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“That was very good,” he said. And her pulse quickened. He thought her writing wasvery good. “But,” he bit out, “you need more discipline. Stay on your knees. Eyes down.”
She waited for further instructions, but there were none. She didn’t dare look up, but she could hear him, moving about the classroom, jostling things at his desk. Five minutes passed, then ten. Fifteen, twenty. Her knees ached, her palms were sweaty, and her throat felt swollen. More than anything, she wanted to stretch her legs out, just for a moment of relief. But still, she stayed there.
She wanted to please Mr. Sawyer.
Eventually, shoes came into view. Shiny, leather, expensive-looking ones. So much nicer than her grubby sneakers.
“Jocelyn, stand up.”
She wobbled as she rose, a steady hand on her elbow keeping her from toppling over. Mr. Sawyer gently touched her cheek, and she nearly flinched insurprise. But when he stroked her skin with his thumb, she leaned into his palm. It felt so good, like he cherished her.
“You are beautiful, Jocelyn. Do you know that?”
She didn’t believe him, but she didn’t want to challenge his words, either.
“You did very well today. I’m very happy with your efforts.”
“Th-thank you,” she managed. Inside, she felt like she was trembling. Or was she trembling on the outside, too? Shit, she didn’t want him to see. But still, his hand on her remained steady. Whatever he saw, he liked. And she wanted him to like her.
“I look forward to next time.” His words were soft. She waited, hoping he’d say more, hoping he’d say when “next time” might be. Instead, he reached into his pocket and took out something small, something shiny. “I have a gift for you.”
“For me?”
His warm voice cooled, turned clipped. “Don’t be an echo. Be a voice, Jocelyn.”
She wasn’t even sure what that meant, but she didn’t want to ask and sound stupid. “Okay.”
“Okaywhat?”
“Okay . . . sir.”
Mr. Sawyer placed a small pendant in the palm of her hand and closed her fingers around it. “Good girl. You may go.” He went to the door, unlocked it, and opened it for her. But as she approached, he put his arm out, stopping her from passing. “Next time, you will not question my instructions. Do you understand?”
Jocelyn nodded. “Yes.” Mr. Sawyer continued to stare at her until she realized what he was waiting for. “Yes,sir,” she added.
He removed his arm, allowing her passage, but caught her eyes one last time. “Good. Because in the future, Miss Burton, failing to obey will have consequences.”
CHAPTER
7
Ishould go home. Or go for a run, or to the gym at least. Instead, I stare out at my empty classroom, folding and unfolding the piece of paper I’ve had for two days. I fold it one way, and the details disappear—no name, no email. I fold it the other, and they’re cut in half, the four in Ivy’s phone number becoming two little lines. I give it a spin, a flick, let it float to the ground, where I’ll inevitably pick it up, because what else can I do?
There’s really only one option.
I push away from my desk, scoop up the scrap, and shove it in my pocket as I grab my jacket. Outside, I stride to the nearest train and hop on, not bothering to check where it’s headed. It doesn’t matter, anywhere distant will do. The stops speed by. New Yorkers herd on and off like cattle. The power flickers, someone turns their music on too loud, someone else speaks what I think is French into their cell on speakerphone. I ignore it all. Being single-minded, goal-oriented, is what’s gotten me this far. When the twelfth stop comes, I stand and step off as soon as the doors slide open, taking the staircase up to the street. A bodega stands on the corner, and I go in, grab a prepaid cell at random, and slide cash across the counter. Credit cards are traceable.
Only when I’m back outside, in the fresh,warm air of late spring, do I pull out that slip of paper and squint at the numbers. I type them in, hit call, and take a quick look around me. Lots of people are hurrying one place or another, but no one too close, no one listening.
The phone rings twice before a vaguely familiar voice comes on. It’s changed some—deepened over the years. “Hello. You’ve reached Ivy Leighton at the Louisiana Department of Children and Family Services. If the reason you have reached out is not urgent, please leave me a message, and I’ll return your call as soon as possible. If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 911 or contact the twenty-four-hour Child Protective Services Emergency Hotline at 337-555-0100.” My heart sinks. I can’t leave a message. I think the recording is about to end, that I’ll have to try again later, when she adds, “You may also reach me on my cell phone,” and gives another number. I scramble in my purse for a pen and scribble it beneath her work number.
This one, I don’t call. Instead, I text the briefest of messages:
Call me at this number from an untraceable phone. —E
Then I wait, pacing up the street, getting a coffee from a street vendor, drinking as I alternate between checking the phone every few seconds and glancing around me—making sure no one’s watching. I could try harder to find Jocelyn, too. Google was a bust, but maybe Sam can do some digging and get me a phone number. The police have access to that type of stuff, don’t they? But even the thought of that makes me nauseated. The fewer people I talk to about what happened, the better. Plus, the IP address came from Louisiana, not far from Ivy, and I never heard Jocelyn came back to town.
After twenty minutes of my mind racing, a jolting realization hits me. I’m not sure what took me so long to think of it, but what if Ivy doesn’t realize it’sme? We haven’t spoken in twenty years. She might think it’s some weirdo whose name begins with the letterE, might delete the message without a second thought. She works at CPS, for Christ’s sake, has gotten married, hadkids. There must be a million other things on her mind.