Free The Butterfly Garden by Dot Hutchison Page B

nodded and stalked away.
    Kegs watched him until he turned the corner into the main dining room. “You okay, lovely?”
    “I am, thanks.”
    We called him “our” busboy, mainly because Guilian always assigned him to our sections and he considered us his girls. Whether he was working that night or not, Kegs always walked the closing girls to the subway and saw us safely onto the train. He was the one person who inexplicably ignored Guilian’s rules about tattoos and piercings. True, he was a busboy, not a waiter, so he wasn’t interacting with the customers, but he was still visible. Guilian never commented on the gauged ears, the pierced eyebrow, lip, and tongue, or the heavy black tribal tattoos that marched all the way down both arms and nearly glowed through his white dress shirt. They peeked out from the cuffs onto the backs of his hands and up on the back of his neck when it wasn’t obscured by his long hair. Sometimes he knotted the hair up and you could see the tattoos climb onto the shaved lower half of his skull.
    He kissed my cheek and walked me to the bathroom, standing outside while I took care of things, and then walked me back to the kitchen. “Be careful around the host’s son,” he announced to all the girls.
    “I told you,” giggled Hope.
    That night Kegs escorted us all the way to the apartment. The next day, Guilian listened to what had happened with a concerned frown, then told us not to worry too much about it, because the clients had returned to Maryland. Or so we thought.
    A couple of weeks later, when Noémie and I left the library one afternoon and bumped into two of her classmates, I waved her on with them and told her I could get the rest of the way home by myself.
    I managed three blocks before something stabbed me, and before I could even cry out, my legs fell out from under me, and the world turned black.

    “In the afternoon on the streets of New York?” Eddison asks skeptically.
    “Like I said, most people in New York don’t ask too many questions, and both father and son can be very charming when they want to be. I’m sure they said something that made sense to the people around us.”
    “And you woke up in the Garden?”
    “Yes.”
    The door opens to show the female tech analyst with her hip still on the handle, her hands full of drinks and food sacks. She nearly drops them on the table, thanking Victor as he helps her steady the cardboard drink caddy.
    “There are hot dogs, hamburgers, and fries,” Yvonne announces. “I wasn’t sure what your tastes are, so I had them put some condiments in on the side.”
    It takes the girl a moment to realize that she’s the one being addressed, and then all she says is thank you.
    “Anything new from Ramirez?” Eddison asks.
    She shrugs. “Nothing big. They’ve got another girl identified, and a couple of them have given their names and addresses, or partial addresses. One girl’s family relocated to Paris, poor thing.”
    As he portions out food, Victor watches Inara study the tech. There are questions in her expression, but he can’t make them out. After a moment, she shakes her head and reaches for a packet of ketchup.
    “The senator?” asks Eddison.
    “Still in the air; they had to detour around a storm front.”
    Well, Victor almost got his wish. “Thanks, Yvonne.”
    The analyst taps her ear. “Anything interesting, I’ll keep you updated.” She nods to Inara and leaves the room. A few seconds later, the mirror rattles slightly as the door to the observation room closes.
    Victor eyes Inara as he squeezes mustard and relish onto his hot dog. He isn’t sure if he should ask the question. He’s never felt uncertain about the power dynamic in a room, not with a victim, but then, she’s not exactly a typical victim, is she? That’s at least half the problem. He frowns at his meal, unwilling to let the girl think the scowl is aimed at her.
    Eddison has that covered.
    He has to know, though. “You weren’t