Hunter was taken from the side of the road walking the ten blocks from her piano lessons to my house. I was . . . I was supposed to be there for her, and I failed.

As long as I live, I will never forgive myself for that.

Natalie is the kind of kid that sticks with you once you know her. You can’t not notice her. Maybe it’s because her mom is fierce and independent, or because she had to deal with kids bullying her for not having a father. Or maybe it’s just who she is—but Natalie is the toughest, strongest, most passionate kid, and I can’t . . .

I can’t believe she’s gone.

I remember the day we met. I was watching TV when the doorbell rang, and this little kid—barely four years old—with messy curls and three different colors of marker on her skin was standing on my doorstep. That was back when I was working at CPS, and for half a second, I thought it was someone from one of my cases. I was trying hard to get pregnant at the time, but I rarely spent time with kids outside of work. There was no one else around that I could see, but she was way too young to be out on her own. Before I could even open my mouth to ask where her mother was, she held up a mixing bowl and said, “You have an egg? Mom’s in the shower. I dropped the last one.”

Apparently, mine was the fourth door she had knocked on, and the first one that answered. She was obviously fine, but I’d seen enough in my work to be alarmed—anyone behind those prior doors could have put her in danger. We had lived in the area six months by that point and hadn’t really met any of the neighbors. For all I know, if it wasn’t for