All the news outlets used the same photo of Josefina Rodriguez—a tiny, pixelated shot taken over a year ago at someone's birthday party, with the flash on.

Whoever had done the red-eye correction had clumsy fingers, because the black dots meant to align with her pupils were slightly off. Josefina was nineteen, round-faced with acne speckled cheeks. Dark hair, dark eyes, deep brown skin. She had a wide smile and the arm of a friend who'd been cropped out of the picture draped over her shoulders.

I'd had nightmares about her.

The worst ones weren't the gruesome ones—though those were pretty horrible. Her body, cold and shriveled and black with bruises, stuffed in a duffle bag and tossed into a mound of garbage somewhere on a back road. Floating face-down in a water tank. Tucked in a field of maize somewhere off a well-traveled road, passed by thousands of oblivious souls every day.

I'd tried to think of Josefina as a subject. A story to be reported, and nothing more. It made it easier to sit through class without wanting to press my forehead to my desk and scream.

But as I marched down the hall to Ellison's front door, Josefina Rodriguez was not my subject.

She was a girl.

She was a stranger and mi hermanita and someone I wanted very, very much to be okay.

But I had prepared myself for the worst.

I was ready for it.

So when Ellison opened her apartment door, her face white as printer paper but her eyes wet and puffy, I braced for the sucker-punch.

"She's alive, Laurel."

Breath left my body like a ghost. Like I'd been haunted—like something awful and heavy had been occupying the space in my chest where my lungs should've been allowed to expand.

"Oh my God," I whispered. "Oh my God, are you—are you sure?"

Ellison nodded.

I pressed my lips together tightly and squatted, because I felt like my knees would buckle if I remained upright. I rocked on my heels, one hand covering my eyes and the other clutching the doorframe so I wouldn't topple over.

She's alive.

Ellison cleared her throat and said, from so close I knew she'd squatted along with me, "She's talking to the FBI right now. She was in Texas. She said Vaughn gave her seven grand and told her to keep her mouth shut, so she made the trip up and crossed the border into McAllen. She heard about the article on TV. She waited to come forward because she was scared they'd deport her. But then she heard about Sarah, and—"

"Vaughn gave her seven grand," I repeated, then lifted my head to look Ellison in the eye.

He'd paid her off.

Seven thousand dollars. That was what he'd said he spent at the bar.

"They were able to confirm it from that email account someone tipped them off about," Ellison said. "Apparently almost everything in there was spam except for a few deleted messages sent the night Josefina went missing. Something about needing cash. They think Vaughn sent a friend to that bar to get it. Charged it to his card to cover their tracks."

Bodie St. James had been right. That email account was sketchy.

Josefina was safe.

She'd escaped. She'd crossed the border.

She'd gone through so much alone.

I sniffled and wiped at my eyes again.

"Can we—can we meet her?" I asked, my voice small and squeaky through my tears.

I wanted to meet her. I wanted to see her face, to touch her hand and know that was she flesh and blood and that she was okay. I didn't care if she knew who I was, or that I'd thought about her and her story for months. It didn't matter. I just wanted to see her and tell her how relieved I was that she was alive—how proud of her I was for surviving and finding the courage to step out of the shadows.

It was selfish, maybe. But I had to ask.

"They said she wants to call us," Ellison said. "After she's done talking to the California DOJ. It might be a few days before we can—and somebody will have to be present—but we'll talk to her."

"She's alive," I said again, in disbelief. In wonder.

"She is."

And then Ellison Michaels—the unmovable, unshakable force of nature who'd kept her chin high through hell and high water—sat down on her spotless kitchen floor, sniffled, and blotted her eyes on the sleeve of her navy blue J-Crew blazer.

I sunk down beside her and pressed my back to her fridge. Ellison wasn't a hugger. I knew that. So I just sat close enough so that she'd know she wasn't alone.

We cried until we were done. Until the reserves behind the dams we'd built had run dry, and we were left shaky but finally free of the pressure that'd built up. Then relief and celebration gave way to the realization of what was to come. We'd climbed a hill only to find an entire mountain range sprawled ahead of us on the other side.

"She's going to have it worse than we did," I whispered.

Ellison gritted her teeth and nodded sharply.

"If fucking Adam Whittaker from Fox Sports so much as types her name," she said, "the paramedics are going to have to surgically remove my foot from his ass."

A burst of laughter tore from my lungs.

It felt so good.

And I felt so useless, suddenly. So utterly small.

"What do we do?" I asked.

Ellison—the girl I'd always assumed had the answers—shrugged her shoulders and wadded up a tissue in one hand.

"Whatever she needs us to," she said.

"Whatever she needs us to," I agreed solemnly.

Somewhere, Josefina Rodriguez was telling her story, and people were listening. It was our job to make sure they didn't stop.

It was our job to make sure she was heard.

❖ ❖ ❖

You could smell Pepito's from a block away. I took comfort in fresh tortillas and roasting chiles as I marched up to the counter, where the same posters that had been tacked to the inside of the window for months stared back at me—the smiling face of a girl who so many people had prayed for every night for months.

The face of a girl who was alive.

Oscar poked his head through the order window, his grin wide beneath his mustache.

"Donde esta el Tigre y tu novio?" he asked with a laugh.

There was no graceful way to break this news.

So, in lieu of a greeting, I just blurted, "Está viva."

The shortcomings of my Spanish became frustratingly apparent as I tried to explain the how and why and when of it all. I tumbled in and out of the language, switching to English when I hit vocabulary and conjugations I couldn't remember. Pedro and Joaquin abandoned their stations at the grills and huddled by the window to listen.

They didn't cry, but Oscar did the same thing my dad did when we'd had to put down our first cat. Wobbly lip. Nodding his head. Blinking hard.

"Gracias," he said, over and over and over.

Gracias, gracias, gracias.

I sat down on one of the rusty metal picnic tables and cradled my phone in my hands. I'd spent more than an hour at Ellison's place, celebrating and sobbing. There were no messages from Bodie, so I figured he still had to be in his meeting with Gordon.

I shot him a text.

Meet me at Pepito's when you're done?

Bodie's response came a few minutes later.

YES!! Just got done with Gordon! Was going to ask you the same thing.

I replied, Great minds think alike.

And so do ours!!! he sent back.

Dork.

I revisited this assessment of Bodie when, ten minutes later, I heard him shout my name from the other side of the street. I looked up. He was waiting at the crosswalk, grinning and bouncing on his toes, completely obvious to the curious looks a trio of guys who strolled past on the sidewalk shot him.

When the light turned, he jogged towards me.

"Hey," I said as he came up to the table. "How did your meeting—"

He grabbed my chin between his thumb and forefinger and kissed me square on the mouth. I was so stunned, I barely thought to kiss him back before he pulled away and moved to the opposite side of the table.

He swung one leg over the bench, then the other, and sat. Our knees knocked under the table. It felt like our thing, now.

"I, uh, have some—some news," I managed to stutter out.

"Me too," Bodie said. "Can I go first?"

Whatever his news was, it was good, because the boy was practically vibrating with excitement.

He was sunshine personified.

So I said, "Of course. What's up?"

Bodie cleared his throat, sat up straight, and adjusted his shirt like he was preparing for a Skype interview or something. I watched him, bouncing back and forth between finding it endearing and wanting to smack the table and tell him to hurry up and spill.

"I have ADHD."

"Oh my God. How—"

"I talked to Gordon, and I told him I wanted to get tested. He set up the appointment and went with me and everything. I went in for the follow-up today. The doctor said I've obviously developed some really good coping mechanisms, but things got worse with all the stress of the Vaughn stuff."

"I don't think I even know what ADHD actually is," I admitted softly. "What are the symptoms?"

"Well, for one," he said, smiling in that self-deprecating way of his and holding up a finger, "forgetfulness. And then you've got restlessness, and fidgeting."

"So, you in a nutshell."

"I mean, the doctor thinks my anxiety from the whole Vaughn thing is situational, and that my symptoms won't be as bad once we're past this—"

He definitely sounded like he'd been doing research.

He was a science boy. He was all over this shit.

"—but yeah. This is me. I have ADHD."

It made so much sense. How hadn't I know? How hadn't he known?

"How do you feel?" I asked.

"I feel—" he exhaled and shook his head. "I feel so good, Laurel. I can't even tell you."

He was smiling, but his eyes were wet.

I reached over the table to grab his hand.

"I thought I was stupid," Bodie admitted very softly.

"You're not stupid," I replied with a ferocity that startled me.

Bodie sniffled.

He shrugged and said, "I thought I was. It just—this never even occurred to me. Or my parents, I guess. I've always been active, so I think everybody just figured, you know, you've got your strengths and your weaknesses. And my weakness is my brain."

I shook my head.

"That's not true. That's never been true."

Bodie flipped his hand over beneath mine so he could give me a thankful squeeze.

"It's just nice to know," he mumbled. "That this is how I work. I don't have to fight it so much, anymore. I got a referral to a therapist. I'm sorry," he wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his t-shirt, "I'm totally steamrolling you. What was your news?"

"Oh boy," I said, blotting fresh tears with my thumb. There was mascara everywhere. Complete mayhem. "Okay. Um."

"Take your time," he murmured.

I sucked in a deep breath.

"They found Josefina Rodriguez," I said. Bodie's face was still for a moment before I added, very quietly, "She's alive. She's okay. Vaughn paid her off with the seven grand, but she's safe. They found her in McAllen, Texas."

Bodie took a moment to process the news.

"She's okay?" he repeated, his voice small and shaky.

I nodded.

Bodie took a deep breath, his spine going straight, and then slumped forward and propped his elbows on the table.

When he exhaled, his whole body shuddered.

"I had nightmares about her," he whispered into his hands.

"Me too," I admitted.

When Bodie lifted his head again, our faces were mirror images—tear-stained, puffy-eyed, blotchy and red.

"You win," he said, sniffling. "Your news was better."

There wasn't much left to say after that.

So I did what felt right. I went to the window and ordered us eight carne asada tacos (three for me, five for Bodie) and, because we deserved it after the fire we'd walked through, two churros. Oscar told me it was on the house for me and my novio, but the moment he'd turned his back, I shoved a twenty into the tip jar.

Pedro saw me, plucked my twenty out of the bucket, and chucked it at me.

I begrudgingly accepted the free meal.

Bodie and I ate in companionable silence, taking turns sniffling and then laughing at ourselves and the emotional train-wrecks we'd become. I finished my tacos before he did, so I moved on to desert.

"What are you doing for Thanksgiving?" I asked Bodie as I held my churro up like a cinnamon-sugar rolled cigar. "Are you going home? Or are you gonna go see your sister and her kid?"

Bodie shook his head and swallowed the bite of taco he was chewing.

"I have to stick around for practice," he said glumly. "We've got a game the day after Thanksgiving. Can't leave Garland. At least, I can't fly all the way home. I have to stay close."

"You know," I said, eyes on my half-eaten churro as a defense mechanism. "Hanna's going back up to the Bay, and Andre and his parents are vacationing in Hawaii, but I'll be home. My house is an hour and a half north of LA. Pretty easy drive. It'll be super low-key—just me and my dad. You don't have to come, if you're gonna do a team thing or—"

"I'd love to," Bodie said before I was done.

"Really?"

He beamed at me. "Yes, really."

I took another bite of my churro.

"What's your, uh, what's your dad like?" Bodie asked.

It took me a moment to recognize the hesitance in his voice.

He was nervous. Bodie St. James, Garland's Golden Boy, who could bench press twice my weight and had survived the clutches of a man who'd done everything in his power to hold him under his thumb, was nervous to meet Patrick Cates, my monolingual softie of a father.

"He'll love you," I told Bodie. "You took care of my car."

And me, I added in my head as his knee pressed against mine under the table. You took care of me, too.

_________________

Author's Note: I cried a few times writing this chapter. That probably means it's a little messy, and a little less developed than it should be, but that's what editing is for.

A lot to cover:

I know that being found alive is not the key to a happy ending when you've undergone trauma and haven't had the chance to speak about it or work through it yet. But there are Josefinas who never get that chance. I also realize that Laurel and Ellison don't explicitly say "she was assaulted" or "she was drugged" or "this is what Vaughn did to her." I spent a lot of time deciding how much to say. I don't want this book to be about the specifics of Josefina's trauma, and to feel like I'm using details for shock value. My goal was to make it clear that there was trauma, and there was wrongdoing on Vaughn's part, and that Josefina is now going to have the ability to tell her story on her own terms, and she will be listened to (something that will be expanded upon in the final two chapters later this week).

Bodie's ADHD diagnosis was inspired by my college friend who told me about her inability to focus and to juggle classes and sports and a part-time job and friends the way other people seemed to be able to. She told me she felt stupid. She is not stupid. Nobody with learning differences or mental health issues is stupid. If you have ADHD/have opinions about this and would like to discuss my treatment of this reveal, please DM me. I want to be sensitive and accurate in the language I use and the way I portray ADHD on the page.

The nomination round of The Fiction Awards 2019 closes today, and tomorrow, the Watty Awards open. I know I've had far too much coffee this morning but WOW I am buzzing with nerves. I'm very proud of this story. I know not getting awards doesn't mean it's not good or entertaining or worthy. But as someone who seeks a lot of external validation (are we surprised) I am deeply affected by the award-season-hype. So thank you for all your support.

Two chapters to go, and a very big announcement on Friday.

Your friendly author,

Kate