12 Chapter 12

After I'd finished telling Noah about my plan, the initial enthusiasm faded from his face and was replaced with an edgy expression. I don't know why Noah is so pessimistic. He never sees the good in people, or plans that he doesn't orchestrate. I'm awed he still finds Patricia tolerable as she does him. He's an irritant.

You needed to see the way he looked at me as I copied Amanda's address. If looks could kill, I'd have convulsed right there on the spot. It took confidence to maintain my submissive stare, even when he was sending a death threatening one to me.

I'm glad I'm far away from the Capitol. Far away from the city. Being anywhere near that place makes me cringe, because I remember Noah, and he's pain in my ass.

Now I'm more concerned about where Google Maps is taking me. I double check to know that I'm still in the United States, because it sure doesn't look like it. Civilization lost its grip on this area.

I'm driving so slowly through the muds and heaped refuse. I'd either spray mud on passersby or get myself stuck in the mud, which I silently pray against so my car doesn't develop any kind of fault. Not in a place like this that looks so outdated. I doubt there are any mechanics here, I do not see signs of a workshop. The last time I saw a gas station was half an hour ago.

I begin to worry. If it wasn't showing '10 more minutes to destination', I'd have lost any kind of composure, worrying I've driven myself into danger.

I wind down my window and take out my sunglasses as I see a few passersby. I want to ask them if they know any Amanda Roscoe, and if they do, where exactly I can find her in this dungeon. Google maps seems to know nothing about this place.

After asking a few people a couple of questions, I arrive in front of a dilapidated house in the inner slums of the city where it seems everyone knows everyone.

I kill my engine and stare at the building for a whole minute, pondering on the look of the neighborhood.

Frankly, I've not lived the most lavish life, but this is beyond comprehension. I don't want to believe Amanda lives here after having worked for a millionaire.

I step out of my car and head to the door, ignoring the people that are staring at me. I knock, even though the door has no locks, neither is it closed.

An older woman greets me with a not-so-welcoming look. "Who are you?" She ask as I step into the house.

Dismayed, I look back to the door. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I must have the wrong address." But I don't turn back to live, I'm hoping she'd have answers for who I'm looking for as no one clearly does.

"Who do you seek?" She picks up a purse from her chair and culls a pair of glasses out of it. When she wears it, she's somewhat relieved by who's in front of her. Perhaps it's because I look harmless.

I sigh, seeing she's not hostile after all. She just couldn't see properly. "I don't know if you know any Amanda Roscoe?"

"And who are you?" She interrogates me, reading my body language and then she scoffs.

"A journalist who's interested in her story."

Her face immediately changes from a smile to a straight face and finally an angered expression. "She's dead!" She stones at me coldly. She looks away and picks up a newspaper from this same chair. You know the one it is? The one of Patricia's confession, the same article I saw this morning. News really spreads like wildfire.

"I bring no trouble," I say, taking a seat but not comfortably. "It's just that, Amanda could get justice."

She sends me a cold stare again. "Did you not hear when I said she died?" Her eyes return to the book she's reading.

That's obviously a lie. "She was just on the news a couple hours ago," I mention. Or did I not wait till it was finished to learn if she died after. I immediately regret coming here as I bring out my phone to read the article. I scroll all the way, hoping not to find a line that states she's now dead. Noah would have mentioned it to me. The interview looked very recent—I'm guessing last week or even the start of this one. So how can this woman lie to me?

Just when I get to the bottom of the article and I'm reading the last paragraph of her story, I hear a voice inside the house. "Mama, do you want your water warm?"

I throw my phone into my jacket pocket, staring at mama. I look at her so intensely until she opens her mouth to reply. "I don't want water anymore." She now seems upset, as she smacks the newspaper back on the chair and turns to me like I'm the devil. "Amanda, someone wants to meet you."

I exhale with great joy and relief. I almost smile as I hear Amanda's feet collide with the wooden floor as she marches to the sitting room.

"Who, mama?" Her voice. It's very familiar. It takes me back to her interview that I watched. "I didn't know I was having guest-"

I hear her voice now behind me so I turn and immediately blurt out. "Me. I'm Grace Anderson." I stand up and face her. "A journalist that would be of help to you."

There's a pause. A brief moment of silence and hesitation from Amanda, her solemn gaze roving over my face. She swallows hard, still looking me dead in the eye, then she tells mama to excuse us.

Mama doesn't protest. I hear her sigh, pick her things and her feet fade away into the house.

Amanda lowers her voice to a whisper. "How can I be of service?"

"No," I interject, shaking my head. "I'm here to help you. I know what you may have heard about journalists. I want you to know I'm not one of those people. I don't want your story to go higher in my job," I say, not sure if I'm lying or not. "I want to help you. Help you get closure." I strongly suggest.

She's back to staring at me again with a deciphering gaze. "Okay," she finally speaks while she walks to the chair mama just got off. They are the only two chairs in the house. The one I'm sitting on now and Amanda's.

She seems like a strong woman to me. Her nappy curls are beautiful. Her brown eyes tell a lot of things that her upright, stern face tries to concede. She purses her lips thoughtfully, like she wants to speak then she gives up and rests on the chair, giving me a batter view of her exact skin tone now under the light. It's like caramel with a few freckles around her chest.

"Amanda...I want you to trust me," I begin. "Tell me everything that happened, please." My tone is very cajoling. For a teenager, yes. But I doubt an adult who's not willing to discuss her rough life experiences will fall for it. So, I patiently wait, with comforting eyes that suggest she can trust me.

I turn on the recorder and bring out my pen and paper from my bag and I place the recorder on the center table.

"Grace." She surprisingly remembers my name. "I'll rather you turn off the recorder," she says, pushing it back to me.

Groaning inwardly, I agree to her terms because I do not have a choice. I switch it if and throw it back in my bag, a little disappointed.

"Thank you," she mutters. Then Amanda, with a hint of sadness in her voice, begins to talk, "It all began the day he..."

• • •

My eyes are heavy as I blink back my tears. I'm exhausted. Not from writing, no, I've been writing interviews all my career life; this one is no different. I'm exhausted from holding back my tears. I'm exhausted from listening to Amanda go on and on about what Philip did to her.

At some point, I stopped writing just so I can dry my eyes and stop myself from crying. By the time I finished with that, I didn't bother going back to the notepad, I just let her talk to me, not as a journalist but as a friend.

I still sit here in disbelief as I watch her cut another tissue off the roll to pass it down to me again. There are balls of used ones beside me. And a few near Amanda. She's no longer crying, she's just staring at me, probably wondering why I look like the victim.

"I'm so sorry for all you had to go through," I manage to speak through my sobs. "I promise to do my best with this." I gesture at the notepad on my lap. "I'll investigate him, if I need more information I'll get to you." This is when the selfish side of me comes out. I go from caring for a broken girl to finding a headway with a different abuser. "Do you know anyone else that may have suffered the same thing?"

Her eyes leave the room like she's recollecting her memory. Then when her face lightens up like she's going to say a name, mama comes back out to the living room and Amanda shakes her head. "None that I know of." She sounds very unconvincing.

I breathe out, disappointed.

What I have here is just a story. It's no different from what's in the news. It proves nothing, because it's her words against Philip's. She doesn't have any proof whatsoever that would back up her story. This doesn't help me help her. It doesn't help me know more about the pattern of wealthy abusers, except that Philip raped her on multiple occasions. We're talking about Philip. Not Lance, whom by now I should have major stories about, and not digging so deep into Amanda or Philip's story.

I bid mama goodbye and walk to the door. Before Amanda closes its, I hold her hand, calling her attention. "Please, if you ever know or meet anyone who has as much as been mistreated by anyone that is more influential than them, call me." I roll a paper into her palm. A paper I wrote my number on a minute ago.

She nods, but it's not a nod that comes from a place of understanding. It's a dismissive nod, and I don't bother wasting any more of her time.

I feel the sudden urge to drink. I'm so broken by Amanda's story that I want to drink till the memory is washed out of me. So I find my way back to the city and the closest Saint Haven's bar.

By the time I get there, it's way past ten o'clock, but I don't mind the late night traffic I'll face on my way back home. Neither do I care about being hungover by morning nor the fact that this is Lance's bar and a few workers will be familiar with his secretary by now. I go on to order a bottle of whiskey and begin to gulp it like water, ready to quench the burning feeling in my soul.