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.”
Then I turned to the girl.
She backed away. “Don’t touch me.”
“I’m not going to.”
“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!”
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.
“Mrs. Patterson,” Macy said. Her voice was flat. Dead. “She’s been doing it for years. Takes the troublemakers. The ones nobody cares about. The runaways. Sells us to truckers. To men with vans. To whoever has cash.”
“The police—”
“Won’t believe me. I’m a foster kid with a drug problem. She’s a respected child care professional. Who do you think they’ll believe?”
She had a point. I’d seen it before. System protecting its own.
“The tracks on your arms,” I said. “They mentioned that.”Continue reading…
