Pretty Girl Thirteen

“May I see your hands?” Brogan asked. It wasn’t a request. It was an order.

She rolled her eyes and wordlessly stuck her arms out. They were too long, too thin, too pale, and she imagined they were someone else’s arms stuck on her body. Brogan traced the unfamiliar scars on her wrists with a finger, flipped the hands over to examine the short, ragged nails, then back over to the dirty, rough palms. His finger explored the groove left by the ring on her middle finger, the cleaner, paler skin revealed.

He met her eyes with a question. “Know anything about this?”

A knifelike pain hit her behind the ear. She winced and shook her head, which he took to mean no. The ache drifted away. Her head cleared. It felt like fog lifting.

He pursed his lips. “Humor me a sec. Arm wrestle me.” He dropped into the chair again and set his elbow on the coffee table, thumb up.

“You’ll win. Your hands are huge,” Angie predicted. “Plus your arm is much longer than mine.”

One side of his mouth smiled. “Humor me. Please?”

Angie snorted. “Right.” She grasped his hand and pushed. Her smaller fingers disappeared in his grip, but his arm wavered. He pressed back. She met him with resistance, startled at the strength of her skinny arm. Lean muscle bulged. Without warning, his arm gave way and she flattened him. “You let me win,” she accused.

“Maybe a little. You’ve obviously been doing manual labor. For a long time. You’re very strong for your size.”

“Oh my God.” Mom erupted from her seat, hands twisting. “Manual labor? White slavery, do you think?”

How lame, Angie thought. But Brogan seemed to take the question seriously. “No, Margie. Not likely. She’s been relatively local.”

“Local? All this time?” Dad’s voice trembled oddly. “What makes you say that?”

“Her clothes smell of pine sap and wood smoke.”

Angie sniffed her sleeve. He was right. Well, of course, that made sense. Didn’t she make s’mores around the campfire only last night? Smells don’t linger for three years.

“Of course,” she said simply. “I was camping.”

“You remember nothing else?” Brogan asked.

This was getting exasperating. “Look,” she said. “I told you. All of you. I don’t remember anything else. I was camping. Then I was here. I don’t remember being driven home or dropped off or walking. Nothing. I was just here.”

“Angela, how tall are you?” The detective held his palms to her parents to keep them from jumping in.

“Five-one,” she answered without hesitation. In her side vision, Mom’s head shook slightly.

“And how much do you weigh?”

“That’s kind of personal, isn’t it?” she asked.

Brogan gave a full-faced smile for the first time. “Sorry. Yes. And I’m terrible at guessing. A hundred and ten?”

“Wow. You are terrible.”

“Told you.” He was honest, anyway, and his grin was contagious. “Sorry. More?”

Angie laughed, for the first time. “Ninety-five, last time I checked.” Her laugh sounded creaky, hoarse, unused.

“And how old are you?”

“Thirteen,” she said.

Mom started to open her mouth. A hissed “Si—” escaped before Brogan cut her off.

Dad missed the gesture. “She’s sixteen,” he insisted. “You’re sixteen now, Angela. Don’t you understand what we’ve been telling you?”

Angie’s head buzzed. What was wrong with everybody? Dad was so stiff and angry—he only ever called her Angela when she was in trouble. She was supposed to be his little Angel. But she hadn’t done anything wrong, except maybe get lost. And that wasn’t her fault. And besides … she was home now.

Anger bubbled up from nowhere. “Will you stop this stupid game? I’m thirteen.” Her voice caught in her throat. “I’m thirteen.”

Tears blurred her view of the detective’s face, but she spoke straight to him in tight, furious words. “I’m Angela Gracie Chapman. In three weeks, I’m starting eighth grade at La Cañada High School. I’m thirteen years old. And I think I’ve been lost. But I don’t know for sure. I want to take a shower and eat and go to bed.” She crossed her arms tightly across her chest, trying to ignore the soft bumps that weren’t supposed to be there.

Mom stood. She placed an arm around Angie’s shoulder, like a magic cloak of protection. “Detective. She’s right. We all need a little adjustment time here. Can’t this be finished later?”

Angie felt such a rush of relief. Mom would get rid of everyone and tuck her into bed, and when she woke up, everything would be normal again.

“I’m sorry, Margie. I wish we could.” Brogan focused on Angie. “As far as the question of your memory, Angela, I think we’re dealing with some retrograde amnesia and post-traumatic stress here. You know what that is?”

“I can’t remember anything because I’m too freaked out,” she snapped.

“Something like that. I’d like you to meet with our best forensic psychologist as soon as possible. Mitch, Margie, I’ll set up the appointment and call you.”

“So are we done?” Angie asked, just about on her last blip of energy.

“Right after the medical exam,” Brogan said. “I’ll call ahead and expedite it.”

Dad turned his attention to something beyond the window. His expression was absolutely flat, like a stone statue. His shoulders hunched up to his ears.

“Oh, come on, Phil,” Mom protested. “Is that necessary? Now? She’s exhausted. Look at her.”

Brogan caught the desperate, pathetic look Angie threw him. His mouth turned down, and he switched back into the guy with a hole in his knee. “Yeah. I know. But we have to. I’m so, so sorry.”

Why did he keep apologizing? It didn’t change anything.

Brogan lowered his voice, even though there was no one else to overhear. He spoke to Dad’s back, not to her. “Angela has obviously been living with someone. She hasn’t been on the street. She hasn’t been starved. She’s been taken care of. There may be important DNA evidence. We don’t want to let any more time elapse before collecting it.”

“From her clothes?” Mom asked. “We can just give them to you.”

The detective gave Mom a pointed look and, finally, swiveled his attention to Angie. “Angela, without being able to rely on your memory, we need to see whether you’ve been sexually assaulted.”

Angie’s temper flared again. “Just say it, Detective. Don’t spare my feelings. Raped. You want to know if I’ve been raped. Don’t you think I’d know? Don’t you think I’d remember something like that?” Her chest heaved, as if she’d just finished a mile run.

“Do you remember, Angie?” he asked gently.

The image of narrow, dark eyes flashed through her mind and vanished in a spasm of pain. Then her mind was empty, clear—her anger evaporated as if the storm in her head had just died. She was calm. Blank. Relieved. Safe. “No. Nothing. I don’t remember anything.”

“My point exactly,” he said.