We have regular makeup lessons now. Not the usual kind. We talk about how to use it for disguise, knowing which colors and how much to make herself look younger or older or simply someone other than herself. It's not just that, either. We go over clothes and hair, and more than all of that, attitude and carriage. Give her fifteen minutes and she can transform herself.
When she was little, we used to play something she called the people game. We'd be on the bus, or in the grocery store, and we would have to stop and look around at all the people around us. Then we would let ten or fifteen minutes go by, and look around again to see who was still there. As she got older, the time went from ten minutes to fifteen, to half an hour. Now she can point out the same faces four hours later. Now she has the kind of mind that looks for the same faces, four hours later.
Nancy Barville wanted me to give her up for adoption. Actually, she wanted me to have an abortion, but I wasn't a scared fifteen-year-old anymore and I wasn't going to do that. I did think about the adoption though, over and over again throughout my pregnancy. I even concocted elaborate schemes to get her back to D.C., to get her to you somehow without you knowing who she really was. She could've had you, and the team, and a life, not just a hidden existence.
Nancy wouldn't've helped, though. Too risky. And there was no assurance that a single man with a highly mobile job would have been able to adopt a stray, anonymous infant. So I told myself it was better if she was with me. If she was adopted by some well-meaning couple with a house in the suburbs, they'd never know what to do if Doyle found her, and neither would she.
But I've always been teaching her how to run. She never would have had to know these things if I'd given her up.
Tuesday - 1:01 pm
"What kind of accident?" Elizabeth asked.
The police officer looked like a real one. His uniform fit, and he had a name tag - "A. Waites" - and his badge number was printed right on his badge. Seven-four-eight-two-three-nine-seven. But her brain was pinging like crazy.
Mom said pay attention to the little voice. That girls didn't, and they should.
Currently, he was trying to arrange his face in compassionate lines, and not succeeding. "Traffic accident, darlin'."
Elizabeth had to force herself not to frown. She disliked people who used such endearments on short acquaintance. It never seemed entirely sincere to her.
"I don't mean to scare you, honey - " Strike two. " - but it don't look good. We need to get to the hospital as soon as possible."
Doesn't look good, she thought, but didn't say, because people often got annoyed when you corrected their grammar. "I need my backpack. I left it in the classroom."
He shifted. "Someone can bring it to you. We really need to go."
"But I really need it." She opened the door of the classroom. Unfortunately, he followed.
Professor Zondervan stopped in the middle of a really neat-looking equation. "Elizabeth? Everything all right?"
"My mom was in an accident," she said, and she didn't have to fake the tremor in her voice.
"Oh!" Her friend Ophelia got up and hugged her. "Oh, my god. Do you need me to drive you to the hospital?"
"I'll take her," Waites said.
Ophelia gave him a suspicious look over Elizabeth's shoulder. She made it a point to be suspicious of any and all governmental representatives. Elizabeth sort of thought she prided herself on it. "Wouldn't it be better for a friend to take her?"
"We have to go," the officer said.
"Well, which hospital is she at? I'll meet you there."
"There's no need for that. Miss? Now."
No "honey" anymore," Elizabeth noted. And he'd sidestepped the question of the hospital.
She hefted her bag, judging the weight. Her tablet reader and two heavy hardcover books from the campus library were in there. She could hit him now, just slam this bag into his stomach and run.
Ophelia said, "Elizabeth, do you want me to come with you?"
He was wearing a gun. If he fired it in here, he could hit somebody. Ophelia, or Professor Zondervan, or one of her other classmates. Nobody in here deserved to get shot just because of her.
"I'll be okay," she said.
"I'll call you," Ophelia said. "Anything you need, just let me know."
"Okay." She shouldered her backpack and looked at the officer. "I'm ready now."
He made her go first, and followed just a little too closely, looming over her from behind. The skin on her back crawled. She gripped the straps of her backpack and tried to look like she was just worried about her mom.
Her mom, who'd always said, If anything happens to me, you go to your dad. You go right to your dad.
His phone rang. "Yes? Yes. I've got her. Uh-huh. No. Uh, about twenty minutes?"
She looked over her shoulder and shifted from foot to foot, trying to compensate for the extra weight of her bag. The timing had to be just right. If she did it while he was on the line, whoever he was talking to would know something was wrong.
Waites laughed, and something about the sound made all the hair on the back of her neck stand up. "She's a little girl. I don't think I'll have any trouble with a little girl."
She drew in her breath through her nose, slow and controlled.
He pulled the phone away from his ear, momentarily distracted while disconnecting. She pivoted on her heel and kicked him square in the crotch.
He crumpled into a ball, letting out a noise like, Bwuh! The phone flew out of his hand and skidded down the polished linoleum floor. She ran after it, scooped it up on the fly, and took it with her down the stairwell.
On her way off campus, she paused just long enough to throw it in the fountain, then redoubled her pace. She cut through alleys and around buildings, staying away from the sidewalk that ran along the street. She didn't know what car the cop was driving, and this way was faster anyway.
Doubts zig-zagged through her brain. What if the officer hadn't been an agent of Doyle's? What if her mom really was in the hospital? We don't have very long, he'd said. What if Mom had been crossing the street and gotten hit by a car? What if he'd just been talking to his captain or something?
I won't have any trouble with a little girl, he'd said on the phone.
She sank down behind one of the big white geometric statues that lined the wall of the station, panting. Her heart hammered against the inside of her chest until she thought she might choke on it. She closed her eyes and took deep, calming breaths, the way that Master Tom had them do before practice.
When she didn't feel so much like she'd vibrate right out of her skin, Elizabeth dug out her phone and dialed. Pick up, Mom. Please pick up.
Maybe she shouldn't pray for Mom to pick up, because if Mom really was in the hospital, than it would be a nurse or something, right? If Mom really was in the hospital, then it would mean that Doyle hadn't found them . . . right?
No, Elizabeth Emily, her mother's voice said in her head. You know better than that.
"Hi - "
"Mom?"
" - you've reached Nora Brewster. I'm not available. Leave a message and I'll get back to you."
The beep rang in her ears.
"Um - um - " She gulped air. "Mom, a-a man - a cop - came to my classroom and said you were in an accident. Are you okay? What's going on?" She gulped again. "I, um - I'll call you soon."
She disconnected and held her phone for a moment, breathing in and out. Then she dialed another number.
"Your second call, that was to Nancy Barville," Manning said.
"How did you know?"
"They found your phone. Why did you call her? She lived three miles away. How did you know her?"
Elizabeth's fingers twisted around themselves. "I-I've always known her."
"She was a social worker until two months ago," Manning said.
"Uh-huh. But - "
Garcia said, "Why did Emily need a social worker?"
Her dad said, "Elizabeth, you don't have to - "
"'Cause Mom was in a homeless shelter when she was first pregnant with me."
Everyone stared at her. She stared back, chin set. Well, they'd wanted to know.
"Homeless?" Garcia asked tremulously, looking at Elizabeth's dad. "Emily was homeless?"
His fingers drummed on his knees. "Obviously the very nature of homelessness makes statistics inherently difficult to gather. However, experts estimate that in 2011, about 3.5 million Americans were without permanent abode, mostly due to the poor economy at the time." He looked up. "It was her cover. Nancy Barville was her CIA contact."
Hotch said, "That's where the CIA put Prentiss?" Mom and Dad had said he was usually a pretty calm person, but there was something under his words, like magma rumbling.
"It's no big deal," Elizabeth said stiffly. "You know, nobody ever looks at homeless people and it's really hard to track them. So it was a good cover really. And anyway it wasn't for long. She was in transitional housing by the time she had me."
She wanted them to stop looking at her like that. She hadn't thought about it in years, not since they'd moved to the house and she'd started going to school with kids who didn't know what an EBT card was, or what it was like asking for extra time to pay the rent. She didn't want to think about it now.
"Mom and I are okay now, you know," she added. "We're fine. We haven't needed help for years."
She looked over at Chevalier. He must have seen her discomfort, because he leaned forward. "Okay. So you called Mrs. Barville. What happened on the phone?"
Tuesday, 1:19 pm
Three rings, and then somebody picked up. "Hello?"
"Um - hello?" It wasn't the voice she'd been expecting, with its strong Southern accent and no-nonsense manner. This was a man's voice, impatient and official-sounding.
"Who is this?"
She scrambled for an excuse to be calling. "I'm just trying . . . to . . . reach Mrs. Barville? About her Girl Scout cookies? Is she there?"
The voice went slower and louder and ridiculously sugary, if she were a mentally deficient puppy. "Oh, little girl, she can't talk to you right now."
"Can I leave a message or something?"
"Can I speak to your mommy or daddy?"
"Not right now," Elizabeth said, listening hard to the background noise, all voices talking in brisk tones. "Please, can you tell her that her cookies are here? She ordered three boxes of Samoas, and one box of Trefoils, and - "
"Detective," someone called out. "You really should see this."
He said, "Honey, your mommy or daddy should call back later, okay?"
"Oh-okay," she stammered. "Um. Bye."
She hung up and sat clutching the phone. There were police at Mrs. Barville's house, and he hadn't said she could call the hospital or something. Mrs. Barville was either dead or very, very badly hurt. Elizabeth pressed her fist to her mouth for a moment.
Mrs. Barville was brisk and competent and always in control. She didn't like Elizabeth and Elizabeth didn't like her, but she at least would have known what to do.
Well, Elizabeth knew what to do, too. She just didn't want to, because it would be like giving up on her mom.
She looked down at her hand and realized it was shaking. In fact, her whole body was shaking. Pull yourself together, Elizabeth Emily, she ordered herself sternly.
Mom. Mom, Mom, Mom.
Mom would say there's work to do.
Elizabeth walked into Five Points and purposefully headed for the customer-service desk. The lady behind the counter was frowning at her computer screen, as if her work was very important, but Elizabeth could see the reflection of kittens in her glasses. She was also wearing one of those necklaces with the creepy birthstone-dolly charms that signified she had children. Three girls, born in April, October, and December.
Perfect.
"Excuse me?" she said, using the same high, hesitant voice she had with the police detective who'd answered Mrs. Barville's phone.
The lady looked up, and her face softened when she saw Elizabeth. "Yes, honey? How can I help you?"
She shifted, biting her lip. "Can you tell me, please, how do I get to the Amtrak station?"
The clerk explained how to take the subway, told her which stop she had to get off at to transfer to a bus, and how to get to the bus stop from that station. "Shouldn't take you but fifteen or twenty minutes."
Elizabeth studied the map the clerk drew for her, even though she'd memorized all the routes a year ago. "Okay. Thank you."
"Are you taking the train somewhere all by yourself, sweetie?"
"Oh, no, I'm meeting my mom at the station."
"Well, okay. You just come back here if you have any trouble." The clerk smiled at her kindly.
She smiled back. "Thank you very much." She turned away, headed for the hallway that led to the subways. In the hallway, there were a set of bathrooms. She ducked into the women's restroom and paused to study herself in the mirror.
Blue shirt with a black undershirt, jeans held up with a stylish red belt, long hair held off her face with a barrette. It was how Elizabeth Brewster always looked.
She picked the handicapped stall, which had the most room to maneuver. She unzipped the front pocket of her backpack and took out a makeup bag her mom had given her a year ago, when they'd started to practice for this. It held a pre-filled debit card, a ponytail holder, a set of nail scissors, a little makeup, and a pair of oversize sunglasses. She'd added a selection of temporary tattoos and a clip-on lip ring herself.
Who was she going to be today?
Violet, she thought. Violet was tough and smart. She wouldn't be afraid.
She took off her shirt.
The Greyhound station was only about a half a mile down the street from Five Points, and she estimated that she could get there in under fifteen minutes. She caught a glimpse of herself in the McDonald's window, and almost got dizzy because she didn't recognize that girl, with the messy bun, the big sunglasses, and the black snake tattoos that curled along her collarbones.
Good, she told herself. It was good. Nobody else would recognize her either.
She kept resisting the urge to pull up the thin black tank top she wore, which had been okay as an undershirt but felt awfully skimpy as her only shirt. The March air chilled all the exposed skin. She also couldn't scratch at the tattoos. They might start to crack and peel at the edges.
From a passing car, someone whistled at her, and she almost jumped out of her skin. Ewww. Ew, ew, ew. She remembered Ophelia's coaching, and stuck her middle finger up at the car's rear window. They probably didn't see, but she felt her cheeks heat anyway. She'd never flipped anyone the bird right out in public like this.
Elizabeth Brewster never had, she reminded herself. Violet Beauregard did, and also wore skimpy tank tops, a nose ring, and dark purple lipstick. Right now, she was Violet Beauregard, and she didn't take crap from anybody.
Shit. She didn't take shit from anybody.
She lengthened her stride, the cotton bag with her tablet bumping her hip.
At the station, she used the debit card at an automated kiosk to buy a ticket on the next bus leaving, to the third stop on the line. She'd get off on the first. Misdirection, like her question about the Amtrak station. Her mom always said use every chance you get to nudge their gaze another way.
She settled herself into the seat all the way at the back, next to the emergency exit. Too many people would pass her at the front. She put her bag next to her on the other vacant seat, so nobody would sit with her, and slid down into the corner in a way that said, Don't you dare sit next to me.
She groped in her pocket and then made herself go still. She'd left her phone in her backpack for a reason. Too easy to track. It was no use wishing she had it now. When she got off the bus, she'd go somewhere to buy a disposable phone. She still had enough money on the card for that.
And she'd call her dad.
Her lips trembled. It's me, Dad. Mom's missing. I think Doyle found us. Come and get me please.
What if he wasn't there?
She pushed her fingers into her eyes and whispered, "Go away, Big Green Monster."
But there was nobody to finish the sentence for her - "And don't come back until I say so."