Girl Blue by Maggie Shayne

Author:Maggie Shayne
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thunderfoot

12

“U still ok?” The text was from Mason.

I was parked in my crossover, because it was less conspicuous than the T-bird even though it was burnt orange, outside a Methodist church all the way out in Endwell. Ivy had gone inside, and so had five other women.

I was nervous as hell and watching everyone around me. I’d just had an anonymous call from someone who said she thought I should know Gary Conklin was missing. He’d been in-patient since his return to Binghamton on the social worker’s recommendation, but this morning, they’d released him. He was stable on his meds, and doing everything he was supposed to. You know, make your bed, take a shower, pick up your room. The way violent psych patients can demonstrate their sanity these days is equivalent to the way an 8-year-old earns his allowance. Except the mental patient can go home and buy a gun after. Great system.

The informant said someone had found Gary’s meds in the trash can near the exits. I was kind of scared shitless.

“I’m fine,” I texted back. “Ivy went into a church. Looks like an AA meeting sort of thing. Weird she comes this far, though. I’m going in.”

“She’ll see u.”

“No. She won’t.” I silenced the phone and pocketed it. I was wearing that perky little visor, but that would look odd indoors, without sun. So would the sunglasses. I left the shades on anyway, and as a last resort, ditched the visor and grabbed Josh’s Maroon baseball hat off the back seat, Whitney Point Eagle and all. Not even a little conspicuous, right? I stuffed my hair all up inside it. Then I went to the red double doors on the side of the beautiful stone church and walked in as the other women had done.

A hallway that only went one direction led me deeper into the building. Rooms with doors lined it. Most were closed, a few were open, one was a restroom, but all felt empty. Voices, the sounds of scraping chairs, and the smell of bad coffee wafted from the end of the hall where it formed a T. There were two entrances on the facing wall. One led into the room where the women were pulling their chairs into a circle. The other was closed, and closer to me. I ducked around the corner, and holding my breath, opened that door.

Storage closet. Score.

I ducked inside, pulled it closed, and listened. I could hear them in the meeting room. A second door in this closet led directly into the room where the women had gathered.

“So glad everyone could come,” someone said. She had a good voice, strong, but soft at the same time. An approachable voice. “How’s everyone’s week been?”

“Mine sucked,” someone said. “So much in the news triggers me. All this Me, Too stuff.”

If Me, Too was a trigger, then these women were survivors of sexual assault. My brain put that together as quick as a eureka! finger-snap.

“I love the Me, Too stuff,” another woman said.

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