Girl, Forgotten (Andrea Oliver 2)

“If you’re wondering why I’m doing this, the answer is that I don’t know.” Andrea felt unburdened by the admission. She had never let herself say the words out loud before. Maybe Laura’s unsolicited advice had pried loose her tongue. “Mentally, in my head, I keep grabbing onto explanations like, being a Marshal gives me a sense of purpose or I should try to make up for the destruction my biological parents tried to cause, but the honest truth is that all I’m doing is putting one foot in front of the other and telling myself that running forward is better than falling backward.”

As usual, Gordon contemplated his words before speaking. “Initially, I assumed that you were trying to piss off your mother, and well done because you certainly have, but over four months of physical discipline and intensive study aren’t generally hallmarks of rebellion.”

He had a point. “Snorting fentanyl and getting knocked up by a biker gang didn’t really appeal to me.”

Gordon’s expression said he didn’t appreciate the joke. “It makes sense that you would want answers about your early life.”

“I guess,” Andrea said, though the possible explanation was only one of many.

The United States Marshal Service, which Andrea was now a part of, controlled the Witness Security program, or what was colloquially called witness protection. Laura’s deal to testify against Andrea’s father had landed them both in the program, though Andrea was not yet born when her mother had signed on the dotted line. In return for testifying against Andrea’s father, Laura had been able to create the story of her tragic widowhood in a coastal Georgia town. Instead of being labeled a stone-cold criminal, she had created the legend of herself as a small-town speech therapist whose anti-government sentiments made her a perfect fit for the disillusioned veterans she worked with at the VA hospital.

Unfortunately, Andrea had learned during her second week of Marshal school that all the USMS Witness Security records were tightly sealed. Absolutely no one could gain access to them without a solid, legally defensible explanation. This wasn’t the Illuminati. You didn’t gain all the secrets of the world by joining the club.

“Anyway.” Gordon knew when to change the subject. “The Marshal badges are impressive. Very Wyatt Earp.”

“It’s called a Silver Star. And Wyatt Earp didn’t become a US Marshal until someone tried to assassinate his brother.” Andrea couldn’t stop herself. The instructors had drilled the USMS history into every corner of their brains. “Virgil Earp was the deputy in charge during the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral.”

“My compliments to your teachers for getting you to crack open a textbook.” Gordon’s smile still looked strained, but he said, “The starting salary provides a living wage. A step-raise is guaranteed after the first year. Subsequent raises will come after that. Paid time off. Sick days. Healthcare. Mandatory retirement at fifty-seven. You could roll your experience into a consultancy until you’re ready to put yourself out to pasture.”

He was trying, so she tried, too. “We only go after the really bad guys.”

His eyebrows rose.

“We know who we’re dealing with,” she explained. “It’s not like the local police where they pull up on a speeding driver and don’t know if they’re stopping a cartel member or a guy who’s late to softball practice.”

Gordon waited.

“We’ve got their names, their criminal histories. A judge gives us a warrant and sends us out to find them.” She shrugged. “Or we’re transporting prisoners to the courthouse. Or we’re doing civil forfeiture on white-collar criminals. Or making sure pedophiles are doing what they’re supposed to be doing. We don’t really investigate. Not unless we’re assigned to very specific details. Mostly, we deal with people who have already been convicted. We know who they are.”

Gordon nodded again, but more like he was acknowledging that she had spoken than agreeing with what she was saying.

She asked, “You know that painting, The Problem We All Live With?”

“Norman Rockwell. 1964. Oil on canvas.” Gordon knew his art. “The piece was inspired by a six-year-old named Ruby Bridges who integrated an all-white elementary school in New Orleans.”

“Did you know that the men who escorted her were US Marshals?”

Gordon asked, “Is that so?”

Andrea gave him all the facts she’d learned for this exact moment. “Marshals provide security for supreme court justices and foreign delegations. And they’re tasked with protecting Olympic athletes. And scientists in Antarctica. They’re the oldest federal law enforcement agency in the country. George Washington appointed the first thirteen Marshals himself.”

Laura chose this moment to join the family. “They also hunted down fugitive slaves and returned them to their owners. And they ran the internment camps that imprisoned Japanese Americans during World War Two. And—”

“Laura,” Gordon warned.

Andrea looked down at the ground. She could hear other parents having conversations with their children, and none of them felt as uncomfortable as this.

“Honey?” Gordon waited for Andrea to look up. “You have my support. You’ve always had my support. You don’t have to convince me.”

“For fucksakes,” Laura mumbled.

Gordon put his hand on Andrea’s shoulder. “Just promise me that you will always remember who you are.”

“Yes,” Laura said. “Don’t forget exactly who you are.”

They were clearly talking about two different things, but Andrea wasn’t going to open that up for debate.

“Mr. Mitchell. Ms. Oliver.” Another Marshal appeared out of nowhere. He was wearing a sharp suit with his gun concealed under his jacket. Mike winked at Andrea as if two seconds had passed rather than the one year and eight months since she’d last seen him. “I’m Inspector Michael Vargas with the USMS. You must be so proud of your daughter.”