He couldn’t claim to understand her the way he did Walker and Brendan, which made him nervous. She was different than girls he’d known—mostly in a Biblical sense—when he was a teenager. Sometimes she acted no older than the boys, then a minute later would eye him in a way that suggested she was on the cusp of being a woman. The girl part he could handle; the woman, not so much.
“Hey,” he said. He sat on the top porch step, his plate of potato salad balanced on his knee, a sandwich in his hand, a can of soda next to him.
Sorrel settled carefully a few feet away. That was something he’d noticed about her; she held herself in tight. None of a teenager’s usual expansive, dramatic body language.
“What’s up?”
“My caseworker called.” Her voice was tight, too. “She says I have to go to counseling with my parents.”
He’d heard the phone ring a few minutes ago and could tell somebody had grabbed it. Sorrel didn’t seem to get many calls, he’d noticed, unlike the typical teenager. Partly, he supposed, because she’d gone to school here for only a couple of months.
Conall knew little about her background except that she’d been sexually molested and had run away from home repeatedly. He’d as soon not learn the details. “You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”
She hunched over, her arms held to her body. “They just want me to say I was lying.”
Oh, man. Already they were out of his depth. But he didn’t feel like he could blow her off, either. “Lying about what?” he asked cautiously, although he knew.
“Everything. They don’t want to know the truth.”
They. That surprised him. “You kept running away. That’s what Lia said.”
She nodded.
He cleared his throat. “Was it your dad…?”
Sorrel’s eyes widened. “You think my dad would…?” Shock sounded in every word.
“It happens.”
She closed right up. Body, expression, everything. Curled in on herself. Then she mumbled something he couldn’t hear.
“What?”
She mumbled it again.
“Tell me, Sorrel.”
She lifted her head and yelled, “It wasn’t him! Okay? It wasn’t him!”
Slowly Conall moved his plate to the porch behind him and swiveled to face her. It was all he could do to keep his voice calm. “Who was it?”
Her hair swung as she shook her head.
“I’ll believe you,” he told her, voice hard.
They stared at each other. Tears flooded her eyes. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Not even if Mom and Dad decide to believe me. I did stuff—” She shuddered.
Conall wished like hell he was somewhere else. Why had she cast him in the role of confidant? He couldn’t think of anyone more ill-qualified. The boys were one thing, she was another.
But he couldn’t bring himself to hurt her. She’d chosen to talk to him, for whatever reason.
After a moment, he said, “You mean when you were on the run.”
She nodded.
He was afraid he knew what she meant. “Did you turn tricks, Sorrel?”
She was back to staring at him. “How did you know?” she whispered.
“There aren’t too many ways to get enough to eat when you’re twelve or thirteen and living on the street,” he said, wearily. “You steal, or you sell yourself.”
“Did you ever…?”
There but for the grace of God, he thought. Or Duncan.
“No, but I know people. I see kids all the time in Miami, where I live now.”
“Oh.” She began to rock herself. “I can’t tell my parents. I can’t!”
“Who was it?” Conall asked. He knew how to interrogate, when to let his voice harden. When to make it plain the game playing was done.
“My uncle.” She rocked a little faster. “I tried to tell them, but they wouldn’t listen. Mom slapped me!”
What in God’s name should he say? Pick something. Don’t let this silence deepen her wounds. No, it had to be right.
“It could be they’re ready to listen now. Does your caseworker know what happened to you?”
She bobbed her head.
“Does she believe you?”
She shrugged.