Unmissing(7)

Her hands clasp into a prayer position.

“Call me crazy,” she says with a sighing smile. And I imagine people do. “But I have a good feeling about you.”

“Thank you.” I think it’s a compliment?

“I think we can make this work.” Her mouth twists at one side. “I assume you’re available to start immediately?”

I nod. “Ready, willing, and able, ma’am.”

She swats an unmanicured hand, all seven of her bracelets jangling. “Please, call me Delphine.”

Working her way out from behind the counter, she approaches me with nimble steps, her gauzy dress flowing. And without hesitation, she cups my cheeks in her warm hands and locks her attention on me.

I recoil.

The last person to touch my face wasn’t so gentle. In fact, he once squeezed my jaw so hard that a molar came loose. And as my mouth filled with blood, he laughed, but not before forcing me to swallow it all. The metallic taste on my tongue and the gummy hole in my mouth are two sensations I couldn’t forget if I tried.

“Oh, angel.” She exhales. “You’re going to be fine here. Just fine.”

My chest tightens, the sensation foreign and heavy. Something brews behind my eyes, but I force it away. I don’t allow myself to cry. Personal policy. I learned long ago never to show emotion. It’s a sign of weakness. Happy, sad, doesn’t matter. Hold your cards close, and no one can use your hand against you.

“You haven’t had it easy, have you?” She lets her hands fall from my face.

I release a held breath as she continues to search my face, and then her attention moves to the space around me, as if she’s observing something that can’t be seen with the naked eye. A chill runs through me, replacing my numbness with temporary tingles.

“You don’t have to answer that,” she says before I can respond. “There’s a heaviness about you. But also a sweetness. You’re here on a mission. You’re here to do good things. To incite change. I know it. I see it in your eyes.”

She’s giving me a reading . . . I think.

I don’t want to offend her, so I give her my full attention, nodding and confirming because I need this job and that room to rent.

Also, she’s not wrong . . .

“I appreciate you taking a chance on me,” I say, ignoring the fact that this woman is literally hiring me off the street without so much as knowing my last name. To most that would be a red flag, but to someone without options, it’s a winning lottery ticket.

I imagine she’s lonely, having left her life behind in Utah and migrated out here solo. Back in Greenbrook, Washington, shops like these served as nothing more than junky souvenir stops where vacationers could buy a piece of jewelry or small token to commemorate their mountainside vacation.

“I have some paperwork for you to fill out.” She disappears into a back office, emerging a second later with a short stack of forms and a pen with a small geode cluster on the cap.

A cool sweat collects above my brow.

I have my Social Security Number memorized, but I haven’t seen my birth certificate since a lifetime ago. And I don’t have a license because, as it turns out, kidnapped people have no need for a set of wheels.

“What is it?” She must sense my hesitation.

“I’ve been off the grid so long . . . it’s going to take some time before I can request a copy of my birth certificate. And I don’t have a license or a valid ID.”

Her mouth bunches at the side. “For tax purposes—and legal ones, too—I really can’t pay you under the table.”

My stomach drops, heavy and fast, despite being empty.

“But if you can work on getting those things . . .” She speaks slower than before, as if she’s weighing risks and benefits. “I’d be happy to take you in. I mean, you’re going to need an address, right? Maybe we could swap room and board for some light housekeeping? You could tend to the cat, get groceries, that sort of thing? And in the meantime, I can show you the ropes around the shop so you’ll be ready to hit the ground running when you start . . .”

“You’d do that for me?”

“There’s a reason our paths crossed today, Lydia.” Her tone is convincing, so much so that even I believe her sentiment. “You remind me so much of my sweet Amber. I couldn’t help her, but maybe I can help you? All I ask is for your complete honesty at all times.”

She slicks her hands together, stopping them in a prayer position as she examines me.

“You’d be willing to take a drug test every week, yes?” A motherly tone colors her question as she bats her short lashes. “I have a zero-tolerance policy for the hard stuff.”

It makes sense now—my emaciated appearance, my ill-fitting clothes and stringy, unconditioned hair. She must think I’m on the streets because I’m an addict. A lost soul in need of her divine intervention.

I’m a project.

Someone to save.

But I learned long ago that the only person who can save me is . . . me.

I swallow and nod, ignoring the sting of her unintentional insult. “Of course.”

“Wonderful.”

“I won’t let you down,” I promise her.

And I mean it. From what I can gather, Delphine DuBois is a saint of a woman with pure intentions and a heart too big for her willowy figure. I have no intentions of causing her an ounce of trouble or being in her way for much longer.