by Nolan Thomas
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The Girl Who Knew Too Much
Copyright © 2021 by Nolan Thomas
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
Published by KilgallenPerry
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020945523
ISBN (paperback): 9781662910944
eISBN: 9781662910937
For Ken and Tom
And for Bob, Loretta, and Rocky
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 34
Chapter 67
Chapter 2
Chapter 35
Chapter 68
Chapter 3
Chapter 36
Chapter 69
Chapter 4
Chapter 37
Chapter 70
Chapter 5
Chapter 38
Chapter 71
Chapter 6
Chapter 39
Chapter 72
Chapter 7
Chapter 40
Chapter 73
Chapter 8
Chapter 41
Chapter 74
Chapter 9
Chapter 42
Chapter 75
Chapter 10
Chapter 43
Chapter 76
Chapter 11
Chapter 44
Chapter 77
Chapter 12
Chapter 45
Chapter 78
Chapter 13
Chapter 46
Chapter 79
Chapter 14
Chapter 47
Chapter 80
Chapter 15
Chapter 48
Chapter 81
Chapter 16
Chapter 49
Chapter 82
Chapter 17
Chapter 50
Chapter 83
Chapter 18
Chapter 51
Chapter 84
Chapter 19
Chapter 52
Chapter 85
Chapter 20
Chapter 53
Chapter 86
Chapter 21
Chapter 54
Chapter 87
Chapter 22
Chapter 55
Chapter 88
Chapter 23
Chapter 56
Chapter 89
Chapter 24
Chapter 57
Chapter 90
Chapter 25
Chapter 58
Chapter 91
Chapter 26
Chapter 59
Chapter 92
Chapter 27
Chapter 60
Chapter 93
Chapter 28
Chapter 61
Chapter 94
Chapter 29
Chapter 62
Chapter 95
Chapter 30
Chapter 63
Chapter 96
Chapter 31
Chapter 64
Chapter 97
Chapter 32
Chapter 65
Chapter 98
Chapter 33
Chapter 66
Chapter 99
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
1
NATHAN GRINNED AND PUSHED OUT his right hand in an awkward attempt to shake hands. He’d seen how men do this in movies when they met. Now it occurred to him he should do that too. After all, his new foster mother had told him all about these special parties for children in foster care—kind of like a birthday party to start your new life. This nice man even gave kids presents. As he and the Judge clasped hands, Nathan beamed in anticipation hoping his gift would be a bicycle. His smile barely left room for his chubby cheeks.
Mesmerized, the Judge took in the boy’s perfect skin. The crisp evening air had tinged his cheeks with just a hint of crimson. Nine-year-old Nathan was a little small for his age, but pudgy. Soft. His golden-brown eyes were full of trust. The Judge liked that. Yes. Nathan was as good as promised.
“Please come in,” the Judge said. “I have the party all set up for us in the other room.”
Nathan, holding the hand of his attractive, young foster mother, entered the house. His smile grew even wider as he eyed a plate full of cookies. He knew this was going to be a good party. Maybe he should add a PlayStation to his wish.
His foster mother knelt on one knee. “Let me help you with your coat, sweetheart.”
She gently unbuttoned his coat and pulled his arms free. Although perfectly capable of taking off his own coat, Nathan enjoyed this new kind of attention. It felt good.
Handing the small coat to the Judge, she enfolded her arms around Nathan and gave him a big hug. “I want you to have a wonderful time this evening.”
This must be what heaven is like, Nathan thought as he felt the warm, loving energy encircling him. He squeezed her back with all his might.
She gently kissed Nathan on the forehead.
“I’ll be back to pick you up in an hour. That’s plenty of time to enjoy your evening and still get to bed on time. Growing boys need their sleep.”
She stood and turned to the Judge.
“I want Nathan ready to go as soon as I return.”
Surprised by the stern tone of her voice, Nathan wondered if she might be a little mad because she wasn’t invited to the party. She had told him these were foster-children-only parties.
As his foster mother walked towards the door, Nathan called out, “Aunt Dixie!”
She turned.
Nathan blurted, “I love you.”
He wasn’t sure where that had come from, but ever since that day she’d said it was okay to call her Aunt Dixie, she had felt like a mother to him.
“I love you too, Nathan.”
She blew him a kiss and went out the door.
The Judge bent to take Nathan’s hand. “Come with me, son. I have things all ready for us in the next room.”
THE JUDGE WALKED back into the living room carrying the boy in his arms. Nathan had stopped fighting him long ago. The Judge didn’t enjoy inflicting pain, but sometimes it was necessary. These children had to know who was boss.
He bound the boy to a wooden chair with rope. Nathan, his battered body in shock, only managed a soft whimper. Saying nothing to the boy, the Judge left.
Not long after, the front door opened and Aunt Dixie walked in. Seeing Nathan tied to the chair, she hurried across the room, stopped directly behind him, and whispered his name as she placed her hands on his small, deflated shoulders.
The boy raised his head from his chest and cried, “Aunt Dixie!” Tears of relief streamed down his cheeks.
Aunt Dixie swiftly and professionally snapped Nathan’s neck.
2
JESSICA SINCLAIR NEEDED A FIX. She had only agreed to meet with this do-gooder journalist because her ten-year-old daughter, Riley, had pestered her about it ever since she’d learned he’d be interviewing locals in the diner, just down the street from their car—currently their home.
Jessica couldn’t give her little girl much, so if Riley wanted to talk with this Billy Daniels guy, why not? At least there was a free meal in it for them.
“I only showed up today because my Riley got all excited after
she looked you up on the Internet. Says you’re a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist with the Chicago Post. Seems to think that’s a big deal.”
“Mom!” Riley admonished.
Billy smiled. “That’s okay, Riley. I was a finalist for a Pulitzer, but didn’t win. Besides, it’s not about prizes. It’s about telling the story so things get better.”
Jessica rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”
Billy steered them to a booth at the back of the diner. “It’s quieter back here. We can talk more easily.”
A heavy-set, blond waitress with a beat-up badge declaring her name to be Trisha came and took their order.
“Y’all give me a holler if ya need anythin’ else. I’ll git this order in ASAP.” Trisha turned and hurried to the kitchen order window where she tore the paper from her pad, clipped it to a wheel for the guy at the grill, then yelled, “Three burgers, fries and Cokes!”
“So what’s your story anyway?” Jessica asked. “What’s a Chicago guy doing here in DC?”
“I’m doing research and plan to write a series of stories on homelessness in America. Thought I’d start in our nation’s capital.”
Trisha returned, setting their Cokes in front of them. “Here ya go.”
“Well what exactly is it you want to know?” Jessica asked. “I don’t want the two of us in some newspaper so people can feel sorry for us, or blame us, or feel better than us because they think they’re too smart for this to happen to them.”
Billy nodded and leaned in closer to the table’s edge. “I want to know who you are and how you got here. You have my word. I won’t use your names or feature you in any story without your consent.”
Jessica stared at Billy, taking the measure of this new character in the story of their life.
“What do you think, Riley? Do you still want to do this?”
“Yes,” Riley said, nodding her head. “But I have one condition for Mr. Daniels.”
“What’s that?” Billy asked.
Riley grinned. “After we answer your questions, I get to ask you some questions.”
“Only if you call me Billy.” He extended his arm across the table. “Do we have a deal?”
Riley smiled, then reached out and took his hand. “Deal.”
Billy spotted Trisha heading their way, expertly balancing a tray full of food.
“Perfect timing,” Billy said. “Thank you.”
Riley nodded her head in agreement, but couldn’t say her thanks because she had already popped a large fry into her mouth.
As they ate, Jessica shared that her well-to-do family had disowned her. She was well educated; fell in love with Mr. Wrong; became a drug addict; claimed to be clean now; couldn’t keep a job; lived in a car; loved her daughter; and couldn’t find a way out. Though hauntingly gaunt, the remnants of a once-beautiful woman peeked through.
“How about some dessert?” Billy asked. “Looks like they’ve got ice cream sundaes.”
“Not for me. I’m stuffed,” Jessica said. “This lunch was great and all, but I’ve got nothing more for you.”
Jessica’s hand slightly trembled as she lifted the glass to her lips to polish off her Coke. Beads of sweat covered the glass; beads of sweat covered Jessica’s forehead. Jessica pretended Billy hadn’t noticed.
Riley didn’t mention it, but she too had spotted the tremor. “That’s okay Mom. We can leave now.”
“No baby. You haven’t told Billy your story or asked him your questions yet.” Jessica slid out of the booth. “Besides, you love hot-fudge sundaes. You stay here with Billy and finish your talk. I’ll meet you back home later.”
“I don’t need ice cream. I’ll come with you.”
“No. I don’t want to hear any more about it. You’re going to stay right here, young lady.” Jessica turned her head and her attention to Billy. “I have an appointment. Two things my Riley loves are ice cream and asking questions. There’s no reason for her not to enjoy her afternoon. Thank you so much for lunch and good luck with your research.”
Jessica leaned over and kissed Riley on the forehead. “Love you, Baby Girl.”
“Love you more.” Riley watched her mother walk away.
3
RILEY COULDN’T REMEMBER THE LAST time she had this much fun, or even the last time she had a hot-fudge sundae. Having successfully scraped the bowl for the last chocolaty bits of her dessert, Riley burped, put her hand over her mouth, and giggled.
“Oops! Excuse me.”
Billy chuckled. “In some countries that’s considered a compliment to the chef.”
“Really? I never knew that.”
“Speaking of not knowing things, what school do you go to?” Billy asked. “I’m guessing you’re in fifth grade.”
“That’s a good guess. I’ve been to a couple of different schools, but when we live in our car, I mostly don’t go.” She quickly added, “I was in school straight through third grade, and most of fourth. When my mom’s having a good day, she teaches me math and history.”
“Why doesn’t school work out for you? I can tell you’re very bright and you’ve got a great personality.”
Riley blushed and shifted in her seat.
Billy waited for Riley to find her voice.
“Promise you won’t tell my mom? I wouldn’t ever, ever want to make her feel bad.”
“I promise.”
Riley dropped her head. “It’s kind of embarrassing to live in a car.”
Her throat tightened. She never talked to anyone about this. The last thing she wanted was to be a big crybaby.
“I’m listening,” Billy prompted.
Riley looked up and inhaled deeply. “It’s hard to make friends when you can’t invite them to your house. You’re not really a part of anything—it’s like you don’t belong. Like you become invisible. People don’t see you at all.”
“That must be very hard for you.”
Riley shrugged. “You know what’s worse than being invisible? It’s being afraid they might actually see you.”
And then her words poured out in a rush.
“Or worse yet, you’re afraid they might find out where you live. You can’t be part of anything. Can’t make friends. No sleepovers. Even when we had an apartment, my mom was usually high.”
Riley stopped herself. “Do you swear you won’t tell my mom?”
Billy placed his elbow on the table and offered his pinky finger to seal his oath. “Yes, I swear.”
Riley curled her little finger around his. “Pinky-swears also make us friends.”
Billy smiled and nodded his agreement. “Friends.”
Feeling better now that she and Billy made their friendship official, she leaned back in the booth and continued her story.
“After-school activities are out—no money. Besides, I need to get home to find something to eat and settle in the car, and make sure my mom’s okay.”
“That’s a lot of responsibility for someone so young.”
“It’s okay. My mom doesn’t have anyone else to take care of her. I don’t mind. When I’m old enough to get a job, I’ll be able to get an apartment for us.”
“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”
Riley’s instinct to protect her mother kicked in. “My mom’s sick, not lazy. She just can’t always take care of herself.” Her eyes welled with tears, knowing her mother left the restaurant to get a fix. “I love her, but I hate the drugs!”
Wise beyond her years, Riley understood her mother was a good person who loved her. Fighting back her tears, she told Billy more about her life. Riley’s story flowed—her strength and courage amazed him.
Placing her hand on her throat, Riley asked in a pretend-raspy voice, “May I please have another Coke? All this talking is making me thirsty.”
Billy grinned. “Of course.” He motioned for Trisha to bring them each another Coke.
When their drinks arrived Riley took such a big sip through her straw she had trouble catching her breath after she swall
owed.
Billy chuckled. “Take it easy. There’s more where that came.”
A now comfortably breathing Riley smiled back at him. “We have a deal. It’s my turn. I get to ask you questions.”
“A deal’s a deal. Ask away.”
“Have you ever been an actor?”
Billy laughed. “What on earth would make you ask that?”
“You’re handsome. You look like you could be on TV or in the movies.”
“Nope. Next question.”
“Okay. How old are you?”
“I’m thirty-one.”
“Wow. You’re even older than my mom.”
“How old is your mom?”
“No fair. Only I get to ask questions now.”
“I think you’re making up rules as you go along, but that’s okay. Next question.”
“Did you always want to be a journalist? Even when you were a kid?” Riley asked while holding a half-eaten, cold French fry.
“No way. I wanted to be a professional baseball player.”
“Really? That’s cool. What made you change your mind?”
“I wasn’t good enough to get a scholarship, and I didn’t have enough money to pay for college without one.”
Riley leaned in, her arms folded on the table. “What did you do?”
“In need of a new career direction, I enlisted in the Navy when I graduated from high school.”
“Were you scared?”
“A little. But the military was good for me. It got me away from home. I grew up.”
“Did you have to fight in the Navy? Is that where you got that scar?”
Billy unconsciously touched the right side of his chin.
“I did see combat, but I got this when I was a kid.”
“Really? How did it happen?”
“Nothing interesting. Just kid stuff. The Navy is where I discovered I wanted to be a journalist.”
Billy didn’t want to tell Riley that he had gotten the scar during one of his Dad’s nastier drunken episodes. Seven-year-old Billy had intervened when his Dad threatened his mother with a kitchen knife. Mom was unscathed, but Billy had been left with a gash to the right of his chin. Afraid of the legal consequences, his parents hadn’t taken him to the emergency room. Without stitches, an uneven scar had formed.
