November 25th—Sicily
Luigi Espasito, Boss of the family whose name he proudly bore, sat quietly on the south facing terrace of his parents estate, sipping a chilled glass of the finest Lagavulin whiskey and relishing his rare moment of respite from the daily pressures of life.
D’oro Villa, situated in the rolling hills of Brolo, Messina, Sicily, eighty-one miles east of Palermo, was a rambling thirty-acre affair of old stone buildings and outhouses, open fields filled with wild flowers, olive groves and orchards.
A resident of Paris for more than a quarter of a century, Luigi tried to visit as often as he could, for it was the place he’d been born some fifty-seven summers ago. On those occasions, he’d do nothing except unwind while watching his mother and father – Nazarino and Maria, both in their early eighties – communicating silently with simple smiles and gestures as they pottered about in their tranquil, fragrance-filled gardens under the watchful eye of their locally recommended and equally ancient handyman, Gianni, who had been their faithful companion for fifteen years.
Nazarino, the former Boss, was an astute man who still wielded an astounding arsenal of supernatural gifts. Even so, he’d recognized the early signs that indicated his advancing age was beginning to take its toll and had been more than willing to give up his position six months previously, to make way for his son to come to power.
Luigi appreciated the legacy he had inherited, for it had been one long in the making. Leaving the American side of their extensive holdings to cousins in Chicago and Boston, Nazarino had ensured his eldest son had attended the finest schools in Europe and attained the highest qualifications possible in business law. As Luigi’s reputation grew, Nazarino encouraged his son to concentrate his efforts on expanding the Council’s growing influence within the legitimate side of the many commercial and industrial corporations coming under their umbrella, as well as promoting partnerships they might want established at a later date.
His father’s good judgment had paid off handsomely.
Under Espasito guidance, the Council was flourishing, and their family had personally secured assets in over seventeen countries worth over two hundred and thirteen billion Euros. They also had a controlling influence in other syndicates throughout Europe, Australia, the Middle and Far East, as well as America and Japan. Little wonder then, they commanded the respect of crime lords around the globe.
To Luigi’s relief, Nazarino had taken to the simple life with surprising ease, and he was sure his father had been quietly satisfied with the way his son now conducted Council affairs.
Until recently, that is.
Like his father, Luigi was sharp-witted, with an analytical mind that could plan decades ahead at a time. He had the foresight to set things in motion that would bear fruit, weeks, months, sometimes many, many years later. Unlike his father, however, Luigi did not exercise the same forbearance if those plans didn’t work out as foreseen. Neither did he possess the self-control or wisdom to ignore perceived sleights, preferring to make a quick example of those unwise enough to cross him.
Luigi’s unique ability involved the manifestation and manipulation of perhaps, the most unstable of elements: fire. A gift that had no doubt burgeoned from his innately volatile temperament. He had a short fuse, and it showed, as many had discovered to their cost. And lately, he’d been particularly irritated by a series of unfortunate events.
In the first one, a few months ago, two of Luigi’s erstwhile facilitators had been apprehended by Guardian Angels, all the way down in Australia. Those men hadn’t known they were working for him, of course – as the Espasito family always ensured such dealings were handled through proxies – and this helped explain why the sudden conversion of those men to the straight and narrow had not brought the authorities, screaming to his door.
Small blessings aside, Luigi still chafed at the loss of the regular supply of motor boats and launches they provided. Those items had been useful commodities, quantifiers easily redistributed to acquaintances seeking status, like the Black Sea Consortium, who would risk anything if it made them look unassailable to their competitors.
He felt he had lost face there, and although alternate arrangements procured suitable replacement craft within four days, Luigi still bridled at the aggravation and extra cost involved, and of course, the tarnish it had left upon his otherwise dependable reputation.
If that hadn’t been upsetting enough, then the sudden disappearance of retained arms dealers in the Sudan and the recent loss of two-hundred and fifty kilograms of heroin destined for his USA market had been additional slaps in the face he could have done without.
To top it all off, he’d been faced down and humiliated in front of the other Apostles, an insult that had nearly led to him losing control and setting fire to Yeung’s damned precious table.
Asshole! He thought.
Still, he felt better now than he had for weeks. And despite what their pathetic excuse for a leader had said, Luigi’s preparations for revenge were coming along nicely.
The disgrace they caused me will soon be answered, and there’s nothing the old fart will be able to do about it.
Of course, his plan was dependent on a number of complex factors coming together in harmony. Even so, it possessed an elegance so refined, so compelling, Luigi felt it was sure to work.
I’m going to humble them! Rub their stinking, interfering noses in it so the world will see them for what they truly are. Impotent incompetents. Who cares if its cost me over fifty-million dollars so far by calling in favors from associates in China, Hong Kong, and the United States. It’ll be worth every cent, and every compromise.
He’d gotten the idea from, of all people, his eleven year old niece, Amelia, after a chance encounter on this very patio nine days earlier, where – much to his distaste – she’d been playing a game of “Guardian Angels.”
Lost to the weave of her imagination, Amelia’s heroes had been busily engaged, rescuing her from a nuclear power plant that had been struck by a death-dealing asteroid harboring fire-breathing dinosaurs come to plague mankind. When questioned further on what she was doing, Amelia had been too caught up in the drama to explain herself fully, stressing – in a most adult fashion – that she couldn’t stop, because her make-believe land might be destroyed at any moment and she needed to rally her people.
Put in his place, Luigi wondered where on earth she had come up with such a scenario, until reminded by the housekeeper, Gianni, that there had been repeated newscasts on the TV lately about the safety of such reactors, following the recent Japanese meltdown scare. Japan was still trying to nurse its crippled infrastructure through stringent international controls in the wake of the earthquakes and tsunamis of 2011 and 2031, disasters that had devastated their nuclear energy capability, especially around the Fukushima area.
Mulling those episodes over in his mind led to an unexpected epiphany.
Luigi had contacts in both China and Hong Kong who would be in the perfect position to procure certain guidance chips from like-minded associates in the United States. The chips were state-of-the-art tech, destined for the latest generation of Hard Target Penetrating, Ground Burrowing, Tactical Nuclear Missiles – the B91-11 1KT Land Buster – currently undergoing tests in the (supposedly) secret military research area at Oak Ridge, Tennessee.
Those same contacts had experts to hand who would be able to doctor the chips and replace them without fear of discovery. Such subterfuge would ensure that a corresponding number of Land Busters would be susceptible to interference at a time and place of his choosing.
Family cousins in America had access to nerve agents capable of incapacitating large crowds by non-lethal means, thanks to one of the latest innovations to come from the Law Enforcement Division of Yeung Technologies Urban Pacification Program. He was sure they would also possess sufficient resources to guarantee said nerve agents somehow found their way into the missile center, mid-test, thereby negating all obstacles and allowing his people access to do what needed to be done with little chance of intervention.
Of course, a suitable diversion would need to be fabricated.
Just two days ago, Luigi had the notion of widening the nuclear theme, by focusing his thoughts on the Waste Isolation Plant in Carlsbad, New Mexico. He knew of at least two technicians there who were in debt to the Espasito family, putting them in an ideal position to engineer a suitable distraction that would draw the attention of the authorities. If they did their job well – and he would see to it that they did – that distraction would be critical enough to force the attention of the world’s greatest busybodies.
Working via a chain of surrogates to ensure he was distanced from any fallout, he had given the go-ahead, and so far, things were progressing smoothly.
Yes, it’ll be well worth cost.
Finishing his drink to the tinkle of ice on glass, Luigi savored the burn of neat spirits on his tongue for a moment before swallowing. Then, leaning back into his chair, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Late autumn sunlight and warmth played across his face, lulling him toward sleep and a relaxed, growing confidence that nothing could possibly go wrong.
*
November 28th—8:30pm—Washington DC, USA.
Gregory Harris, Unit Director of Section 6, the CIA’s Parapsychology Investigations Response & Research Unit, could not believe his recent run of good luck.
In the preceding couple of years, he had been marooned in a quagmire with its own tiny ramshackle office, deep in the sphincter of Langley’s sprawling grounds. During that time, his department was referred to as, Mulder’s Mystics, the laughingstock of everyone else and the Bermuda Triangle of dead-end leads and careers going nowhere. A token effort in the farce to prove the actual existence of extrasensory capabilities like clairvoyance, remote viewing, and telepathy, especially as his team of diehards had the unenviable task of trying to locate individuals capable of demonstrating such abilities in a controlled environment, which the company then hoped might be put to use in a “productive” manner.
Developments over the past few months had turned heads and changed attitudes. Harris had been promoted, the size of his staff increased to include those specialists drafted in from Nevada, and the scope of his kingdom relocated to a freshly constructed compound beneath the new wing of CIA headquarters at Langley. Even better, the faceless entities along the top floor had given him a long leash and limitless funds to get results.
And results are exactly what had fallen into his lap.
The current Angel Project initiative had netted him six viable contenders out of a possible fifty-eight in recent weeks. Three were in their mid-twenties, one in their thirties, while the most recent pair was an elderly couple from Nebraska who looked like they could win national competitions for being everyone’s favorite grandma and grandpa hands down.
Harris had a sneaking suspicion that all but one of them were attempting to sabotage test results by a sustained bout of passive resistance. Even so, initial reports showed the subjects to possess ESP aptitudes way beyond anything ever encountered before.
Resorting to drugs had made little difference, and two characters in particular had proven resistant to a whole host of hallucinatory and suppressive combinations, including hypnotics – an intriguing development in itself and ripe with possibilities.
The only one keen to be there was a twenty-two year guy from New York. Mentally unbalanced, he had been accustomed to living on the streets and fending for himself since his talents had flowered during puberty. From what therapists had been able to ascertain, the young man saw no harm in using his telepathic and telekinetic dexterity to help him find shelter in derelict buildings, hunt for food, clothing and graphic novels, and of course, ward off would-be aggressors.
His complete cooperation had been guaranteed by three square meals a day, his own comfy room, a separate locker to stash his extensive reading collection, and an introduction to all the delights that “Holo X Box” and “Play Station Platinum 9” had to offer.
And then there was tonight’s gem!
Not thirty minutes ago, one of his team leaders had called him at home stressing how urgently he needed to get back into work. Harris had been at his desk since 7:00 a.m. that morning, and had only walked through his front door less than an hour before. When he had pressed as to why he need disturb his evening further, the answer had prompted his panicked response, and each minute of the drive in from DC since then had turned into an ice age.
His new office complex, situated three floors underground, was kept isolated from other subdivisions due to the nature of the studies being conducted there.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Besides the usual security measures, the “public” entrance to his department could only be accessed via a swipe card operated stand alone elevator, fitted with standard integrated CCTV monitoring. This connected to a four-hundred-foot long approach tunnel, leading directly to the main doors of the Angel Project itself. Even so, listed officers would still have to subject themselves to three further hurdles: handprint, iris and voice phrase recognition ports, incorporating a rotating sequence of nine digit codes for each checkpoint. Encased in reinforced concrete more than twenty feet thick, the corridor also sported a series of neural gas dispensers and sonic disruptors set at regular, strategic intervals. Provided courtesy of Yeung Technologies, they were there to cater to anyone foolish enough to try and enter uninvited. Or in the case of the rear customer passageway, those attempting to leave.
Quite excessive really, when you considered the new guest the now had staying with them in the interview cell on the far side of a two-way mirror.
Having entered the center at a rush, Harris barely had his coat off before being met in the observation wing reception area by the team leader for that evening.
“Hi Greg,” Ryan Lee, a ten year veteran of black ops called in greeting, “sorry to be a pain in the ass, but I’m sure you’ll forgive me once I’ve brought you up to speed.”
“I sincerely hope so?” Harris responded, growing more excited by the second.
Ryan handed over a slim dossier opened to a page containing a covering report and several photographs. “Turns out our catch – Becky Selleck – was in class yesterday at Holly Meadows Elementary School, in Alexandria, when she suddenly started freaking out for no apparent reason. We’re talking a full-on bout of screaming and bawling where she evidently kept crying, ‘No mommy no,’ over and over again, poor little thing. The teachers were so concerned they tried to contact her mother, but when they did, Becky went all quiet, looked the teacher straight in the eye, and whispered, ‘My mommy won’t be coming now, she’s gone. Gone forever.’”
“And?” asked Harris, still confused.
Ryan indicated several stills taken from the school’s CCTV system, “The thing is, when Becky was freaking out, they say her hair was standing on end, as if she’d been electrified, see? And the furniture in the classroom was flying all over the place too, like the room was stuck in the middle of a localized tornado. You can see that in the last photo.
“Her mother, Karen, was the victim of a hit-and-run auto accident at Landmark Mall. Witnesses say she appeared to be suffering from a real heavy head cold or something like that, and had just finished loading shopping into the back of her car, when she had some sort of sneezing fit. You know the way it is when you sneeze, reflex takes over and you have no control. Anyway, it looks as if Karen staggered into the path of some old guy in an antique Buick. He’s registered blind but that hasn’t stopped him from driving…unfortunately. He didn’t see her. She didn’t see him, and it was over before Karen knew anything about it. Those old cars are built like tanks, and he took her down and went right over her without realizing it, or so he says. Witnesses state Karen was alive for about a minute before she died. The old guy’s still in custody over at Alexandria Police Department while they work out exactly what to do to him that won’t bring on a heart attack.”
“Does the girl – Becky – have other family?” queried Harris.
“None we know of, it was just her and the mother. Preliminary checks reveal that Karen Selleck was orphaned when she was nine, coincidentally when her own parents brought it in an automobile crash. We’re trying to look into the possibility Karen had a sister or an aunt who was also adopted, but at the moment, we can’t find any records to support it.
“The parents were Canadians living and working in the US, you see, but Karen was born here. Birth name, Karen Renoeuff. She survived the crash, and because no other living relatives could be found at the time, she was brought up by the state. Karen kept very much to herself and didn’t have a lot of friends. She was married briefly to an Edward Sellick, an only child and ex-Army Ranger who died on active service a year after his daughter’s birth…his details are included on the last page of the file.”
“What about his mom and dad?”
“They both passed on last year; the father from colon cancer, and from what we can see, the mother just pined away. It seems Karen supplemented her late husband’s army pension by taking part-time work here and there, anything really, to give herself an edge in bringing up her daughter.”
“So, what’s with the daughter?”
“Aaah, this is where it gets even more interesting,” Ryan replied. “Recovered footage from the mall’s cameras and several witnesses put the time of the accident at two-thirty or thereabouts. Guess when Becky started freaking out at school?”
“Two-thirty or thereabouts, by any chance?” posed Harris with mounting eagerness.
“On the nose. We’re can be sure about this as it was just before recess by a few minutes. That little girl knew something had happened to her mother and that she wouldn’t be coming home. It fits the profile we’ve been tasked to look out for, perfectly. When the report was initially filed by Alexandria Police, we were on it like a rash.”
Harris was jubilant. “Great work, Ryan. We need to act on this quickly to see what kind of fish we’ve landed. Do you know if the headmistress or police contacted the Department of Human Services or the Child Protection Agency?”
Ryan didn’t have to look at the report. “That’s a definite yes. Because of Becky’s circumstances, there’s already an application pending with the Family Fostering Department. All the schools here are very strict in their young person’s welfare protocols, so we’ve got an extremely narrow window.”
“We’ll see about that,” Harris muttered. “We’ve waited too long for an opening like this, someone young, someone we can mold to our own criteria, and we’re not going to let it slip through our fingers. By the way, who knows she’s here?”
Ryan thought for a moment. “No one, boss. Maggie Creegan was on call at the time, and was there in sixteen minutes. She gained access by posing as Veronica McMahon, one of the Child Welfare Department councilors. Maggie got them to call into the office on the chameleon line to verify her credentials, and after checking with us, they were quite happy they were speaking to Mother Teresa herself. She was in and out so quickly, she had to turn down coffee…” He smirked, “After all, we had to get the poor little pet settled.”
Harris slapped his colleague on the back. “Good job all round, then. Where do we stand with her now?”
“Well, Maggie stayed with Becky to reassure her everything’s going to be alright. The usual stuff; we’re her friends; she can trust us, blah, blah, blah. Now we’ve got her here, we were going to let her try and relax for the rest of the week, and then start the ball rolling on Saturday morning when the team gets back from the latest bag and tag op. They’ve already been notified and will be here, bright and early, December first, to set up.”
Fit to burst, Harris enthused, “Excellent. Ensure we have the DNA profilers in, too. I want to rule out or verify what commonalities might exist between our subjects. Oh, and make sure we measure her resistance to drugs, a-sap. We need to establish if that’s going to be a problem we’ll keep running into in future.”
“Okay, sure. But how far do you want us to go, she’s just a kid?”
How far…? Harris cast his dice. “Take it to the max. I know some might find that distasteful, but we still need to know what were dealing with, even in a child. If we can’t control these people passively, we’ll have to resort to more aggressive methods...Talking of which, how are those new AC stun guns working out?”
“We’re getting there….” Ryan shrugged his shoulders, “Several of our guests seem to be able to withstand the usual charge – there’s a shock, pun intended – so we’re playing with the voltage to see what will effectively incapacitate them first time.”
Harris was thoughtful for a moment. He turned to watch the little girl as she played inside the reinforced cell. “Make sure we find out what our newest addition can handle. Do it early on so we can get any unpleasantness out the way quickly. After all, we wouldn’t want our Becky thinking she can keep us waiting for results, eh?”
Ryan nodded, his face devoid of emotion. “Are you going home again once you’ve signed the permission forms?”
The newly promoted unit director glanced back at his prize catch one last time. “You know, I think I will. Things are going to get busy from Saturday when this BBC world exclusive airs, so I want to make sure I’m fresh for the day when all the fun starts. I can’t wait to see what these Guardian Angels come up with next.”
And with that, he ambled off toward the office suite, his overcoat slung across his shoulder, whistling a jolly tune and feeling invincible.
*
Five-year old Becky Selleck, a slightly built mousey-haired girl with large blue eyes and a smile that could brighten a whole room, stared vacantly at the dolls and selection of books and comics in front of her. A barely touched tuna pizza and half-drunk soda lay discarded on the table along with the toys and various other items that had been provided to keep her entertained.
Such things were irrelevant, for at this moment little Becky was somewhere else entirely, reliving the terrible episode that had changed her life so drastically, a mere day – and a whole different lifetime – away.
She had been blissfully happy, coloring the beach scene the class had been asked to draw by their teacher, Mrs. Cooper. That all changed, however, as her mother’s mind-shout suddenly flooded the ether, blotting everything out.
Becky? (Pain!) Becky, darling, is that you? Aaaaaagh, Jesus. (Intense overwhelming nausea!) Becky my love, are you there?
Frozen in fright by the conjoined sensation of torment, Becky saw a wide open expanse like the sky, only it was strangely overcast in hues of pink and red. Without warning her perspective changed, and Becky found herself gazing across an asphalt vista where the horizon seemed cramped and occluded by tires, car license plates and running feet.
Bemused, she wondered, I’m lying down? Why am I on the floor?
Her head felt heavy, and it was with the greatest difficulty that she struggled to lift her neck to view the bloody clouds once more. Only then did she realize what she was actually seeing.
Alarm clutched at her throat. Aghast, she hissed, “Mommy?” Mentally, she called: Mommy, where are you? What’s happening?
More quietly now, her mother’s thoughts came to her: Oh, my darling. I’m so sorry, I don’t…I don’t think I’ll be able to come and get you.
With rising panic, Becky responded: What do you mean, Mommy? Why can’t I see you properly? Why are you hurting so much?
Her mother’s anima flared, gaining strength and purpose: Becky darling, you’ve got to listen. Please, I don’t have much time. I’ve…I’ve been hurt – (An agonizing impression of crushed rib bones and limited breath imposes itself) – Remember what I said you must do if I ever had to go away? Do you remember? Tell me!
Yes, I remember, Mommy. But why are you going? Don’t leave me! Becky replied telepathically and then aloud, heedless of the cost, “No Mommy! What’s happening?”
The authority driving her mother’s fervor waned, but the urgency to fulfill one last task still burned like the sun: I love you so much, my darling. My big strong girl, but . . . but I’ve been hurt really bad.
“No, Mommy!” Becky screamed.
Becky, I love you, but you must do what I said . . . .
“No, no, no!” Becky shrieked; terror, stark and sheer consuming her every heartbeat as the familiarity of her mother’s presence turned elastic and started to slip from her grasp. “NO. MOMMY, DON’T DO IT, DON’T MOMMY, NOOOOO!”
The infant psyche reached out with all its precocious strength, refusing to sever a bond that had nurtured it from the womb, sustained it through every waking day. Power surged like a holocaust through Becky’s veins. The sky blazed bright…then just as quickly, everything went dark as a wraithlike outline of a smiling face she knew so well turned to stardust and dissipated into a glittering fog.
Becky heard one last faint whisper: Never forget, my precious, beautiful daughter. I love you. Do what I said to stay safe and you’ll know who you can trust when you – you – you – you – you . . . .
And she was gone.
A huge black web of numbed sensibilities rendered Becky immobile as she realized she would never feel her mother’s psychic embrace again, never hear her voice, and never savor the scent of her hair or skin.
Reality shifted for a second time, and Becky gradually became aware of her classroom once more. Murmurs percolated in the background. The smell of scorched fabric lingered. She made an effort to focus and was rewarded by a sea of wide-eyed faces. Mrs. Cooper walked slowly toward her, arms outstretched in reluctant invitation. “Don’t worry, Becky, we’re calling your mommy to come and get you.”
Becky turned slowly on the spot. The classroom was a shambles, every table, chair and shelf having been tipped on its side, and in some cases, smashed. She glanced at the floor where a smoky white residue covered a darker scorch mark in spiraling patterns about her feet. When she glanced back up, Mrs. Cooper was still edging forward, clearly frightened. But why? “Don’t worry, honey, your mommy will be here soon.”
Meeting the teachers advance squarely, Becky couldn’t prevent what followed. “My mommy won’t be coming now, she’s gone. Gone forever.”
And with that, the devastated child collapsed to the floor, grief-stricken beyond belief.
*
November 28th –11:45 p.m.—Langley, Virginia.
The lady called Maggie had been very nice to her, Becky recalled as she finally started to drift toward sleep, although she told far too many lies.
She could see that Maggie was tired. Even so, she had stayed with Becky for a long time, reading to her, given her cuddles, and trying to make her as happy as she could under the circumstances.
Mommy had always told her how important it was to be polite, and so Becky had done her best to listen, and smile when she could, and show she was grateful. But Maggie kept telling her that everyone here was Becky’s friend, and that they were all going to look after her, because she was so very special. And that was what frightened Becky the most, because they were trying to get her to break her promise to mommy.
Becky already knew she was unusual. She was like her mommy in that way. They could communicate telepathically when they were in different rooms, or when Becky was sleeping over at her friend Megan’s house, or even at school. They used to play games when visiting neighbors, to see how much they could say while not getting distracted. It was difficult to begin with, because normal people didn’t realize they were thinking out loud so often and they would imagine the weirdest things. Becky soon learned to cut out those distractions, and chat with two people at once – one inside her head, the other, outside – and her mommy was pleased how skilled she was at doing that without anyone knowing.
Mommy had told her it was something only the best, only the most gifted people could do, and, because they were different, she had to be vigilant because others might be frightened of them…even her best friend, Megan.
Mommy had always been right when it came to their secret. When the Guardian Angels had started to save others, many of the girls and boys in class said lots of complimentary things about them. That they were good, they were kind and brave, and they used their powers to help just about everyone they could.
That’s when her classmates had begun playing Guardian Angel games during recess, taking it in turns to rescue one another from monsters and fires and all sorts of imaginary disasters.
It was good fun. But Becky soon learned that what people said, and what some of them thought, was very different, especially the grown-ups.
Different groups of grown-ups had visited the school pretending to be well-meaning. They’d set up all sorts of games and quizzes and invited everyone to play. But they weren’t playing. They were scientists, there to find people like Becky and take them away to make them do things she didn’t understand. Some were even secretly scared of who or what they might find, and had nasty ideas about what they would like to do to any “freaks” they managed to uncover.
And there were a lot of adults who thought like that.
Mommy had told her to be careful while they were there, and had helped her get plenty of wrong answers on the tests so they’d think she was like anyone else. But it was exhausting. The scientists used cameras and other machines to watch the children closely and always stared at them like cats waiting for birds to fall from a tree. If it wasn’t for mommy, Becky might have made a mistake and she was sure they would have pounced on her. It had been dreadfully scary.
Becky had to be especially wary that week, because she had recently discovered she could move things without touching them. And although it didn’t always work when and how she wanted, it was still a delightful surprise. Mommy had said not to worry. It was like riding a bike, and once she had practiced, she would be able to do it all the time whenever she wanted. But until then, she had to be cautious, because when she got upset, things started jumping about without her wanting them to, like yesterday at school.
Of course, just thinking about the incident brought it all flooding back, and the tears returned again until she’d cried herself to sleep.
But Becky was a strong little girl.
She had promised her mommy she would stay safe, and she would do just that. All she had to do now was keep waiting for someone to come and find her, to tell her everything would be alright, someone who would take her away from those who wanted to hurt her and use her because she was different. Someone she could trust.
When the right person came, she would know who they were.