Divided - By Jennifer Sights Page 0,1
the college?”
“I have. Thankfully, I made her sign a waiver to let them release her information to me since she’s over eighteen. They said she hasn’t shown up to any classes in several weeks. I’m worried she’s getting into drugs or something worse.”
“Something worse?”
“Yes, I overheard her mention something about a coven while she was on the phone with one of her new friends. I’m afraid she’s getting into some kind of Satanic cult or something. I don’t understand what she meant by that.” She gripped the mug so tightly I feared she would break it.
“Did you hear her mention anything else that might help? Do you know any of her friends’ names, where they live, or where she hung out?”
“She was very secretive once we began fighting. I know one girl was named Miriam. Courtney’s car had broken down - I made her work to pay for her own car and insurance - so this Miriam picked her up every day. I have no idea where they went, though.”
“Can you describe Miriam?”
“I only saw her from a distance in the car, so, other than Goth, not really. I’m sorry, I realize that’s no help. She drove a Chevy Malibu that looked several years old. Black, of course.” Ms. Carmen paused, eyes closed.
“What else?”
“I heard her talk about someone named Elizabeth. She seemed to idolize her.”
I paused while writing this down. “Is there anything else?”
“I can’t think of anything. As much as we’ve fought recently, I love my daughter. I want her back.” Her face brightened just a tiny bit with hope. “I’ve heard that you’ve never given up or failed on a case. Can you find her?”
" 'Never’ is a bit of an exaggeration, but I’m sure I can find your daughter, Ms. Carmen. Try to relax.” I stood, walked around the desk, then handed Ms. Carmen a business card. “If you think of anything else that might help, please call me, anytime. I’ll call you as soon as I find anything out.”
“I’ll warn you, the picture might not be much help. She looks completely different now, especially with all the makeup she wears.”
I nodded. “I can’t guarantee she’ll come back home. As you discovered from the police, she is legally able to do what she wants, but I’ll at least be able to tell you where she is so you’ll know she’s safe.”
She nodded, grasped my hand tightly, then left.
Ms. Carmen’s comment about “freaks” almost made me refuse the case, but it was an easy one, and she had already written me a check twice the size a case like this usually cost. However, something nagged at my gut. Something told me this wouldn’t be as easy as it sounded.
CHAPTER TWO
Pounding music vibrated through the bar stool on which I sat at The Chapel - an old church converted into an eighteen-an-up Goth club. The bar was separated from the dance floor by a wrought iron fence that could have belonged in a millionaire’s yard rather than a club. Two distinct groups of people filled the club.
The first was obviously out to live life to the fullest; some dancing alone, sweating, moving in their own world, others dancing with a member of the opposite - or same - sex, groping and grinding. How many had come with their dance partner, and how many were just there for the thrill of the night?
The other group lounged on red velvet chairs and couches, drinking from goblets, perfectly posed, determined to give off just the exact vibe and image of beauty and aloof dignity.
I was a loner and didn’t go out much, so doubted anyone there would know me.
The bartender handed me another cranberry juice with a splash of tonic. I didn’t drink. For one thing, alcohol and Zoloft don’t mix. My past was less than enviable, and weekly therapy sessions hadn’t done much good yet. Secondly, I’d done enough drinking and drugs in my teenage years - and enough stupid things because of that drinking - to make Satan weep. That is, if I believed in Satan. Which I didn’t.
“I didn’t order this,” I said, still sipping my first drink.
“Compliments of Vittorio. He said to get you another of whatever you were already drinking,” she said, looking toward the balcony which had acted as the choir loft in its previous life of - you guessed it - a church.
“Vittorio? Is that his real name?” I shouted to be heard over the music.
“Believe it or not, it is. Full blooded Italian.