Ollie navigated the winding mountain return trip with greater caution. Heavy snowfall had transformed the landscape into a slick and treacherous winter wonderland. The Jeep’s wheels crunched and bumped over frozen terrain, a melancholy soundtrack backing our journey from surrealistic altercation to punishing reality. 

Five frazzled bodies bounced and jostled like empty puppets on the hard seats. 

Renée sat on the passenger side with her thin and fragile arms wrapped around Kayla. Murmurs of comfort blended into the rumble of the Willys and the slap of the wind against its sides. 

Tony and I sandwiched the murderous villain in the backseat. Hands cuffed in her lap, the beautiful criminal’s undernourished bone structure jabbed us with every bounce. Her wiry frame struggled to find a degree of comfort in the handcuffs. 

Creaking and groaning from the Jeep’s suspension added tension to the pilgrimage, punctuated by Vicky’s affected silence. 

I caught Renée stealing glances, her wounded affection apparent in her gaze.

Crisp, cold air seeped through the flimsy jeep top, carrying a holiday scent of pine and snow. Tony’s musky cologne intermingled with Vicky’s day-old patchouli and sweat. 

My nose twitched at the aromatic collision prompting a sneeze.

“Bless you,” Tony said. Vicky closed her eyes like she was praying.

We were halfway back to town before my incessant curiosity breached the boundary of restraint.

I bent close to Vicky’s ear. “Why did you believe your sister would be adopted? There was every chance she would be trafficked like a sex doll.”

Vicky tucked her chin. Her face presented the sharp beauty of a runway model. She’d been chiseled out of the DNA of a voluptuous mother and austere father. I could see why Renée loved her. A wounded soul of stark beauty. The bad attitude of both women kept me from understanding this.

I didn’t expect her to answer. I’d tracked her down, captured her and then prevented her final exit. She owed me no answers.

But I hoped.

“Maybe you trusted the Jenkins. It’s beyond me why that would be true. How could you get your father and Hugh Jenkins confused? One’s blood, the other’s disconnected from the human race.” I shook my head. “You baffle me, Vicky Peale. My sister might have poor judgment, but she knows a good heart. So how did your good heart get so soured?”

With each lurch and sway of the Jeep, unanswered questions rattled against the walls of my mind, persistent as pebbles in a spinning hubcap. Deep furrows on my forehead surely betrayed my internal turmoil over this conundrum. 

Vicky refused to relieve me of distress for the remainder of our icy, jolting ride.

Every passenger crawled out of the cramped vehicle glad to be rid of it. 

Ollie locked the broken beauty queen in a cell. 

News of the arrest had beaten us back.

Lorna reeled at the confounding reunion with one baby girl while her first baby girl was stripped away from her. Renée hovered around reunited mother and daughter sporting the look of a dying game animal. Sheriff de Lude processed paperwork on the prisoner with all the satisfaction of a man who’d just lost his wife. Tony and Ollie exchanged high-fives and traded jokes about each successful dodge of a potential crash that would have left us stranded.

I played along like a poorly trained actor. The scene held enough drama for six seasons of “Big Brother.” My wife would be ecstatic.

The Sheriff stepped away from his paperwork for the twelfth time to check on his prisoners—four in total. A catch for any lawman. De Lude briefed Ollie and allowed Tony and I the privilege of eavesdropping.

They’d caught up with Hugh Jenkins trying to cross the border and serendipitously discovered Derek Cooley hiding in the stolen vehicle. Derek carried a Fabrique Nationale FN Five-seveN. It’s missing serial number spoke volumes more than any confession. Bad. But not as bad as the three additional passports in his go bag. It didn’t take long to ID him as a person of interest in five unsolved homicides on the East Coast. 

One more heart break for Lorna.

The Sheriff ambled back and plunked down in his wooden desk chair before speaking directly to me. “Vicky wants a word, Pierce.”

Renée perked her ears.

“The elder.” De Lude clarified with a finger stab in my direction.

I headed for the cellblock. Renée’s initial expectation melted to relief as I passed. An unknown Sheriff’s Deputy manned the door, but I barely notice him as he let me in. 

“She’s in the back,” he mumbled.

The first cell was now empty. I avoided looking at it, my heart still heavy with guilt. Three other cells contained an individual each. I didn’t give them more than a glance. Derek and Faye kept their mouths shut for the first time since I’d met them. Hugh snored. The place probably felt like a survival bunker to him.

The further I went the darker it got. A bitter chill as hard as a concrete box. That hidden place where we keep our skeletons, repugnant acts, and dejection.

I heel and toed it, easy like, to prevent the hollow echo of footfalls. Putrid yellow splashes of light mocked my effort. Vicky crouched in the deepest corner of the last cell. She made no sound,  hunched on the inadequate bunk. Her squint traced every crack on the stone-cold concrete floor.

“You wanted to see me,” I said in a tone flatter than a sourdough pancake.

“Not really,” she replied before lifting her head. Her eyes were red and dull, reflecting the weight of a troubled conscience. The vibrant blue irises that penetrated souls had gone dull. “How’s Renée?”

“Not a question for me to answer.”

She nodded. Her gaze dropped back to the floor. “You asked a question earlier. About risking Kayla. It’s been haunting me since. I might convince myself that I put my father out of his misery. But Kayla—” Vicky’s breath was shallow and quick as she tried to compose herself. 

I stood in silence, watching as she wrestled with the grip of her conscience, hoping that eventually she would find the strength to break free from its suffocating hold. The air was stale and musty, the smell of decay and despair hanging over the concrete box. An occasional drip of water from a leaky faucet in the corner intensified the anticipation. 

Her body grew tense and rigid, as if she were physically grappling with the truth. “I’d visit Dad occasionally, to see if maybe he was stabilizing. Mom would send Kayla up there just for her own relief. I told her that was stupid. He’s unpredictable, you know. She didn’t seem to care if Kayla was safe with a psychotic. Always acted like it was her obligation, to make sure the girl had a relationship with her father. Didn’t matter if how crazy he got.” She took a breath, a tremor of disgust rolling over her shoulders. 

“So I checked in, hoping maybe he would have restarted his medication. Kayla protected her time with him so there was no getting a fair assessment out of her.” Vicky searched the cell floor, as if seeking an answer to the mystical nature of a paternal bond. 

“Dad was in a special mood this one time. A different kind of crazy than usual. He was in a froth over the Glass Castle, his eyes on fire with determination. And then he was close, breathing in my face, his voice thick with the stink of insanity. ‘Come on, baby,’ he said to me. ‘We can finish this dream together. Escape the madness of the world with me.’ His grip on my arms tightened until it hurt. He tried to kiss my neck.” Vicky’s body shuddered. “I shoved off. Had to kick his legs to get away. He acted shocked. Rejected, like a teenage boy.” Vicky’s furrowed eyebrows and tightly drawn lips revealed the inner turmoil.

I thought the story was over. My mind tripped over appropriate responses. Before I came up with something, she began speaking again.

“And then it hit me, once I got away, as the door to my childhood home closed behind me. He’d mistaken me for Momma.” She inhaled sharply, reliving the moment. With a quick shake of her head, she plowed on. “That’s when the dreams started, of being touched by filthy hands, images of my father’s face with that crazed look of lust in his eyes, haunting me. Even when I was awake.” She looked directly at me, a moment of clarity revealed in her intense blue irises. “That’s when I decided I had to get Kayla out. I just knew….” Her voice trailed off. Tears spilled from her eyes, streaking down her cheeks. Her shoulders shook and the room filled with the sound of her anguish. Sobs escaped her like the flutter of tiny, fragile bird wings beating her chest in a frantic attempt to escape the prison of pain. 

I stood for some long minutes. The sounds of her despair eventually resolved into quivering breaths. 

“I’m sorry this happened to you, Vicky.” The words left my mouth softly, weighted with a sincere plea for her to believe them. If she could, that sentiment could save her life.