Cold Betrayal

He nodded.

“Where are Patricia and Agnes?”

“They’re showering and changing clothes,” David answered.

“Okay,” Ali said. “Why don’t you take the van back to wherever it belongs. If someone did see you, there’s no sense in advertising that you dropped someone off here.”

“Right,” David said. “The guy who owns it keeps it in a garage. In other words, once it’s back inside, it won’t be visible from the street. Do you want me to come back here after I drop it off?”

“Please,” Ali told him. “These two women trusted you enough to come with you. They’ll be more likely to talk to me if you’re there than if you’re not.”

“Convincing them to come along wasn’t easy,” he said, “especially when I came snooping around in the middle of the night. I told them Enid was afraid they’d be in trouble for helping her get away.”

“Why would anyone think that?”

“Because it’s true,” David answered. “Patricia had a phone number for someone on the Outside, a woman named Irene. Enid didn’t know Irene’s was a place instead of a person.” He nodded toward the door where a discreet brass plaque attached to the wall read simply, IRENE’S.

It’s actually both, Ali thought, remembering her lost friend Reenie Bernard—a person and a place. That explained the phone call Enid had made. She had called asking for Irene with no idea that Irene Bernard had been dead for years while the shelter that was her legacy lived on.

“Anyway,” David continued, “Patricia and Agnes must have believed it, too, because they finally agreed to come along.” He stood up. “I’ll go drop off the car.”

“Do you need me to follow you and bring you back?”

“No,” he said. “It’s not far. It’ll only take me a few minutes to walk it.”

“Do you have your phone with you?” Ali asked.

“Sure,” he said, removing it from his pocket. “Why?”

“I need you to call someone,” she said. “His name’s Sean Fergus. Here’s his number.”

Ali read Sean’s number from her phone and David dutifully keyed it in. “Who’s Sean Fergus?” David asked. “And why do I need to talk to him?”

“He’s an Interpol agent,” Ali explained. “He’s operating on the assumption that The Family is engaged in some kind of human trafficking operation. He’s looking for any information you can provide on how you made it in and out of the compound this morning.”

“Human trafficking?” David repeated. “Are you serious?”

“Very,” Ali told him.

“Okay then,” David said. “I’ll give him a call.”

As David set off to return the minivan, Ali rang the shelter’s doorbell. After identifying herself over the intercom, the door buzzed open. She found a receptionist seated at a desk just inside. “May I help you?”

“My name is Ali Reynolds. I’m looking for Andrea Rogers.”

“She’s expecting you, Ms. Reynolds, but she’s busy right now. You’re welcome to take a seat.”

“Thanks.”

Ali had just settled down on a nearby sofa when Andrea hurried out into the waiting room through a door controlled by a keypad. Ali was relieved to see that Irene’s Place was serious about security. Considering the dire circumstances surrounding some of the shelter’s clientele, security was essential.

Andrea sank onto the seat next to Ali, shaking her head. “I’m sure it’s been years since either one of those poor girls has had a hot shower. Scrubbing off years of grime takes time. I gave them each a bag filled with toiletries, led them to the shower room, and told them not to rush. I also found a couple of pairs of sweats and scuffs they can put on until we locate something more suitable for them to wear. They’re both terrified, of course, afraid someone’s going to come charging in here to drag them back. They mentioned somebody by name. Amos, I believe.”

“That would be Amos Sellers,” Ali told her.

Andrea looked surprised. “You’ve met him?”

“I’m afraid so. He’s The Family’s chief enforcer.”

“Well,” Andrea continued, “it seems Agnes and Patricia tried ru

“Did they come here?” Ali asked. “To the shelter?”

“This happened years ago, long before the shelter existed in its current form. All they had was Irene’s name and phone number. Unfortunately, they were caught before they made contact. When they came here today, they fully expected to find Irene herself. I had to explain that Reenie was gone and that I had taken her place.”

“How did they even know about Irene?” Ali asked.

Andrea shook her head. “I have no idea.”

The doorbell rang. When the receptionist opened the entryway door, a delivery guy came in carrying a bag of Subway sandwiches.

“I sent out for some lunch,” Andrea explained. “I asked what they wanted to eat. They said something soft. They both have severe dental problems. Once we get them decent clothing and have them settled into one of our apartment units, that’s the next thing we’ll tackle—getting them in to see a dentist. Fortunately, we have several who volunteer their services, but if these two are any indication of the kinds of difficulties people from that place are going to be dealing with . . .” She shook her head.

“I suspect there will be a lot more of same,” Ali said. “Have you had any luck finding potential places to stow them if they do show up?”

Andrea sighed. “There’s been such an influx lately. Many of the shelters are full of dumped-off women. They’re not victims of domestic violence per se, but when they’re stranded and pe

Ali knew that Arizona and Texas were favorite dumping grounds for impoverished migrant women who were caught in limbo, with no way to return home and no way to survive in the United States without someone stepping up to help them. Andrea Rogers and women like her were the ones who did.

A door leading into the interior of the building cracked open. A woman poked her head out and peered cautiously around the room. “Is it okay if we come out? We’re not really dressed.”

“You’re fine, Patricia,” Andrea assured her, “but if you’d be more comfortable, we can go into my office. It’s a little more private.”

Self-conscious and tentative, the woman edged into the room. There was no way to determine her age. She might have been thirtysomething; she might have been fifty. Streaks of gray shot through dark blond hair that, still dripping wet, had been skillfully braided into a single plait that hung down beyond her waist. The fact that she was missing several teeth made her look older than she was. Years of living outside in all kinds of weather had ta

Ali held out her hand. “I’m Ali Reynolds,” she said. “Irene was a good friend of mine. And your name is?”

Patricia looked down at the proffered hand as if unsure what to do about it. When she finally took it, Ali noticed that the skin was chapped, callused, and tough. This was the hand of someone accustomed to doing hard physical labor.

“Patricia Gle

A second woman, one with equally worn and roughened features, stepped into the room. “And I’m Agnes—Agnes Gray,” she said shyly, keeping her eyes downcast and without offering her hand.

Agnes and Patricia were similar enough in looks that they might have been sisters, although Ali thought it more likely that they were cousins of some kind. Like Patricia’s, Agnes’s hair was braided into a single long plait, and she, too, was missing enough teeth that her cheeks sank in on themselves, making her look far older than she was.