Washington D.C.
"Alex Cross, you come here this instant!" Nana Mama barked from what sounded like the front of the house.I got out of bed, half asleep, and pulled on a sweatshirt and sweats. For a moment I worried that Nana Mama would wake up the kids. But then I remembered that after almost 13 years of living here, Damon and Jannie had gained the ability to sleep through Nana's subtle calls, and Little Alex wouldn't wake if an a-bomb went off.
It was 6:30, and the sun had just started to rise over a snow covered Washington D.C. I had lived here almost all my life, having been raised by my grandmother since I was eight. I was a forensic psycologist, and while I claimed I had retired from police work, everyone knew I hadn't. I lived with Nana Mama, who helped me raise my kids ever since my wife had been killed 13 years ago. While the shooter had been killed by my partner, John Sampson, I still felt like I had to make it up to her. Maybe that's why I keep working on cases.
As I predicted, Nana was standing at the front of the house, right in front of the screen door. She was looking at something, but turned as I entered the room. "About time," she said. "I thought I was going to have to wake you the old fasioned way."
I shivered. "No frozen marbles, Nana. I could arrest you for cruel and unusual punishment." Nana cracked a grin, a grin I had known ever since my parents had died and she had taken me in. "So, what do you want?" I asked. "Or do you just feel like causing discord?"
"A bit of both," Nana teased. But then she looked back out the window and said, "Looks like the stork paid us a visit while we were sleeping, Alex. I went to get the milk, and found just a bunch of empty bottles and this." She gestured to something in front of the door. I walked over, looked, and gasped.
Asleep, on my porch, was a young girl. She seemed about 16, and by the light coming from the living room and the street lamps, I could make out that she had long jet black hair, over which she had a maroon ski cap, though it was not well made, and very pale skin.
"How long do you think she's been out there?" I asked Nana.
"About an hour, at most," Nana replied. "Judging by the fact the milk man didn't seem to notice her. And I don't think she's from around least not Southeast. And she's not dressed for the cold, either, Alex."
Quietly, I began to open the door. "Are you gonna wake her?" Nana said. "Why don't you let her sleep? If she was able to fall asleep on this porch, she must be tired."
"If we let her stay asleep, she'll never wake," I retorted. "It's to cold for that." Nana rolled her eyes, but moved aside. Slowly, I knelt down and gently shook the girl. She must not have been sleeping that soundly, for she jumped up instantly, her deep blue eyes wide with fear.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm so very sorry." She had a thick Russian accent, and was slowly backing away. I saw she was wearing a dirty, worn plaid shirt, and a pair of torn jeans. Her sneakers had patches of duct tape on them, no doubt to patch up holes worn into them. Around her neck was a gold chain. She was covered with dirt, scratches, and, most desturbing of all, bruises and scars. Her nose looked as though it had been broken at least once, and she had a small bruise on the base of her neck.
"I'm extremely sorry," she said again, looking as though she wanted to cry.
"Sorry? What for?" I asked gently.
Looking deeply ashamed, she said, "I drank all your milk. I slept on your porch."
"Well, she certainly has a good sense of guilt," Nana said.
"Ignore her," I said to the girl. "I never said I was angry. In fact, I'm more worried as to why you were sleeping on my porch than mad. Why don't you come in and warm up? You look really cold." The girl slowly walked inside, a look of awe on her face. "So this is what a house looks like, " she muttered.
Curiously, I asked, "What do you mean?"
The girl again looked ashamed and said, "I've never seen the inside of a real house before."
I got the feeling the girl was homeless, but said instead, "Why don't you sit down and tell me your name." I pointed at a chair, and the girl obediently sat down. She shows symptoms of physical abuse, I thought. Perhaps she lives with someone who needs to show dominance through abuse. She certainly is obedient. "So, what is your name?" I asked again.
"Anette Lamberdin," she said quietly.
"Okay, Anette, where are you from?"
I heard Nana hiss, "Not so many questions!"
I turned to her and said, "Why don't you get Anette some cocoa, Nana? And maybe a slice of pizza."
"Pizza?" Anette asked. "What is pizza?"
"You don't know what pizza is, Anette?" I asked. Again she looked ashamed.
"Never had this "pizza," she muttered.
"Well, you're going to love it," I said warmly. I actually saw a slight smile grace her face, making her seem a lot prettier. "So, Anette, where are you from?"
It took her a moment to answer. "New York City. I remember New York City." It was an odd anwer, but I decided to ask her more about it later.
"How did you get here?" She didn't answer. "Anette," I asked again, "How did you get here?"
"I walked," she answered immediately. She won't answer questions she doesn't want to answer unless her name is said, unless she feels she is commanded to, I realized. Definitly lived with someone who exercised dominance over her.
"You walked?" I repeated. When she didn't answer, I said, "Anette,you walked?"
"Yes," she said.
Gently as I could, I said, "Anette, you don't have to answer these questions if you don't want to. I'm not commanding you to."
"But you say my name," she said. "And I was taught that meant I was supposed to answer."
"That's not how I work," I said. "If I ask a question, you don't have to answer, even if I say your name. I would prefer you did, though. So, was it a long walk?"
She was quite a moment, then said, "Yes, and cold. Very cold."
"Anette, do you want to ask me anything?"
She bit her tounge, then said, "What is your name, sir?" I laughed, realizing I had failed to introduce myself. "Sorry," she said.
"I wasn't laughing at you," I said. "I felt silly for not introducing myself first. My name is Alex Cross. Is there anything else you'd like to ask?"
"Are you hurt, Mr. Cross?" Anette asked.
"No, why do you ask?"
"Your skin is all dark," Anette said. "Mine gets dark when I'm hurt, so are you hurt, Mr. Cross?" She's never seen a black person before, I realized. But, she said she was from New York…
"No, Anette, I'm not hurt. I'm black. That's my race," I explained. "Just like your white."
"Don't worry," Nana said, bringing in the pizza and cocoa. "The good Lord will forgive you." Nana's racist and proud of it. I laughed, while Anette just looked confused.
Handing her the pizza, I said, "It's best that you eat it when it's warm. Cold pizza's not the best, though my son Damon would argue about that."
"You have a son, Mr. Cros?" she asked.
I nodded. "Two, Damon and Alex Jr." I answered. "And a daughter, Jannie."
Then Anette said the strangest thing I have ever heard a child say. "Does your daughter entertain your friends after a night of drinking, Mr. Cross?"
I looked at her, and I think my disturbance of being asked such a question clearly showed. "What do you mean by that, Anette?" Her eyes widened, and her mouth tightened. She seemed to shrink, looking down, blushing, and actually shaking a little. "Anette, why don't you answer me?"
Her voice came out, very small and weak. "I said something wrong."
I sighed and said, "I'm sure you didn't mean to. But what did you mean? Why would you think my daughter would 'entertain my friends'?"
She shook her head. "I don't want to answer that."
Truth be told, her behavior was starting to frighten me a little. Maria, my wife, had been a social worker, and since I was a psycologist, I had well been exposed to the behavior of abuse victims. But I had never seen behavior like Anette's. "Why not?" I asked.
She put the food and drink down and pulled her knees to her mouth. Tears had started to form, and I heard her say, "I don't want to be hurt, Mr. Cross."
I leaned forward. "Who would hurt you, Anette?" She just shook her head, and started to cry, muttering, "No more, no more."
Feeling bad about this, I tried to comfort her. "All right, all right. You don't have to tell me. I'm sorry I asked. Let's just forget I asked, okay." Biting her lip, she nodded. I picked up the pizza and handed to her. "Why don't you eat something? That might help."
Tentatively, she took the pizza from me and took a small bite. She perked up, and took another bite. Looking at me, she said, "It's good."
I laughed. "Yeah, it is good. It's not very healthy, but hey, it taste's good!"
At this, she looked alarmed. "It makes you fat?" she asked.
"If you eat to much of it," I answered. Then she did another strange thing. She put it down and sort of backed away, like it was a bomb. "Anette, what's wrong?" I asked.
Shaking her head, she said, "I can't gain weight. I can't. If I do, then…I just can't."
She was starting to panic, so I said, "One piece won't cause you to gain weight, Anette." Then, as I noticed how thin she already was, I asked, "Anette, how much do you weigh?"
"A little over 100 pounds." She answered as though it was nothing, but it was something. For her height – I guessed about 5'9'' – this was not healthy. I asked, "Anette, do you get enough to eat at home?"
She nodded. "Uh huh. I don't get hungry easily, so I don't eat much."
This concerned me, because I had a feeling this wasn't the whole truth, so I asked instead, "So what's your family like?"
"I live with my papa," she replied. "I think my mama died when I was little, but I can't remember. Papa doesn't like to talk about her much."
"No brothers or sisters?"
"No," she replied. "Just me and Papa."
"Do you ever get lonely?"
"Not really," she answered. "Papa's home a lot, and sometimes I would get a visit from Dem…" She trailed off, blushing again, looking very ashamed.
"A visit from who?" I asked, but she just shook her head, staring at her knees. So I asked, "Is your papa nice to you?" Here's where something interesting happened: she took a moment to answer, then nodded. She didn't say yes, and she didn't say know. She just nodded.
I wanted to know more about this papa, so I asked, "Where is your papa now? Does he know you're here?"
Anette answered, but it wasn't the answer I thought I'd get. "I hope not."
I wanted to ask her more, but decided that I probably wasn't going to get much more from her. Instead, I asked, "Do you have a place to stay, Anette?" She shook her head. "Tell you what. You can stay here until we find your papa, okay?"
She looked up. "You're going to try and find him?" There were three emotions in her eyes, clear as day: relief, fear, and confusion.
"Yes, I will," I said slowly. "I bet he's worried sick about you."
"Yes, he probably is," Anette muttered. "That's the problem."
Restraining myself from asking about her statement, I turned to Nana. "Can you take Anette to the guestroom, Nana?"
"Alex, are you sure about this?" she hissed.
Giving her a push, I said, "Of course I am."
Nana sighed, then said to Anette, "Come along. The guest room's just down this hallway."
As I watched her go, I wondered what could have driven a teen, the most obstinate age group of them all, to be so obedient and fearful. I wondered why she had run away, for I was fairly certain that's what she had done. And most importantly, I wondered what kind of a man this "papa" could be