The Orchid Tattoo, page 1
Praise for the Orchid Tattoo
“The Orchid Tattoo is a fast-paced, finely wrought thriller that will keep you turning pages late into the night. When the sister of social worker Georgia Thayer disappears after trying to help a runaway teen, Georgia finds herself thrust into a nefarious underworld of human trafficking unlike anything she could’ve imagined. This is an important, timely story that needed to be told, and social-worker-turned-author Carla Damon is the one to tell it.”
—Cassandra King, bestselling author of Tell Me a Story: My Life with Pat Conroy
“The Orchid Tattoo is a story of heartache, tenacity, and courage, and the lengths a woman will go to uncover a horrible truth and protect those she loves from a world of our nightmares.”
—Yasmin Angoe, editor’s pick and bestselling author of Her Name Is Knight
“In The Orchid Tattoo, Carla Damron creates that rare, superpowered thriller where a page-turning reading experience sheds important light on social justice. Georgia Thayer is a gem of a lead character—smart, sensitive, strong in her own struggles, driven to help others. I’d follow her wherever she goes next.”
—Ashley Warlick, author of internationally-acclaimed The Arrangement
“Part thriller, part social commentary, The Orchid Tattoo is a fast-paced journey through the darkest part of the American Dream. Damron’s human trafficking novel breaks your heart at every turn but reassembles the pieces by the end, leaving the reader both emotionally moved and angry at the inhumanity of it all. This is an important book that needs to be read and shared.”
—Stephen G. Eoannou, author of Rook and Muscle Cars
“The Orchid Tattoo is a taut, unflinching novel, evocative and well told, full of surprising twists and turns. Author Carla Damron deftly mixes an engaging plotline, and a host of gritty characters with a remarkably probing, insightful, and compassionate examination of human trafficking in a modern American city. Highly recommended.”
—Robert Steven Goldstein, author of Will’s Surreal Period, Enemy Queen, Cat’s Whisker, and The Swami Deheftner
“In The Orchid Tattoo, Carla Damron takes the serious issue of sex trafficking and brings it to our doorstop for perusal and introspection. Although it can be a triggering topic, her background as a social worker allows Damron to treat the issue and the girls it impacts with compassion and empathy. While we find ourselves embroiled in the lives of young women robbed of their bodies and autonomy, Carla Damron’s attention is not centered on the salacious and debauched parts of this industry but on the agency and resolve of her finely developed characters, intricate dialogue, and the unexpected twist of her novel’s ending. She is a powerful writer, an activist in her writing, and an outstanding storyteller who brings attention to a vile industry and a group of girls who find strength and power in each other as they doggedly pursue their freedom.”
—Marina DelVecchio, author of Dear Jane and The Virgin Chronicles
“In The Orchid Tattoo, Carla Damron blends crisp, clear writing with detailed knowledge of one of the most dangerous and heart-wrenching social injustices of our time: human trafficking. Told from multiple points of view throughout a trafficking enterprise in South Carolina, the story leaves readers longing for Kitten’s freedom, Peyton’s safe return, justice for the perpetrators, and redemption for those within the fold whose greed drives them to commit unspeakable crimes.
“Damron’s heroes are hardworking social workers and law enforcement officers who refuse to stop fighting for justice.”
—Beth Uznis Johnson, author of Coming Clean, coming 2023
“Damron’s book unleashes a primal scream; sex trafficking and exploitation are happening now. Through Damron’s richly imagined protagonist, social worker Georgia Thayer, internal voices amplify and pry eyes open to see culpability in this beautifully written, thrilling mystery. Evil’s torn, surprising petals fall, and friendships bloom in The Orchid Tattoo’s visceral story.”
—Tim Conroy, author of Theologies of Terrain
“In this stunning thriller, it’s not only the writing that made me keep turning the pages. This story of human trafficking in South Carolina kept me on the edge of my seat as I watched the struggles of the main characters play out on the page. Ironically, this fictional telling brought to life for me the reality of what people who’ve been trafficked as farm or sex workers go through, and how hopeless they must feel. That’s because the author’s characters were drawn as real people—each one had a story to tell, one that made me empathize with their situation in a way bald statistics don’t, necessarily. The pacing is excellent, and the twists that practically had me out of my seat made this a book I’d recommend to book clubs and anyone who wants to learn something while reading a nail-biter of a book.”
—Gabi Coatsworth, author of Love’s Journey Home
“Damron’s genius lies in the economy with which she crafts richly conceived, unique characters, all with their own yearnings and flaws, whose collisions drive the action. She manages to explore social justice themes without preaching or in any other way sacrificing the suspense and pacing of the story, while somehow making it look easy. In the course of this wild ride, we learn about the evil lurking beneath the surface of a mid-sized Southern city along with the people working to combat those forces and heal their victims. At the end, the reader emerges breathless and satisfied. At least, this one did.”
—Bob Schueler, author of Second Chances and The 25 Years
“Those of us who choose to address this topic head-on are always looking for ways to shine the spotlight on this universal cancer, from films to television to music and books. We try desperately to engage the public so that human trafficking is no longer just discussed in the shadows. So let me share with you a book by Author Carla Damron. It’s titled The Orchid Tattoo. This book is highly recommended by us at the Silent Angel Project . . . I do believe that many of you will enjoy and benefit from this novel.”
—The Silent Angel Project
“Damron deftly weaves her social work knowledge into a gripping drama of scarred humans attempting to free themselves from physical and emotional captivity. Her look at the breadth of human trafficking and how it operates without being too gritty leads to a compelling and educating read. But it also addresses the resilience of the human spirit. No matter how bleak your world, you can find a way out.”
—Marie W. Watts, author of Rapture by Revenge, Warriors for Equal Rights, and Only a Pawn
“A gritty novel that doesn’t shy away from truth, The Orchid Tattoo is unputdownable. Narrated in Damron’s signature style, the twists, turns, heartbreaks and the terror are all captured beautifully in this completely human story of an age-old crime that is still happening today.”
—Priya Gill, author and engineering management professor
“This book was wonderfully heartbreaking and effortless to read. I started and finished it in twenty-four hours. While the passages detailing the girls’ abuse were hard to read, I didn’t find them to be too graphic or triggering (outside of the topic itself, which I also feel was well handled).
“This book challenged me to frame this story in my backyard/a place I consider to be a home. I shuddered at the thought of this happening there.”
—Cary Johnstone, psychology grad student
“Carla Damron’s new Crime Fiction novel, The Orchid Tattoo, is a quest, a relentless adventure, and a telescopic sight into the dark and persistent world of human trafficking. This book begins with a running leap into a cloudy and frightening mystery and never slows throughout its full length.”
—Eric Morris, Jasper Magazine
The Orchid Tattoo
by Carla Damron
© Copyright 2022 Carla Damron
ISBN 978-1-64663-764-5
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names, incidents, dialogue, and opinions expressed are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Published by
3705 Shore Drive
Virginia Beach, VA 23455
800-435-4811
www.koehlerbooks.com
Dedicated to the memory of the fabulous Ivy Moore. You left us too soon, my friend.
Content Warning
This novel contains references to child (teen) abuse
and sex trafficking.
CHAPTER ONE
At 3 a.m., I should be home in bed like any normal person, but “normal” fits me about as well as “perky” or “has her shit together.” Instead, I was in the windowless catastrophe that was my office, trying to ignore the page from the Emergency Department flashing on my phone: Georgia Thayer to Bay Four. The seventh time that day. I might as well move my desk down there, maybe claim a stall in the staff bathroom. With a frustrated grumble, I rose, locked the office, and made my way down to the ED.
I entered the curtained off bay to find a frizzy-haired woman sitting on a gurney, half-dressed, handcuffed, sunken in posture as though trying to disappear.
Mark Westfall, a staff psychiatrist with the girth of a mana
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“New patient. Not talking. Looking like a level three.”
We used codes to delineate behavioral problems. Level three was bad. It meant needing restraints to keep the patient from harming themselves or others, but this small woman sat quietly, eyeing us as though we were enemy assailants.
I shot Mark a puzzled look because nothing about her screamed “management problem.”
“Just wait,” Mark said.
I took a tentative step closer. “Hey there. I’m Georgia Thayer, the hospital social worker. Can you tell me your name?”
She didn’t answer.
“Maybe you can tell me why you’re here?”
Silence.
“She’s not talking. They found her on a park bench. When the officer asked her to move on, she bit him.”
She gave a skittery glance in my direction.
I put her age at around thirty, skinny, and unkempt. She swung her legs like she was on a swing, her lips moving but little sound coming out. I inched closer.
“Careful,” Mark said.
What was he worried about? She seemed—
Her banshee shriek nearly knocked me over. She leaped from the gurney and scrambled to the curtain encircling the bay; two nursing assistants pushed through to keep her from bolting. She jumped atop the gurney where she squatted like a bullfrog. Impressive move for someone in handcuffs.
“Told you,” Mark said.
“Hey, hey!” I said. “It’s okay. We’re not going to hurt you.” This woman was in torment. I spent the next five minutes trying to coax her to climb down, her looking wild-eyed with paranoia, then suddenly, she quieted. Again, she sat on the gurney—mostly silent, though her lips moved like she was whispering to a ghost. A few minutes later, she flipped again, yelling, combative if we got close, Mark getting frustrated and ready to order a butt injection of some tranquilizer. Then she quieted again. Weird.
As the cycle repeated, I focused on what triggered the crazed outburst. Had one of us moved? Said the wrong thing? Then I saw it. Whenever the air conditioning kicked on, the banshee reappeared. When it shut down, so did she.
I told the med-tech to adjust the thermostat. “Are you nuts? It’s a thousand degrees out,” she replied.
“Just for a few minutes.” As the system shut down, the woman exhaled, her face softening as the tension evaporated. “You don’t like the air blowing,” I said.
She shook her head with vehemence, the first meaningful communication we’d had.
“Too cold?”
Another headshake.
“The noise?”
A slow nod. Weird, because given all the cacophony of noise that filled the ED, the air switching on was hardly noticeable. “That whoosh it makes?”
“No.” She inched closer, her sour breath on my face. “The laughing.”
Mark’s brows shot up.
“The laughing,” I repeated. “When the air turns on—”
“The demon laughs. He’s in there. He’s coming after me.” She spoke this last sentence with a somber acquiescence.
I knew much better than most how she felt. “That sounds terrifying. It may be hard to believe, but we will keep you safe here.” I turned to Mark. “Think we should admit her to the fifth floor?”
He nodded. “Wish she had some kind of ID. I’ll have one of the residents work her up.”
“And maybe make sure they turn the vent off in her room. That’ll make life much easier for her,” I said.
“And everyone else,” Mark whispered back.
As soon as I got to my office, I’d grab my keys and bolt. That was the plan. I’ve had six years in this place; there is no getting to the end of my to-do list, so I needed to escape before someone else at Columbia General expected some predawn social working. Just as I reached for my purse, the cellphone buzzed.
The number flashing was my sister’s home number. “What’s wrong?” I answered, fighting a wave of panic at the lateness of the call.
“You heard from Peyton?” My brother-in-law’s voice surprised me.
“No. She’s not home?” I glanced up at the clock: 3:20 a.m.
“No. I have no idea where she is. I got here after work, no sign of her or Lindsay. No note. NOTHING!” The last word erupted, hurting my ear.
“You try her cell?”
“About a million times.”
“I’m on my way.” I clicked off, flew out of my office and down the stairs to my Civic.
May can sizzle in South Carolina, and even at that hour, the hot air startled my lungs. My hands vibrated against the steering wheel as I tried not to think the worst, my mind conjuring image after image of worst-case Peytons.
Not so fast. The counselor spoke, a gentle whisper in my head. Slow down.
I ignored the voice as my car sliced through the humid Carolina night.
Ten minutes later, I turned into Peyton’s drive, my tires bumping over the worn cobblestones, and spotted David’s Cadillac, but not Peyton’s Lexus. Maybe Peyton was just late getting home from the university. She’d become a study-a-holic since returning to grad school last year, joking that at thirty-six she had a “lot of catching up to do.”
Something’s very wrong, the advisor said. Unlike the counselor, this voice was male. Insistent. Always difficult to ignore. My voices don’t come often anymore, but when I’m scared or stressed, they slither back in. Despite my psychiatrist’s valiant attempts, no medicine completely stops this internal noise.
When I huffed up the stone steps and rang the bell, David answered, wearing the wrinkled linen jacket I’d seen him in at the hospital that afternoon, his sparse gray hair standing out from his scalp like quills.
“Georgia.” He spoke as though my name tasted like spoiled fruit. Yep, we got along that well. “I didn’t mean for you to rush over here.”
I pushed past him and his disapproving glare into their mammoth house.
“I got home around midnight, she wasn’t here,” David said. “It’s a damn puzzle.”
I hadn’t heard from her in several days. No message on my cell. No texts. Weird, since we usually talked daily. I had chalked it up to her being too busy with school and my being swamped at the hospital, rather than filial neglect.
“Lindsay’s bed looks like it’s been slept in. Like Peyton woke her up and took her somewhere in the middle of the night.”
“And you’re sure there’s no note?” I asked. Peyton wrote things down. Messages. Lists. Things she didn’t want to forget, on a rainbow of sticky notes.
“I checked everywhere,” he sighed. “But she’s been like this. In and out, vague about where she’s going. Always says it’s something to do with school.”
“How about the answering machine?” I asked because David was old school enough to still use one.
His brown eyes widened. “She’d leave in the middle of the night and then call the damn answering machine?”
“No.” I forced calm into my voice because one of us needed to act like an adult. “But if she was in an accident or something—”
“Oh, God.” He clomped down the hall, and when I heard two beeps from his machine, I joined him.
“Monday, eight-seventeen PM,” the mechanical voice stamp announced. Then, “Peyton, it’s me. I tried your other phone but
. . . pick up if you’re there. Peyton?” The unfamiliar voice sounded Latino, maybe Mexican. The caller ID flashed “unlisted.”
“Monday, ten-twelve PM,” the voice said. “Peyton? We have to change the plan. Tomorrow won’t work. God, I hope you get this. Call me.” The same voice edged with alarm, hanging on a few seconds before disconnecting.
