Once Lured. Blake Pierce

abusive father. Riley called every so often to find out how Jilly was doing.

      Riley heard a sigh from Brenda.

      “It’s good of you to call,” Brenda said. “I wish more people showed some concern. Jilly’s still with us.”

      Riley’s heart sank. She hoped that someday she’d call and be told that Jilly had been taken in by a kindly foster family. This wasn’t going to be that day. Now Riley was worried.

      She said, “The last time we talked, you were afraid you’d have to send her back to her father.”

      “Oh, no, we’ve got that legally sorted out. We’ve even got a restraining order to keep him away from her.

      Riley breathed a sigh of relief.

      “Jilly asks about you all the time,” Brenda said. “Would you like to talk to her?”

      “Yes. Please.”

      Brenda put Riley on hold. Riley suddenly wondered whether this was such a good idea. Whenever she talked to Jilly, she wound up feeling guilty. She couldn’t understand why she felt that way. After all, she had saved Jilly from a life of exploitation and abuse.

      But saved her for what? she wondered. What kind of life did Jilly have to look forward to?

      She heard Jilly’s voice.

      “Hey, Agent Paige.”

      “How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?”

      “Sorry. Hey, Riley.”

      Riley chuckled a little.

      “Hey, yourself. How are you doing?”

      “Okay, I guess.”

      A silence fell.

      A typical teenager, Riley thought. It was always hard to get Jilly talking.

      “So what are you up to?” Riley asked.

      “Just waking up,” Jilly said, sounding a bit groggy. “Going to eat breakfast.”

      Riley then realized that it was three hours earlier in Phoenix.

      “I’m sorry to call so early,” Riley said. “I keep forgetting about the time difference.”

      “It’s okay. It’s nice of you to call.”

      Riley heard a yawn.

      “So are you going to school today?” Riley asked.

      “Yeah. They let us out of the joint every day to do that.”

      It was Jilly’s little running joke, calling the shelter the “joint” as if it were a prison. Riley didn’t find it very funny.

      Riley said, “Well, I’ll let you go have breakfast and get ready.”

      “Hey, wait a minute,” Jilly said.

      Another silence fell. Riley thought she heard Jilly choke back a sob.

      “Nobody wants me, Riley,” Jilly said. She was crying now. “Foster families keep passing me over. They don’t like my past.”

      Riley was staggered.

      Her “past”? she thought. Jesus, how can a thirteen-year-old have a “past”? What’s the matter with people?

      “I’m sorry,” Riley said.

      Jilly spoke haltingly through her tears.

      “It’s like … well, you know, it’s … I mean, Riley, it seems like you’re the only one who cares.”

      Riley’s throat ached and her eyes stung. She couldn’t reply.

      Jilly said, “Couldn’t I come to live with you? I won’t be much trouble. You’ve got a daughter, right? She could be like my sister. We could look after each other. I miss you.”

      Riley struggled to speak.

      “I … I don’t think that’s possible, Jilly.”

      “Why not?”

      Riley felt devastated. The question struck her like a bullet.

      “It’s just … not possible,” Riley said.

      She could still hear Jilly crying.

      “Okay,” Jilly said. “I’ve got to head over to breakfast. Bye.”

      “Bye,” Riley said. “I’ll call again soon.”

      She heard a click as Jilly ended the call. Riley bent over her desk, tears running down her own face. Jilly’s question kept echoing through her head …

      “Why not?”

      There were a thousand reasons. She had her hands full with April as it was. Her job was too consuming, both of her time and energy. And was she in any way qualified or prepared to deal with Jilly’s psychological scarring? Of course she wasn’t.

      Riley wiped her eyes and sat upright. Indulging in self-pity wasn’t going to help anybody. It was time to get back to work. Girls were dying out there, and they needed her.

      She picked up the folder and opened it. Was it time, she wondered, to get back in the arena?

      CHAPTER THREE

      Scratch sat on his front porch swing watching the kids come and go in their Halloween costumes. He usually enjoyed having trick-or-treaters come around. But it seemed a bittersweet occasion this year.

      How many of these kids will be alive in just a few weeks? he wondered.

      He sighed. Probably none of them. The deadline was near and no one was paying attention to his messages.

      The porch swing chains were creaking. There was a light, warm rain falling, and Scratch hoped that the kids wouldn’t catch cold. He had a basket of candy on his lap, and he was being pretty generous. It was getting late, and soon there would be no more kids.

      In Scratch’s mind Grandpa was still complaining, even though the cranky old man had died years ago. And it didn’t matter that Scratch was grown now, he was never free from the old man’s advice.

       “Look at that one in the cloak and the black plastic mask,” Grandpa said. “Call that a costume?”

      Scratch hoped that he and Grandpa weren’t about to have another argument.

      “He’s dressed up as Darth Vader, Grandpa,” he said.

      “I don’t care who the hell he’s supposed to be. It’s a cheap, store-bought outfit. When I took you trick-or-treating, we always made your costumes for you.”

      Scratch remembered those costumes. To turn him into a mummy, Grandpa had wrapped him up in torn-up bed sheets. To make him into a knight in shining armor, Grandpa had decked him out in cumbersome poster board covered with aluminum foil, and he’d carried a lance made out of a broomstick. Grandpa’s costumes were always creative.

      Still, Scratch didn’t remember those Halloweens fondly. Grandpa would always curse and complain while getting him into those outfits. And when Scratch got home from trick-or-treating … for a moment, Scratch felt like a little boy again. He knew that Grandpa was always right. Scratch didn’t always understand why, but that didn’t matter. Grandpa was right, and he was wrong. That was just the way things were. It was the way things had always been.

      Scratch had been relieved when he got too old for trick-or-treating. Ever since then, he’d been free to sit on the porch dispensing candy to kids. He was happy for them. He was glad that they were enjoying childhood, even if he hadn’t.

      Three kids clambered up onto the porch. A boy was dressed as Spiderman, a girl as Catwoman. They looked about nine years old. The third kid’s costume made Scratch smile. A little girl, about seven years old, was wearing a bumblebee outfit.

      “Trick-or-treat!” they all shouted as they gathered in front of Scratch.

      Scratch chuckled and rummaged around in the basket for candy. He gave some to the kids,