“I know what happened. Your kid is hurting and that woman pushed all your buttons. Am I right?”

Becca nodded, surprised by Wishard’s understanding. “Ash woke up. She said Mo was the one who hurt her. She said it,” Becca said. It felt so good to say it out loud. She would make sure Ash was heard.

“I know. Christian briefed me earlier. I’ll want to get a full statement from Ash once she’s awake. Right now though, I have an interview to do, and I wanted to loop you in. You’re not here in an official capacity, I want to make that clear. I’m doing this because I believe you might have insight into this kid and what his damage is,” Wishard said.

Becca thought about Wishard reporting her, and she wondered if this was because she felt guilty. She nodded in gratitude, watching as Wishard raised the shades covering the window to reveal Vic, “the tattooed freak” as Raya called him, sitting on the other side of the two-way glass. He was sipping a Dr Pepper and munching on chili cheese Fritos. If his surroundings intimidated him, he didn’t show it.

“I’ll be back,” Wishard said. She slipped out of their room.

“What’s going on?” Becca whispered to Christian, even though it was just the two of them.

Christian was staring at the window, watching as Wishard settled herself across from Vic.

“We got a profile on this kid. Name is Victor Zamora. He’s nineteen. No parents. Spent time in over twenty foster homes. At fifteen, in his last placement, he assaulted his foster father with a hammer and disappeared onto the streets of LA. Social workers said he displayed signs of aggression and self-harm. They also said he had a low IQ, which means he could be easily manipulated. So far he’s the first person in the group that’s willing to talk. He even agreed to waive his rights to counsel. Said he’s ready to confess.”

Becca’s breath caught, thinking of Ash’s broken body lying in the bed, the young woman on the beach. “Confess to what?” she said.

Christian leaned forward, all his attention focused on Wishard and Vic. “That’s what we’re about to find out.”

BECCA

BECCA

The air conditioner was on the fritz, a humid staleness filling the room. Becca wiped away beads of sweat, watching as Wishard sat across from Vic, holding up a piece of paper.

“Just to clarify, for the record you’ve agreed to waive your rights to counsel. Correct?” she said.