November 21st

Ben

I roll my head around my shoulders, several hours of hunching over case files taking its toll on my neck. I hear a satisfying pop as my vertebrae realign.

Jones's eyes flick up to me. Her annoyance isn't visibly present on her face, but I know it's simmering under the surface. I crack my knuckles and her eyes narrow. She glares at me for a few seconds before bringing her expression back to neutral as her attention returns to the report in her hands.

I've never been out on duty with Jones before - hardly knew her, really - but by now, we've become acquainted with each other's quirks and pet peeves. Jones and I have been pouring over the case files for the Clarence family murders since the night we brought Anastasia here. Or Tayja, as it seems she was called. I don't understand the need for an exotically spelled nickname.

The more I read, the more I realize how short-sighted I've been. I assumed that once we'd recovered this Tayja girl, she'd give us everything we needed to get a warrant to search the residences of these thugs and then everything would fall nicely into place. This previously inadmissible case would finally have the evidence necessary to make convictions. If we're lucky, hundreds of thousands of dollars of taxpayer money could be recovered. As a key contributor to this case, I'd finally have the clout I needed to get Isabela's case reopened.

So much for that dream. My original plan had been to work my way up to a position of respect within the force the hard way - by taking the jobs no one else wanted, doing better than anyone else could, and proving my dedication by sacrificing my personal life and giving everything to the job. It had been working too. That undercover assignment had the potential to make me a shoo-in for the next promotion. Now that's gone too.

Frustrated with the sudden derailment of my plans and career, I stand up from the table so quickly that the chair topples over. Jones slowly flicks her eyes up to me again, this time with an eyebrow raised in an expression that asks was that really necessary?

"This is hopeless. Unless she starts talking, we're never going to be able to get these guys."

"You'd better not be thinking about charging in there again and making an ass of yourself."

Jones is still mad about what I said to Tajya yesterday.

"I may have been a little harsh, but she needed to hear it."

"No," she says, folding her arms across her chest. "You don't get to treat her like one of those gangsters you've been cozying up with. She's not a criminal; she's the victim. She's only-" Jones shuffles some papers around for a moment. "Twenty-one." She looks back up at me and holds my gaze with her steely one. "She's twenty-one years old and she saw her parents and little sister gunned down, right in front of her. You don't get to treat her like the bad guy. We do our jobs to protect people like her."

"And what about the next family who gets killed by these guys? What about them? What about their twenty-one-year-old daughters, or their sixteen-year-old daughters who get raped and murdered by people we could have put away if only she'd talk?" I point at the door to the bedroom.

"This isn't about Anastasia for you anymore, is it? Is this about your sister?"

She's read up on me. She knows about Isabela. This only heightens the mounting frustration inside me.

"Don't make this about something it isn't," I say.

"I should say the same to you."

I feel like that angry teenager again, full of rage and not being able to do anything about it. I need to go for a walk.

"I'm going to Subway. Want your usual?"

"You've memorized my sandwich order already?"

"You've only ordered the same exact thing every day we've been here. Except yesterday you wanted sun chips instead of Doritos. And the day before that you had Gatorade instead of lemonade."

She looks back down at the case files in front of her. "Guess that's why you're the undercover guy. Thanks."

~~~

Half an hour later, Jones has already finished her sandwich and I still haven't touched mine, too busy examining the photos from the crime scene. With the apparent clumsiness of these murders, I'm shocked that the CSIs couldn't find any fingerprints or DNA evidence. The perpetrators left nothing behind to identify them, save the girl who witnessed the whole thing but won't speak a word.

My back is to the bedroom door when it opens none too quietly. I see Jones look up from her study and jump forward, trying to gather the wide array of crime scene photos spread across the dining table. I turn and feel my jaw go slack when I see Anastasia - Tayja, I remind myself - walking into the room. She's still bruised and has a vaguely wraith-like appearance, but for the first time, I see life behind her eyes. She's clean, dressed in fresh clothes, and her hair is dripping wet. And most of it's been cut off haphazardly.

She stands before the table, staring at me, making intentional eye contact with me for the first time since I rescued her. She looks over to Jones, who is trying to tear the last photo from my hands. It's a picture of the cabinet where they found Tayja. She looks over at the picture before I release my grip and Jones stuffs it into the manila folder where she's hidden the rest of the photos. Tayja's eyes narrow. Based on her previous behavior, I expect her to retreat into herself again and stop making eye contact with people. Instead, she turns to me with fire in her eyes.

"I want a gun," she says.

This time when my jaw drops, my mouth opens too. That wasn't worded or spoken like a question. That was a demand. I think I was about to flat out deny the request, but the look in her eyes stops me. Instead, I fumble for words. I look over at Jones, who is looking as surprised as I think she gets, which on anyone else would be an expression of vague interest. She looks at me and when I still don't say anything, she takes over.

"That's not an option right now, but I'd be glad to tell you about the current security detail the state is providing. If you aren't satisfied with the current arrangement, we are open to discussing additional options.

Her ability to switch back and forth between speaking with the eloquence of a perturbed teenager and a textbook on diplomacy never fails to impress me.

Tayja is unfazed by Jones's stonewall. "I'll do whatever psychological counseling is required for you two to feel certain I'm not going to freak out and shoot somebody in a blind panic. I know how to use a handgun, I've become used to carrying one with me, and I know how to do all that safely. I don't have any grand delusions about finding my kidnappers and blowing their heads off. I just want to be sure that something like that," she points at the manila envelope on the table, "never happens to me again. Next time someone threatens a person I care about, I'm not going to be crying in a cabinet."

She has turned back to me now and is staring me down. The intensity of the force behind that stare is shocking, coming from a girl who yesterday was a shell-shocked mute. She's never even come out of that room before under her own power. Not once in the four days since I carried her in there.

"It's something we can discuss," I say, trying to channel Jones's diplomatic alter-ego.

"Good," she says, sitting down at the table. Her gazes moves to my untouched sub still wrapped up in the paper. She picks it up, tears the paper open, and begins to eat ravenously.

Still flustered by her complete reversal of character, I latch on to the first talking point that comes to mind. "You said you used to carry a gun. You've never had a gun registered to you and neither did your parents."

She makes no attempt to reply. She's too busy eating my sandwich.

"Was that during the time between March and November of this year? Between the day you went missing in Alaska and when you suddenly showed up in Phoenix last week?"

She sets down the sandwich and her gaze becomes vacant. I feel frustration rising in me. Is she about to go catatonic again on me?

Then she turns on me with narrowed eyes. "When I finish eating this sandwich, we can go down to the station and I will tell anyone who wants to know everything that I saw that night. I'll tell you anything you want to know about the attempts on my life after that, but I don't remember what happened with the helicopter. I'll even tell you everything about what happened to me in that dungeon you dragged me out of. But I won't be speaking about the time in between the helicopter crash and returning to Phoenix."

"Why not?"

"It's irrelevant to this case."

"How can it be irrelevant? You were missing and presumed dead for nine months until you mysteriously surfaced back in Phoenix sometime in the last month. How is that not relevant to this case?"

Her anger is back, but she keeps it restrained well. "All you need to know is that I was safe. I was safe and I was protected until suddenly I wasn't. You and the state of Arizona don't need to know anything beyond that."

"But-"

"Do you want me to talk?" she asks. "Then stop asking questions I'm not going to answer."

She takes another bite of my sandwich. Her abrupt character change is unsettling. She's incredibly unpredictable. As much as I've been wanting her to speak these last few days, now that she's willing I'm apprehensive. If she's going to be a loose cannon, she could present additional risk and put both herself and us in more danger.

"Ramirez, why don't you go outside and inform the security detail of our plans for the afternoon," Jones says.

When I finally tear my incredulous gaze from Tayja, I see that Jones is giving me a significant look. I acquiesce.

Douglas doesn't believe me when I tell him that Tayja is going to give her statement. Warren smiles slyly and slaps Douglas's arm.

"Pay up," he says.

Douglas shakes his head. "I won't believe it until I see it. She wouldn't give her statement for four months last time, and she wasn't refusing to talk back then. After what happened to her this time, I didn't think she'd even speak again. She was messed up before, but now..." he trails off.

"I hope you two aren't planning to be this callous when she comes down here," I say, eyeing the two officers in disgust.

Warren raises his hands in innocence. "He made the bet. I just accepted."

"I was joking!"

"Then stop," I say. "Like you pointed out, she's been through a lot in the past year. She doesn't need you two idiots making her feel worse."

This seems to chastise them.

When Jones ushers Tayja into the car a few minutes later, Tayja's hair looks less like a preschooler got ahold of some scissors and decided to play barber. As we ride to the station, the three of us crammed into the backseat with Tayja in the middle, I try to take some of my own advice. I've been harsh to her and as Jones pointed out, I may have let external circumstances influence my conduct towards her. It's not her fault that her grief and fear are so overwhelming. Just because I'd react to the same situations differently doesn't make her feelings or choices invalid.

"We didn't meet under the best of circumstances, so you might not remember my name. I'm Ben Ramirez and that's Sara Jones. These two are Mark Warren and Jamie Douglas. You go by Tayja, right?"

She looks over at me with a slightly sickened expression.

"Please don't call me that," she says. "My name is Ana."