Page 44 of Secret (Chicago Underground 6)
“Just talk to him. He has ideas for how the police department can help you, so you’re not wasting resources working behind their backs.”
She frowned. “We do okay by ourselves.”
“We can do better,” I said gently.
Her eyebrows rose. “We?”
“I want to help. To volunteer, to teach, all the things you’ve been asking me to do. I’m ready now.”
She didn’t trust cops, and probably with good reason. But she didn’t know Luke, not yet. With his help, we would be able to do more at the shelter. Give these girls a legitimate future with proper paperwork instead of a life on the run.
“Okay,” she said with clear reluctance. “I’ll meet with him. No guarantees.”
I waved Luke inside. He got out of the car and strode over, his gait slow and unthreatening. But Marguerite paled as he approached, the pink of her lips pressing to white.
Well, that had gone downhill quickly. “It’s okay,” I said. “He’s okay.”
As Luke reached us, he looked at Marguerite with a raw, open curiosity. He stepped closer. His eyes widened.
“Daisy?” His voice was a soft expulsion of air, of shock.
She gave a terse nod. “Luke.”
“Is it really you?”
“I go by Marguerite now.” She hesitated, pulling away when it looked like he would step forward. “I’m not sure this is even a good idea. I’m a completely different person now. I’m guessing you are too.”
“Daisy. Marguerite. I want to know you, who you are now. I’m trying to catch up here, but give me a chance.”
“I want to know you too,” she said in a small voice.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”
Nice and soothing, and I recognized the tone of voice he had used for me once, his instinctual soft touch with an animal who has been hurt.
“That’s a start. That’s all we need.”
* * *
We returned to Luke’s apartment, where we planned to stay until we found a house, something small for just the two of us and modest enough that I could still fill it with nice things. Luke made a decent living on the force, but the shelter wouldn’t be able to pay me anything, at least until we got grants in place.
I was already reading up on that, studying the procedures and writing some very tame, G-rated firsthand accounts of my experiences to help encourage the wealthy of Chicago to open their pockets. We all lived here, the streetwalkers and those in the penthouse, stacked on top of each other. I had walked among the wealthy and privileged with no hope at all. I would do it again, this time with a message: look down.
We lounged in bed, in the same coarse blue sheets I had thought were unreachable.
“How did you know?” he asked me.
“I didn’t,” I admitted. Though I hadn’t been shocked to discover it. It had been like remembering a detail of my childhood, one I’d never really had.
I had always felt a certain affinity toward Marguerite that couldn’t be explained from our exchanges at the shelter. Family. She had felt like family, and Luke had felt like mine, long before I’d believed either of them could be possible. “She told me a long time ago about life on the streets. When you told me the whole of it, I put it together.”
“She didn’t seem that happy to see me.” Disappointment trickled into his voice.
I linked my hand in his. “Give her time. She’s survived this long by being tough. It wouldn’t make sense for her to tear all that down in a day.”
He smiled slightly, pulling me against him. “Thank you. It’s inadequate, I know–”
“I didn’t do anything, but I’m glad now that you can move on, you know. Get to know the real Marguerite. She’s an interesting lady, I’ll tell you that.”
