I was guessing. But their faces told me I was right.
“Where you taking her?”
“Fine. I’m heading to Reno. She works for me now. We done?”
They hesitated. Ten thousand cash right now versus the risk of driving to Denver with a girl who’d already tried to escape at least once based on the bruises.
“Let’s see the cash.”
I counted it out. Slowly. Making sure the girl saw. Making sure she understood I was buying time, not buying her. But she didn’t know that. She just stared at the money with dead eyes.
“Deal,” the leader said. He grabbed the cash. “She’s yours. But word of advice—keep her drugged. She’s a runner.”
They walked away. Got in the van. Drove off. I memorized what I could. White Ford Transit. 2018 or 2019. Dent on the left side. Broken taillight.
Then I turned to the girl.
She backed away. “Don’t touch me.”
“You just bought me.”
“No. I just got you away from them.” I pulled out my phone. “I’m calling 911.”
“No!” She lunged forward. Tried to grab my phone. “No police!”
“Why not?”
“Because they’ll send me back! To the group home! That’s where they took me from! That’s where this started!”
I lowered the phone. “Tell me what happened.”
Her name was Macy. Sixteen years old. Been in foster care since she was eight. Bounced between homes. Last one was a group home in Kansas City. Seventeen girls. Two adults supervising. One of those adults was selling the girls.Continue reading…
