crooked her knees, folded her hands beneath her cheek, and closed her eyes thinking if she made herself small enough and didn’t look at anything she would not die of fright.
The next morning, Josie got up and her mother was gone. No word. No note. No sign that she had ever been there. At thirteen, Josie Bates was abandoned, alone and afraid in a hot little house in Texas.
The primal survival instinct that woke her that night, the same cloying, smothering heat she had experienced, woke her once more. She was no longer a child and she was not in Texas, yet she was in a place that felt as narrow as her childhood bed. This time she woke not with a start, but with a sudden awareness that her eyes were open and she was conscious. In front of her was a wall constructed of cement bricks. Best guess it was a little over eight feet tall. She was six. There was a brick missing up near the top.
Her chin lowered to her chest. She could see her knees. Her khakis were dirty and torn. She was shoeless. She could move her legs but they were weak. Raising her head as best she could, Josie saw that the wall at the end was about ten inches longer than she was. Okay. The place was almost seven feet long, eight feet high, maybe five feet across. It was hot and airless.
Her neck wobbled, her head crashed down. She saw stars and tasted dirt. She shook it off and looked up at the stake in the ground and the intricate knots that bound her wrists to it. The wall above her head was six inches away.
Suddenly, Josie’s body jackknifed. Her mouth opened wide, her gut twisted as she dry heaved, gagging on nothing. Once, twice, three times her neck extended, her stomach muscles tightened, her head swam, her brain crumbled. The sound she made was revolting. She was nothing but a reactive shell. One more time her intestines grabbed, pushed and threw her back against her restraints. When the spasm was over, she was gasping for breath, exhausted and sweating like a pig. Her eyes closed, but she was determined not to let go of the moment. When she opened them again she saw the water bottle. Before she could maneuver to reach it, the woman behind her moved.
Daniel Young’s Office, Manhattan Beach
Daniel Young’s inner sanctum was a curiosity. At first glance it appeared to be a comfortable place, but Archer wasn’t comfortable. It had nothing to do with his anxiety and everything to do with the furniture.
The couch against one wall was not the regulation six feet nor was it as small as a loveseat. A petite woman could lie on it with ease, but a man Archer’s size could not. But if a small woman sat on the couch, her legs would dangle over the side with her feet unable to touch the floor. It was low enough that if a large man sat on it his knees would be up to his chin.
There were a couple of wingback chairs - nobody was ever comfortable in a wingback chair – and tables that weren’t close enough to the furniture to be of use. Daniel Young’s desk was a table that was positioned kitty-corner, facing neither couch nor chairs. The walls were painted a restful sage color, but the artwork looked like giant Rorschach tests.
Diagnosis: passive aggressive decorating that seemed so out of character for the man himself. He was relaxed and in control and concerned for Archer despite his meltdown. Archer put him in his early fifties, yet he could be ten years younger or ten years older. He had that square-jawed look of an adventurer; still Archer doubted he lifted his own suitcase when he traveled. His skin was tanned but nearly seamless. It was a toss-up whether he had good genes, an excellent plastic surgeon or an amazing dermatologist. Over near the door, which Archer assumed led to a bathroom, was a vanity wall of framed photographs and magazine covers. Young motioned to the chair in front of the desk, but Archer wandered toward the pictures. Daniel Young had made the cover of L.A. Magazine twice but the covers were old. Archer had no
The next morning, Josie got up and her mother was gone. No word. No note. No sign that she had ever been there. At thirteen, Josie Bates was abandoned, alone and afraid in a hot little house in Texas.
The primal survival instinct that woke her that night, the same cloying, smothering heat she had experienced, woke her once more. She was no longer a child and she was not in Texas, yet she was in a place that felt as narrow as her childhood bed. This time she woke not with a start, but with a sudden awareness that her eyes were open and she was conscious. In front of her was a wall constructed of cement bricks. Best guess it was a little over eight feet tall. She was six. There was a brick missing up near the top.
Her chin lowered to her chest. She could see her knees. Her khakis were dirty and torn. She was shoeless. She could move her legs but they were weak. Raising her head as best she could, Josie saw that the wall at the end was about ten inches longer than she was. Okay. The place was almost seven feet long, eight feet high, maybe five feet across. It was hot and airless.
Her neck wobbled, her head crashed down. She saw stars and tasted dirt. She shook it off and looked up at the stake in the ground and the intricate knots that bound her wrists to it. The wall above her head was six inches away.
Suddenly, Josie’s body jackknifed. Her mouth opened wide, her gut twisted as she dry heaved, gagging on nothing. Once, twice, three times her neck extended, her stomach muscles tightened, her head swam, her brain crumbled. The sound she made was revolting. She was nothing but a reactive shell. One more time her intestines grabbed, pushed and threw her back against her restraints. When the spasm was over, she was gasping for breath, exhausted and sweating like a pig. Her eyes closed, but she was determined not to let go of the moment. When she opened them again she saw the water bottle. Before she could maneuver to reach it, the woman behind her moved.
Daniel Young’s Office, Manhattan Beach
Daniel Young’s inner sanctum was a curiosity. At first glance it appeared to be a comfortable place, but Archer wasn’t comfortable. It had nothing to do with his anxiety and everything to do with the furniture.
The couch against one wall was not the regulation six feet nor was it as small as a loveseat. A petite woman could lie on it with ease, but a man Archer’s size could not. But if a small woman sat on the couch, her legs would dangle over the side with her feet unable to touch the floor. It was low enough that if a large man sat on it his knees would be up to his chin.
There were a couple of wingback chairs - nobody was ever comfortable in a wingback chair – and tables that weren’t close enough to the furniture to be of use. Daniel Young’s desk was a table that was positioned kitty-corner, facing neither couch nor chairs. The walls were painted a restful sage color, but the artwork looked like giant Rorschach tests.
Diagnosis: passive aggressive decorating that seemed so out of character for the man himself. He was relaxed and in control and concerned for Archer despite his meltdown. Archer put him in his early fifties, yet he could be ten years younger or ten years older. He had that square-jawed look of an adventurer; still Archer doubted he lifted his own suitcase when he traveled. His skin was tanned but nearly seamless. It was a toss-up whether he had good genes, an excellent plastic surgeon or an amazing dermatologist. Over near the door, which Archer assumed led to a bathroom, was a vanity wall of framed photographs and magazine covers. Young motioned to the chair in front of the desk, but Archer wandered toward the pictures. Daniel Young had made the cover of L.A. Magazine twice but the covers were old. Archer had no
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