Page 21 of Girl, Forgotten (Andrea Oliver 2)

They didn’t know that Emily was still alive at that point. That was a revelation that the EMTs would bring. What got to Andrea, what brought tears to her eyes, was that at some point, probably when they realized to whom the body belonged, someone had crossed out the word woman and changed the sentence to—

Body of a girl …

A girl who was filled with potential. A girl who had hopes and dreams. A girl who was found lying on her side with her arms wrapped tightly around her unborn child.

To Andrea, Emily would never be just a girl. She was thefirstgirl—one of many her father had left in his violent wake.

Andrea felt the car start to slow. The two-hour ride had passed more quickly than she’d noticed. She closed Emily’s file and slipped it into her backpack. They were driving down the main strip of what had to be Longbill Beach. She saw dozens of sun-stupefied tourists loitering outside fast-food stands and strolling down a wide, white boardwalk lining the Atlantic Ocean that for all appearances could’ve stretched six hundred miles south to the boardwalk in Belle Isle.

Annoyingly, she thought of her mother—

Wherever you go, there you are.

“Drop me—” Andrea winced, because the driver chose this exact moment to turn up the radio. “The library! Drop me off in front of the library!”

He pumped his head on his neck, keeping time with the blaring music as he took a sharp right turn away from the sea. He’d obviously chosen the song for her sake. N.W.A.’s “Fuk da Police.”

Andrea indulged herself in an eye-roll as the car took another elbow turn that pushed her shoulder into the door. The Longbill Beach Main Library was on the backside of the high school. The building looked newer, but not by much. Instead of the solid red brick of the school, the exterior was a beachy stucco painted in salmon with Palladian windows that probably turned it into a kiln during the summer.

The driver didn’t bother to turn down the music as they pulled to the front of the library. A wiry older man in a faded Hawaiian shirt, jeans and cowboy boots stood by the book deposit box. He started clapping his hands to the music, which hit the chorus as Andrea was opening the car door.

“Fuck the police, fuck— fuck—” the man shouted along, doing a two-step toward the car. “Fuck the police!”

Before Glynco, Andrea had catalogued people as only younger or older than she was. Now, she guessed the guy was mid-fifties, around six feet tall, maybe 175 pounds. Military-looking tattoos swirled up his muscled arms. His bald head gleamed in the waning sun. His Van-Dyke was salt and pepper and came to a devil-point half an inch below his chin.

“Fuck the police.” He spun around, his shirt riding up. “Fuck-fuck.”

Andrea had frozen at the sight of a 9mm Glock clipped to his belt. His Silver Star gleamed beside it. She guessed she was looking at her new partner. And then she further guessed that he had worked in fugitive apprehension, because there were very few dress codes and regulations for agents tasked with hunting down the worst of the worst.

She extended her hand. “I’m—”

“Andrea Oliver, straight outta Glynco.” He showed off an impressive Tex-Arkana accent as he shook her hand. “I’m Deputy Bible. Glad you finally made it. You gotta bag?”

She didn’t know what to do other than show him her duffel bag, which held enough clothes to get her through a week. Any longer than that and she’d have to explain to her mother why she needed her things sent to Baltimore instead of Portland.

“Excellent.” Bible gave two thumbs up to the driver. “Love what you’re saying there with your music, son. Way to be an ally.”

If the driver had a response, Bible didn’t wait for it. He nodded for Andrea to follow him down the sidewalk. “Thought we’d walk and reconnoiter, get to know each other, come up with a plan. I been here maybe two hours, so I didn’t get much of a head start. Name’s Leonard, by the way, but everybody calls me Catfish.”

“Catfish Bible?” For the first time in two years, Andrea regretted that her mother wasn’t here. He’d practically stumbled out of a Flannery O’Connor novel.

“You gotta nickname?” He watched Andrea shake her head. “Everybody’s gotta nickname. I bet you’re just hiding it. Watch out.”

A kid on a bicycle nearly clipped her.

“Take a gander.” He turned his head so the light would catch the thin scars that slashed down both sides of his cheeks. “Got into a fight with a catfish.”

Andrea wondered if the fish had a switchblade.

“Anyways,” Bible walked as fast as he talked. “I heard your flight got delayed. Must’ve been hell jumping on a plane right after the push and puke.”

He meant the Marshal Mile, the last run before graduation. And he also meant that he was aware of the highly unusual circumstances of Andrea’s speedy assignment.

She told him, “I’m good. Ready to go.”

“That’s great. I’m good, too. Super good. Always ready. We’re gonna be a fantastic team, Oliver. I can feel it in my bones.”

Andrea tightened her grip on her duffel and moved her backpack to her other shoulder as she tried to keep up with his long strides. The going was not easy as they got close to the main strip. Both sides of Beach Drive were filled with tourists of varying sizes and ages looking at maps, stopping to text, gaping at the sun.