CHAPTER 6

(Ben POV)

Somehow, the more time I spend with this girl, the more of a mystery she becomes.

A week ago, she was a silent, timid, unresponsive girl. She didn't talk, she didn't cry, she didn't interact with anyone at all. Then yesterday a switch flipped and suddenly she was talking, yelling, glaring, displaying emotions, arguing, and describing in excruciating detail the most horrible moments of her life. I half-expected to wake up this morning to discover it had all been a dream I'd created to finally get this case moving along.

And the few details I was able to pull out of her about the time she spent in Alaska -

I'm still not sure whether to believe her about that. Hitchhiking across the Alaskan wilderness in a blizzard with a trucker she didn't know? The girl I dragged from that mildewy prison cell couldn't have done all that. But the woman who demanded a gun yesterday afternoon could have. That woman was brave, fierce, strong, determined. And somehow, even though she's several inches shorter and many pounds lighter, she was intimidating. I glance over at her face, now impassive. I don't know which one she's going to be today. I don't have a clue who Ana is.

The inescapable evidence against her mother and Ana's place in it is another

mystery. My suspicion that Ana had gained possession of the stolen funds was short-lived, but I'm not as certain as she is about her mother's innocence. She's right, it doesn't make sense that a mother would let her child die to protect a few million dollars. But in this job, I've seen people do worse. The evidence is clear that Mrs. Clarence was in possession of the money we've been looking for. Still, I keep imagining my mother in the same situation, choosing between a secret stash of dirty money and Isabela. Isabela would win every time. Mama would work herself to

the bone if she could pay five million dollars to get Isabela back. I can't make up my mind about Mrs. Clarence.

"They're ready for her now, Ramirez."

I snap to attention and turn to Ana. "Are you ready to go in there?"

She stares past me at the wall and for an instant, I think she's gone back into

catatonic mode. Then she lets out a breath, blinks, and looks at me.

"I guess," she says.

"Remember, they won't be able to see you. They don't know who identified them in this case and-"

"They know." She stares back at me, little emotion on her face. "You don't have to

say anything for everyone in this city to know who witnessed my family's murders.

They know it's me."

She's completely resigned to this fact. And seems unbothered by it. Weird.

I lead her into the little room with the one-way mirror. On the other side of the glass, a homogenous group of Latino men covered in gang tattoos stands in a rough line.

"Ah, Miss Clarence," says the prosecutor. "So glad you could finally join us, and only a year late."

I think we're both shooting the man dirty looks.

"Even though you can see them, they can't see-"

Ana cuts him off as she turns to face him. "They've already tried to kill me on three separate occasions. They know I'm the one identifying them."

The prosecutor raises an eyebrow at Ana's easy acceptance of the risk to her life. I guess the women he usually sees in here aren't so flippant about past assassination attempts.

"Make sure you look closely at each of them. We want you to be absolutely sure

that-"

"It's number three and number eight," she says, still looking at the prosecutor.

"Number three killed my dad and sister. Number eight killed my mom."

"Did you even look at them?" I ask.

Ana's gaze shifts around to me. "It's them. I've been seeing their faces every time I close my eyes for over a year. They're probably the last thing I'll see before I die."

She pauses and looks back out at them. "Especially if they're the ones who kill me."

"Miss Clarence, you have to actually look at the others too."

"Fine," she says and makes a show of carefully and dramatically examining each man in the lineup. When she looks at the last man, her facial expression changes suddenly. Her eyes grow wide in recognition and fear. I can see the blood draining from her face.

"Who's that? The one on the end?"

No answer.

"Who are you looking at, Ana?"

She doesn't answer but keeps staring at him. I look out to see for myself. There's

nothing remarkable about the man. He's not Roderigo Santiano or Carlos Espinoza, the two men she identified as her family's killers. He's just another member of the lineup.

"I want to go now," Ana says in a flat, quiet voice.

This isn't her I can talk casually about being murdered like it doesn't bother me voice.

This voice sounds like an artificially-created emotionless void. I'm afraid the Ana I met yesterday is slipping away and I don't know why or how to get her back.

"Who is he?" I ask again.

"I need to go," Ana says, not looking at anyone.

I lead her out of the room and back to my desk. She wraps her arms around herself

like she's cold. The A/C is broken in the office today. While the weather is much

nicer this close to winter, it's still stuffy inside.

"Do you want some water?" I ask.

She nods her head without looking at me.

Over by the water cooler, Jones is talking to our boss. When she sees me, she

excuses herself and comes over.

"Did she ID them?"

"Yep. Got both of them right, instantly. But something weird happened when she

saw one of the other guys in the lineup. She got this look on her face like - well, like how I was expecting her to look when she saw the guys who did this. Then she

started shutting down again. I don't know what to make of it."

"Weird. Did she saying anything?"

"Kept insisting she wanted to leave. Wouldn't say anything else."

"You think she's seen the guy before."

"Definitely. She reacted more to them than the people who murdered her family. I just don't know who else it could be."

"Maybe one of the guys at the helicopter crash?"

"She says she can't remember it," I remind Jones.

"Maybe she's repressing the memory of what happened there and seeing that guy

again is triggering something?" Jones suggests. "When a person is reminded of a repressed memory, it can be pretty traumatic."

"I just hope she isn't going to regress into that catatonic state again. She finally

started talking."

We both turn to look at Ana. She's sitting where I left her, hunched over in a defensive posture and rocking back and forth slightly. I frown. She looks nothing

like the girl who stood up to me yesterday.

"Well, at least she got twenty-four hours of being lucid," says Jones. "Maybe next

time it'll last longer."

"If there is a next time," I say skeptically.

"Don't write her off so easily," Jones says, narrowing her eyes at me. "That girl is

stronger than you give her credit for."

"How's the search going?" I ask, trying to change the topic.

Jones's eyes lose the disapproving glare. "They haven't found a smoking gun yet,

but it's still early. We'll see what they turn up. With any luck, we won't need Ana's

assistance after this."

"I hope not," I agree, looking back at the girl in question. "We're probably going back to the safehouse soon. She's not looking too great."

I begin to wonder again about the man in the lineup who sent Ana into this backward slump.

"Can you get her some water?" I ask Jones. "I want to go check up on that mystery gangbanger."

"As long as you don't start questioning her about it later," says Jones, giving me a warning look. "She's been through a lot in the last day. Let her rest."

"Fine," I say before heading off to dig up some information on this man. "Thanks," I call over my shoulder.

Jones waves a hand at me.

~~~

After learning the identity of the man who spooked Ana today, I was able to snag a

case file on him. I brought it back to the safehouse but Jones wouldn't let me look

at it until Ana went into her room for the night. The girl in question didn't really say anything, but she glared at me when I asked if she was OK for the fifth time in the span of an hour. She stayed in the living room with us for the rest of the day. Jones was able to convince her to go get a real haircut and after that, she ate dinner with us. Though she made no attempt to engage in Jones's attempts at conversation, her behavior was encouraging. She's not completely shutting down. Not yet, at least.

She finally went to her room after dinner and Jones let me start examining the

history of one Xavier Juarez. The man seems to be a pretty typical lower-level

member of the Alvarez crime syndicate. After dozing off a few times while trying to find any possible connections he might have had with Ana or her family, I finally give up the fight and go to bed at 3 am.

I'm deeply asleep when a scream drags me up to consciousness and sends me

scrambling out of bed. I grab my gun on my way to investigate, meeting a bleary-

eyed Jones in the living room. We take one look at each other and rush for Ana's

bedroom. I get there first and tear open the door, expecting to find someone else in there, possibly Xavier, finishing the job. But instead, Ana is alone in the room.

I stop short just inside the threshold as Ana screams again like someone is

murdering her. Jones crashes into me. I stare at her, lying alone on the bed, no

murderer holding a knife to her neck or pointing a gun at her or attacking her.

There's nothing here but her. Blankly, I stare at her, my tired brain

uncomprehending. There's no threat here.

"Move!" Jones insists, giving me a hard shove and forcing her way inside. She looks around and doesn't seem phased by the strange absence of apparent danger.

"What's going on?" I ask, my ears ringing. "Where's the intruder?"

"There is no intruder. She's having a nightmare again, you idiot."

"Oh," I say as Ana whimpers.

I stand there awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Jones takes her gently by the

shoulders and calls her name several times until she finally opens her eyes. Ana blinks up at me and I can tell the moment her eyes focus because she scrambles away. I look at my hands and realize I'm still holding my gun. It's not pointed at her, but by the looks of it, she doesn't particularly care where it's pointed.

"Get out, Ramirez," Jones hisses at me before she begins to speak calmly to Ana.

Chastised, I gladly leave the room. I didn't realize Ana had been having nightmares.

Again , Jones had said. So much raw fear and terror must course through her on a

daily basis. Would Isabela have turned out like this if she'd survived?

I couldn't save Isabela from what happened to her. I can't save Ana from the terror that plagues her mind. But what I can do is protect her from any outside threats.

It's not exactly the job I signed up for, but I'm going to be the best damn bodyguard

this girl has ever had.