“Do you want me to call the cops?” Jeremy asked. “I’m good friends with Detective Stahl down at the precinct. He can help you, no matter who—.”

“The police can’t help,” the girl said. “No worldly authority can. Please let it go.”

“I can’t,” Jeremy said grimly. He reached into his t-shirt and pulled out a battered old pair of dog tags. “Kid, I’ve been there. I lost my childhood in a war that nearly killed my soul, then I wound up living in a cardboard box for ten years, living from one heroin spike to the next. I came this close to being a corpse in a gutter. But I lived. And I lived only because I reached out for help and someone reached back.” He touched the silver crucifix that hung next to his tags. “So I’m sorry, I can’t just let this go.”

The girl didn’t answer. She looked down at the battered old fiberglass table, rubbing her forearms. Jeremy saw that her arms were covered in old bandages, encrusted with dried blood, and there were thin scars all up and down her pale skin.