Page 2 of Shattered Hearts
Fire burns at the base of my throat. Squeezing my eyes shut, I push out a low, steady breath.
In the past three years I’ve worked here, since I was twenty, the job has never gotten any easier.
By the time I enter the intake room, I have my emotions under control. I’m armed with the new arrival questionnaire clipboard, the obligatory folder of shelter information, and the complimentary bag of hygiene essentials we give every woman who steps foot in here.
But when I spot the battered woman slumped in the plastic chair with lost, vacant eyes, my pulse stutters, and I nearly drop every single item.
I recognize her. She’s Charlene Belafont, a popular hostess and entertainer from Madden, one of the city’s most popular nightclubs.
One of several clubs owned by the Irish mob.
My fingers dig into the file as I try to tame the chaotic feelings storming through my body and banish the past to focus on the present. I used to do some work for my father at Madden and remember catching glimpses of Charlene, with her striking blue-green eyes and long, brown hair. She had this walk that commanded the attention of every straight man within a fifty-foot radius, as well as a glow everyone wanted to bathe in.
Not one ounce of that glow remains.
Covered in discolored bruises and bandaged cuts, she’s almost unrecognizable. A cast swallows her right calf and left forearm, and one of her eyes is still black. She’s far too thin, the kind only starvation and malnourishment can create.
My ears ring as my mind slips down a dark slope into my ugliest memories.
Under the table, I pinch the back of my left hand as hard as I can. The bright spark of pain sobers me enough to banish the trauma clawing at my mind.
Despite the upsetting nature of my work, I’m not often reminded of my own past.
Not until today.
I manage to introduce myself—first name only—and gently start performing the intake. “It says here that you were abducted a few weeks ago.”
Her expression is wary. “This is all confidential, right?” When I nod, she continues. “Yeah. I was leaving my job when some men jumped out of a van and grabbed me.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. “Did you…did recognize the men?”
If Michelle catches me, she’ll rip me a new one. I’m going completely off-script but can’t seem to stop myself.
A single tear slips from her uninjured eye. “No.”
A small burst of relief floods my veins. Shame follows. There’s nothing good about a tragic, sickening case like this.
Keep it together…for her sake.“What did they want with you?”
Charlene squeezes the plaster cast around her forearm with her opposite hand. “They kept asking me about the club where I work. About pickups and drop-offs…”
When Charlene sniffs, I push a box of tissues her way.
“I cooperated with them because I…I didn’t want to die.” She swipes a tissue from the box and blots her swollen face. “I assumed they just wanted the drugs, but even after they stole the shipment from the club, they didn’t let me go. But they still locked me up and…hurt me…even though I told them the truth.”
Charlene’s lips tremble as her gaze falls to her lap, and my trepidation morphs into fury.
Five minutes in a room with the men who did this, some handcuffs, and a baseball bat. That’s all I need. Instead, I make do with reaching across the table and squeezing her hand.
“When I woke up in the hospital, a doctor told me I was lucky.” A forced bitter sound escapes her mouth. “She said I was lucky to be alive.”
As I trudge home in the snow, breath making clouds in the freezing air, Charlene’s case haunts me.
Who would have the resources to steal drugs from the Irish Kings? More importantly…who would have the balls?
While other pedestrians hurry down the sidewalk around me and cars slosh past the curb in endless waves, I take in the silvering sky overhead. Daylight dies quickly behind the clouds on these short winter days.
“You’re going to turn into a popsicle if you don’t get inside.”