36. Oz
36
OZ
W ell, the diner is unexpected. It’s quiet this late at night and it seems to also have gotten confused about its location because it looks like it belongs on Route 66.
Posters from every alien film I can think of are stuck up on the dark green walls and an Area 51 sign hangs behind the counter.
We bypass a couple of bikers on the leather cushioned barstools and take a seat in one of the booths. A bobbly alien is suctioned to the napkin holder and Freya flicks it as she slides up to the window.
The green figure wobbles back and forth. “You think Jude will have driven River mad with this when they were waiting here earlier?”
“He’ll have put it on his Christmas list,” I say.
Freya laughs and tiny stars burst in my chest. I’ll never get tired of making Freya laugh.
The place smells of fries and hot oil. It’s too late to eat but we order milkshakes. Four of them because Rebekah and her brother are going to need the sugar. Their adrenaline will be on overload. Their guards up.
To be honest, there’s a chance they won’t make it off of the compound, but I haven’t voiced that thought because Freya’s anxious enough as it is.
She spent the afternoon on the phone with her hacker friend making arrangements for our two runaways. Normally, we’d have put them into witness protection but we don’t know if we can trust the FBI at the moment so we’re doing this off the books.
The bell above the door dings and Freya lets out a breath as Rebekah and her brother come inside. The boy sticks out like a sore thumb in his pure white cotton clothes and one of the bikers lifts a pair of bushy brows. We should have brought them something to change into.
Rebekah ushers her brother to our booth, and they sit down opposite us.
“Do they know you’re gone?” Freya asks.
Rebekah shakes her head. “I made sure they won’t until morning.” She squeezes her brother’s hand. “This is Samuel.”
Samuel watches us with shifting eyes. Unlike his sister’s blonde hair, his is dark and cropped military short. Goosebumps prick at his arms as he fiddles with the napkin holder.
Freya shrugs off her jacket and passes it to him over the table.
He eyes it before looking up at his sister. “It’s okay,” she says. “You’ll get cold otherwise.”
His small hands scrunch the jacket, and he picks it up, shrugging it around his shoulders. Rebekah pushes one of the milkshakes his way. “Drink too.”
I place the new phone we purchased on the table and light up the screen. “This is yours,” I say, spinning it round to face Rebekah. “It has two train tickets to San Francisco loaded on it. Do you know how to use it?”
Rebekah nods.
“We couldn’t get you ID’s because you’ll need photos but if you go to this address, they’ll get everything you need sorted.” Freya passes them a note along with an envelope of cash. “My friend Carmen will be there waiting; she’ll be the one eating the Twizzlers. You can trust her, and she’ll make sure you have a place to stay.”
I blink at Freya, kind of shocked she just told us Carmen’s name. She refused to tell us when we first asked, which I get. Carmen probably saved her life, but she broke the law to do so and Freya’s just protecting her. Plus, I suspect Carmen has broken an awful lot of laws but as far as I can tell she falls firmly under the ‘chaotic good’ heading.
Rebekah takes the envelope. “The woman you’re looking for, is she really your mother?”
Freya bites her lip and nods.
“Her name’s Hannah Lock.”
I tense. “Lock as in Jeremiah Lock?”
Rebekah’s gaze slides to me as she nods. “Yes. She was his wife. Our mothers were close but then Hannah got pregnant. A month later she disappeared.” She eyes Freya. “Honestly, I think my mom thought Jeremiah killed her. There was talk the baby wasn’t his.”
If Freya’s mom was already pregnant with her, that could explain why Maxwell didn’t kill her. “When was this?” I ask.
Rebekah’s lips twist. “I’m not sure exactly. Late 90’s I think.”
Freya fiddles with the straw in her milkshake but she hasn’t drunk any of it. “Any chance you remember her maiden name?”
It’s a good question. Maxwell wouldn’t have wanted her to hold on to another man’s name. If he wasn’t trying to hide her, he would have given her his own last name.
“I’m not sure.” Rebekah grips the envelope tighter, like we might take it away from her. “I’m sorry.”
“Munroe.” It’s Samuel who speaks, his voice quiet. “Hannah Munroe.” He checks in with his sister before facing Freya. “I remember Mom’s stories too. You have grandparents,” he says. “Mom said they were nice, but they were banished after Hannah left.” He shrugs. “I just thought you might want to know.”
Rebekah stares at him. “You remember that?”
He shrugs again and slurps his milkshake.
“I have more questions,” Freya says, bringing Rebekah’s attention back to her. “You don’t have to answer them if you don’t want to.”
Rebekah nods slightly.
“Why do you wear black?”
Both the kids go quiet. Eventually it’s Samuel who answers.
“She’s one of the Tainted,” he says.
Freya goes still. “What does that mean?”
Rebekah sighs and pushes her milkshake away from her. “In the Dying Angels, girls are either Tainted or Pure. The Pure are married off to whichever man the Elders deem fit. The Tainted are given a choice. Be banished or become a Guardian of the Pure.” She looks at Freya, her eyes stone. “I made sure I was Tainted.”
“He trains you,” I deduce.
Rebekah nods. “We’re supposed to protect the other women. They give us all the skills to fight so long as we don’t use those skills against the wrong people.”
“The wrong people being any of the men, I assume,” Freya says.
Rebekah flashes a dry smile. “Ironic, isn’t it? We can’t protect them from the people who hurt them most.”
“Will you testify?”
Rebekah hesitates. “Maybe. Once we’re both safe.”
Freya nods. “Good.” She looks at Samuel. “Hannah Munroe?”
The boy nods and Freya sits back in the booth, slumping against the vinyl seating, the day catching up with her.
I squeeze her thigh under the table. “Thank you, both of you. There’s an Uber waiting out front to take you to the train station. My number is programmed into that phone, if you run into any trouble on your way, call me.”
Rebekah stands up. “I hope you find her,” she says to Freya then she takes Samuel’s hand, and they head to the door.
Freya stirs her milkshake with its straw, staring into the glass. “The timings don’t add up. I wasn’t born until 2001.”
“They’re both young. They’re passing down stories from their mother so I wouldn’t be surprised if they were a few years out.”
She leaves the straw alone and looks across at me. “You think they’re telling the truth?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“Hannah Munroe.” She says it slowly, her tongue finding its way around the name. “Is it enough?”
I reach into my satchel for my laptop and open it up on the diner table. “Let’s find out.”
I search for properties first. It’s likely Maxwell bought her a house to live in and if it’s not under his name it could be listed under hers. When that comes up with no results I widen the search parameters. I wait, glancing at Freya as it runs.
“You told me Carmen’s name,” I say.
She shrugs. “I trust you.” She says it so casually but the weight behind those words almost knocks me down. This girl does not trust easy, but she just gave me the name of her closest friend, a person who she knows I could—and probably should—arrest. I won’t, because sometimes the law doesn’t get it right and my gut tells me Carmen is saving lives.
Freya’s trust soothes my soul, like clear water against the murky depths of the dark web I spend so much of my time swept up in. Hacking into people’s lives pushes at the edges of my morals and I’ve gotta admit that sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve anybody’s trust. So to have Freya’s, of all people, feels like stardust.
My laptop pings, drawing my attention back to the screen. The search is complete and I’ve got a record of seven Hannah Munroe’s living in L.A. A quick scan tells me only one lives alone so I focus on her.
“Hannah Munroe, aged 43. She checked in to a free health clinic two weeks ago.”
Freya leans closer. “Do you have an address?”
I nod. “The clinic needs you to provide one.” My fingers go still on the trackpad as I scan the rest of the information. That’s not good. “Freya,” I say, “she was in for a miscarriage.”
Freya’s throat bobs as she swallows but she shuts down any emotion, her face blank. “That could be what triggered him to start killing pregnant women.”
“If we’re right, he didn’t kill her the first time because she was pregnant with you and your sister.”
Freya chews on her lip. “But if he’s devolving, which he is, and she’s not carrying his child anymore, he’s got no reason to keep her alive.”
She looks at me, a steady mask in place, but I can see the panic she’s trying to hide. We finally know where to find her mother, but we might be too late.