Truth or Death?

21. One Step Closer

"You heard?" I ask, dropping my bag on the floor.

It's contents spill out; pens, papers, sanitary pads.

"Yeah. Your twitter famous. You have your own hashtags," she states, helping me gather my belongings. "I figured it's why you're really here."

I offer her a coy smile. "It is. But I will tutor you. Your mom's right. Your education shouldn't suffer simply because you're stuck in the middle of a murder investigation."

A nervous laugh leaves her lips, no doubt at my absurdity. "It's not every day you get to say that."

I gesture towards her bedroom desk. "Shall we?"

She nods as I perch myself on the end of her stool. It's not the only small piece of furniture. In fact, her entire bedroom is built with what looks to be a seven-year-old in mind. Her bed is lined with stuffed bears and porcelain dolls, their beady eyes following my every move.

"What would you like to know?" she asks, breaking my focus.

"Did anyone know about your secret?" I question. "Anyone who would want to expose you? Punish you?"

"Punish me?"

I nod. "We think that's the killer's objective here. To punish its victims."

She says nothing for a moment, seemingly processing this.

"Only my clients knew," she informs. "I didn't tell anyone else."

I falter, not knowing what to say next. What to do. How do I even begin talking to someone who turned to prostitution in their darkest hour?

"Can I ask you something?"

She nods.

"Why do it? Why sleep with people for money?"

She picks up a stuffed bear and stares at it for a moment. "I needed cash."

I look to her open closet, specifically at the designer handbags and expensive shoes.

"My own cash."

"Why?"

She disregards the bear by flinging it across the room. "I owed a debt."

Oh?

"Couldn't you get a job waitressing or something?"

"Not for thirty grand," she replies.

Thirty fucking grand?

I almost fall from my chair.

"Who did you owe that amount of cash to?"

"I was being blackmailed," she admits, shoulders slumped.

My stomach drops in an instant, a feeling I'm becoming far too familiar with. "Let me guess. You got messaged by an account on Instagram called S_D_S."

"How'd you know?" she asks.

"You're not the only one being blackmailed."

I pull out my notebook and pen, scribbling down a few notes. Things of relevance.

"What leverage do they have on you?"

She looks towards her floor, suddenly incapable of eye contact. "I did something a few years ago. Something bad. And they threatened to expose that unless I paid up."

I encourage her to continue with a small smile. "You can tell me."

"Do you remember Lucas Wallace?" she questions. "He was in the grade above us."