Pretty Girl Thirteen. Liz Coley

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      “Told you.” He was honest, anyway, and his grin was contagious. “Sorry. More?”

      Angie laughed, for the first time. “Ninety-five, last time I checked.” Her laugh sounded creaky, hoarse, unused.

      “And how old are you?”

      “Thirteen,” she said.

      Mom started to open her mouth. A hissed “Si—” escaped before Brogan cut her off.

      Dad missed the gesture. “She’s sixteen,” he insisted. “You’re sixteen now, Angela. Don’t you understand what we’ve been telling you?”

      Angie’s head buzzed. What was wrong with everybody? Dad was so stiff and angry—he only ever called her Angela when she was in trouble. She was supposed to be his little Angel. But she hadn’t done anything wrong, except maybe get lost. And that wasn’t her fault. And besides … she was home now.

      Anger bubbled up from nowhere. “Will you stop this stupid game? I’m thirteen.” Her voice caught in her throat. “I’m thirteen.”

      Tears blurred her view of the detective’s face, but she spoke straight to him in tight, furious words. “I’m Angela Gracie Chapman. In three weeks, I’m starting eighth grade at La Cañada High School. I’m thirteen years old. And I think I’ve been lost. But I don’t know for sure. I want to take a shower and eat and go to bed.” She crossed her arms tightly across her chest, trying to ignore the soft bumps that weren’t supposed to be there.

      Mom stood. She placed an arm around Angie’s shoulder, like a magic cloak of protection. “Detective. She’s right. We all need a little adjustment time here. Can’t this be finished later?”

      Angie felt such a rush of relief. Mom would get rid of everyone and tuck her into bed, and when she woke up, everything would be normal again.

      “I’m sorry, Margie. I wish we could.” Brogan focused on Angie. “As far as the question of your memory, Angela, I think we’re dealing with some retrograde amnesia and post-traumatic stress here. You know what that is?”

      “I can’t remember anything because I’m too freaked out,” she snapped.

      “Something like that. I’d like you to meet with our best forensic psychologist as soon as possible. Mitch, Margie, I’ll set up the appointment and call you.”

      “So are we done?” Angie asked, just about on her last blip of energy.

      “Right after the medical exam,” Brogan said. “I’ll call ahead and expedite it.”

      Dad turned his attention to something beyond the window. His expression was absolutely flat, like a stone statue. His shoulders hunched up to his ears.

      “Oh, come on, Phil,” Mom protested. “Is that necessary? Now? She’s exhausted. Look at her.”

      Brogan caught the desperate, pathetic look Angie threw him. His mouth turned down, and he switched back into the guy with a hole in his knee. “Yeah. I know. But we have to. I’m so, so sorry.”

      Why did he keep apologizing? It didn’t change anything.

      Brogan lowered his voice, even though there was no one else to overhear. He spoke to Dad’s back, not to her. “Angela has obviously been living with someone. She hasn’t been on the street. She hasn’t been starved. She’s been taken care of. There may be important DNA evidence. We don’t want to let any more time elapse before collecting it.”

      “From her clothes?” Mom asked. “We can just give them to you.”

      The detective gave Mom a pointed look and, finally, swiveled his attention to Angie. “Angela, without being able to rely on your memory, we need to see whether you’ve been sexually assaulted.”

      Angie’s temper flared again. “Just say it, Detective. Don’t spare my feelings. Raped. You want to know if I’ve been raped. Don’t you think I’d know? Don’t you think I’d remember something like that?” Her chest heaved, as if she’d just finished a mile run.

      “Do you remember, Angie?” he asked gently.

      The image of narrow, dark eyes flashed through her mind and vanished in a spasm of pain. Then her mind was empty, clear—her anger evaporated as if the storm in her head had just died. She was calm. Blank. Relieved. Safe. “No. Nothing. I don’t remember anything.”

      “My point exactly,” he said.

      “Can I please shower after?”

      “Absolutely. Margie, please bring her a change of clothes, since we’ll need to keep these.”

      In the front hallway, he snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and picked up the grocery bag. “Do you know what’s in here, Angela?”

      She shrugged. “Just some clothes, I think.”

      “Recognize this?” He pulled out a checkered blouse.

      She shook her head. A queasy feeling started up again in her stomach.

      He probed lower and removed a yellow apron. Angie wrinkled her nose. “Nope.”

      He reached in again and retrieved a tiny, black lace cami.

      “Good God,” Dad said, turning pale. His hands combed roughly through his hair and locked behind his head.

      Angie felt her own hands tremble. “Not … not my style,” she said lightly. A lump formed in her throat. Where had she gotten these things?

      Brogan reached into the bag again. “Ah. No wonder it’s so heavy. Recognize this?”

      She squinted at The Joy of Cooking in his hand. “Mom has that one. I don’t really cook.”

      At the bottom of the bag was the strangest thing—a slim metal bar, pointed on one end, flat on the other. Brogan balanced it across his gloved palm. “Recognize it?” he asked, in a tone that was supposed to be casual but immediately put Angie on guard again.

      “No. What is it?” Angie asked.

      “Looks like a shiv. An improvised knife.”

      “Why would that be in there?” Angie asked.

      Brogan watched her with his orange-flecked panther eyes. “My guess is that you packed the things most precious to you. This might have been used for self-defense or—”

      “I’ve never, ever seen that before,” Angie said quickly. The edge of the metal looked wicked sharp. Dangerous. “How much damage could you do with a little knife like that?” she asked.

      “Oh, no doubt it could kill someone,” Brogan said calmly. “If you knew how to use it.” The way he lingered on “you” gave her shivers.

      

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