Chapter 9
SELA
Jackie Nielsen.
That's the answer to Marc's question. Emma's files contained detailed notes on several survivors who escaped the trafficking network. Jackie was the first. The one Emma helped before she was killed. The one who trusted a nurse enough to tell her story.
Harlow spent yesterday making contact through an intermediary—a social worker Jackie knows from the women's shelter system. Cautious approach. No mention of law enforcement. Just a nurse following up on Emma's work, wanting to make sure Jackie got the support she needed.
Jackie agreed to meet. Neutral location. Public place. Noon.
Clearwater's less than an hour from Glacier Hollow, a mid-sized town with enough traffic that two women having coffee won't draw attention. Marc mapped three different routes, identified backup positions, tested the encrypted recording app on my phone twice to make sure it works.
Now I'm sitting in a booth at the back of a diner that smells like burned coffee and fry grease, waiting for a woman who has every reason not to trust anyone connected to law enforcement.
My coffee's gone lukewarm. The Glock pressed against my lower back under my jacket is a constant reminder that this isn't a conversation. It's an op. And ops can go sideways fast.
Through the window, I can see Marc's truck in the parking lot.
Far enough away not to spook Jackie, close enough to respond if things go wrong.
We went over the protocols multiple times this morning.
Secure communication. Encrypted files. Backup plans if Jackie gets spooked or if Haywood's people show up.
Everything that makes Marc feel like he's keeping me safe. But we both know the moment I make contact with one of Haywood's victims, I become an even bigger threat.
My phone buzzes. Text from an unknown number.
I'm here. Blue sedan. Are you alone?
I type back.
Inside. Back booth. Just me.
It's not entirely a lie. Jackie can't see Marc from here, and bringing visible law enforcement would end this before it starts. These women were threatened by a federal agent. They don't trust badges.
The door opens. A woman enters, maybe late twenties, dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. She scans the diner with the kind of hyper-vigilance that comes from surviving the worst. Looking for exits. Counting threats. Assessing whether this is safe or a trap.
I recognize her from the photo Cara pulled from Emma's files. Thinner now. Harder than when she arrived. Survival leaves its mark.
She spots me, hesitates, then crosses to the booth. Slides in across from me but keeps her coat on. One hand stays in her pocket. I'd bet money there's pepper spray or a knife in there. Smart. I'd do the same.
"You're the nurse," she says. Not a question.
"Sela Mitchell. I worked with Emma Blackwater at Palmer Regional."
A lie. But a necessary one. Jackie needs to feel connected to Emma, needs to believe I understand what Emma was doing. The truth—that I found Emma's evidence after her death—sounds too convenient, too suspicious.
Her expression doesn't change but her shoulders drop half an inch. "Emma's dead."
"I know."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because Emma documented what happened to you. What Haywood did. And I need to know if you're willing to testify."
Jackie's laugh is bitter. Humorless. "You've got to be joking. You have no idea what you're asking me to do."
"I do, actually. I found Emma's evidence.
Her recordings. Her surveillance photos.
And the moment I reported it to the FBI, somebody tried to kill me—not once, but twice.
So yeah, I know exactly what I'm asking.
I know what Haywood's capable of. I know the risk.
But Emma died trying to expose him, and if we don't finish what she started, he keeps doing this to other women. "
Jackie stares at me. The waitress appears, refills my coffee, asks Jackie if she wants anything. Jackie shakes her head without looking away from me.
When the waitress leaves, Jackie says, "Emma was different. She actually gave a shit. Most of the staff at the ER, they'd treat the injuries and move on. Didn't ask questions. Didn't want to know. But Emma asked. And when I told her what happened, she believed me."
"I need your help."
"Why? You've got her recordings."
"Because audio files aren't enough. Defense attorneys will tear them apart.
Emma was a civilian. She had no legal authority to make those recordings.
We need live testimony. Someone willing to stand up in court and say what Haywood did.
Will you testify? Or can you help me find other survivors who might? "
Jackie's hand tightens around whatever she's holding in her pocket. "You know what happens to people who testify against guys like him?"
"I know what happens if nobody does."
Silence. The diner noise fills the space between us—dishes clattering, low conversation from other booths, the hiss of the grill.
I wait. Let the silence do its work. In the ER, I learned that survivors need presence, not pressure.
Jackie pulls her hand out of her pocket. Empty. She's made a decision.
"I came to the US on a work visa," she says. Her voice is flat. Clinical. Like she's reporting facts instead of reliving trauma. "H-2B visa for hospitality work. Resort in Seward hired me. Said I'd be working the front desk, guest services. Good pay. Room and board included."
I don't interrupt. Listen. Let her tell it at her own pace. I watch her hands, her breathing, the way she holds herself. Looking for the signs I learned to recognize in the ER.
"First week, they took my passport. Said it was for safekeeping, that they had to submit copies for visa verification.
Then they moved me to a different location.
No resort. No guest services. A house with other women and men who told us we owed money for our travel expenses, our housing, our food. That we'd work it off."
"What kind of work?"
"Cleaning at first. Long hours. No days off.
They paid us almost nothing, said most of it went to our debt.
But the debt never got smaller. It just grew.
" She looks at her hands. Studies them like they belong to someone else.
"Then they started moving some of the women to different houses.
Said they'd make more money faster. I knew what that meant. So when they tried to move me, I ran."
"How'd you get away?"
"Jumped out of the van at a stoplight. Ran into a gas station. Called 911." Her jaw tightens. Muscle jumping in her cheek. "Cops came. Took statements. I told them everything. Where I'd been held. Names of the men running the operation. I thought I was safe. Thought they'd help."
"What happened?"
"Federal agent showed up at the station.
Said his name was Lyle Haywood. FBI. Said he was investigating the trafficking network and needed my cooperation.
" She meets my eyes. "He took me into an interview room alone.
No recording. No other officers. Him and me.
And he told me if I testified, if I gave any information to local law enforcement or tried to cooperate with the investigation, he'd make sure I got deported.
Said I'd entered the country illegally once my employer violated visa terms. Said I'd committed crimes by working without proper authorization.
That I'd never be allowed back in the US and might face charges in my home country. "
My hands curl into fists on the table. "He threatened you."
"He didn't threaten. He explained how things would go if I didn't cooperate with his version of events.
" Her voice stays level but I hear the tremor underneath.
"Said the trafficking network had connections.
That if I talked, they'd find me. That federal witness protection wouldn't help because they had people inside law enforcement.
That my best option was to disappear into the system and keep my mouth shut. "
"Did you?"
"For a while. Got assigned to a shelter.
Kept my head down. Then I met Emma at the ER after one of the other women from the network got hurt and they brought her in.
Emma treated her. Asked questions. And when the woman told her about Haywood, Emma listened.
" Jackie takes a breath. "She told me she was documenting everything.
Building a case. That she knew people who could help.
I gave her my statement. Recorded it on her phone.
Thought maybe something would actually happen. "
"Then Emma died."
"Yeah. Car accident, they said. I knew it wasn't." Her eyes find mine. "That's when I reached out to a victim advocate who'd helped me after Emma's death. Rebecca Macintosh. She works for the Aurora Covenant, a non-profit that helps trafficking survivors. She's the only one I trust."
I pull out my phone. Open the encrypted recording app Marc set up this morning. The interface is simple. Red button to record. Blue button to stop. Automatic upload to the secure server Cara configured.
"I need you to tell me everything you just told me, on the record. Confirm Haywood's name. Describe what he said and did. And I need permission to share this with the task force that's working on this and Rebecca Macintosh if we can confirm she can be trusted."
"Why would I do that? Haywood's still out there. Still has power."
"Because Emma's dead and we have evidence that proves what you're saying. Surveillance photos of Haywood meeting with the traffickers. Financial records showing payments. Audio recordings from other victims. Your testimony ties it all together. Makes it impossible for the DOJ to ignore."
"DOJ? Not the FBI?"
"Public corruption unit. We're bypassing the FBI entirely because we don't know who else Haywood owns."
Jackie considers this. Her fingers tap against the table. Fear warring with the chance at justice. The possibility that maybe, finally, someone will make Haywood pay.