Page 12 of Born for Starlight

I sucked in a deep breath and brushed my hair out of my eyes. “Are you hearing me? Children are still being trafficked out of Brazil right now, today, the same way I almost was. Making people think that these orphanages are safe and good. It kills me. Mom and Dad stopped those people who ran that orphanage, but what about the ones operating now?”

I watched as Julian’s eyes widened. He was shocked. I frowned, then realized he wasn’t really a reporter, he was a podcaster who chased celebrities.

“Julian, don’t you understand? There are still places like that out there. Just like the place I was rescued from. Hundreds of orphanages. Thousands. Almost all on the up-and-up, but some like the place I was at.”

He frowned. “Let me get this right, you’re talking about in Brazil? But Angelica, what do you think you can do?”

He looked confused, but wanted me to keep talking. He realized I was giving him a story. “I can put something real behind stopping it from happening to the next kid.”

“Define real.”

“A quarter of a million dollars.” I had thought of it beforehand, and knew I could afford it. It would hurt, but it would be worth it. “I would divide it up between orphanages doing good work, and attach my name publicly to the plight of children being trafficked.” I hated it, but having a celebrity attached to something meant more than the actual issue.

All the time I was talking, his eyes got wider. “You would be the story, not the money. Would you go down there?”

“Absolutely.”

“Angelica, that’s not a donation. That’s a declaration. Aren’t you afraid?”

“Why would I be afraid? I would be handing out money to orphanages, having my picture taken, make a couple of speeches and hopefully spend some time with the kids.”

“This is going to be huge.” His eyes gleamed. “But what about trafficking here?” He tilted his head, testing. “In the States. Are you saying that doesn’t matter to you, that it’s not as urgent?”

What a little shit.

He was planning on milking this interview for all it was worth. But I really didn’t care. I was about to start giving a whole hell of a lot of interviews, I might as well get used to the tough questions.

“I’m saying you start somewhere.” I kept my voice even. “I start where I have a name and a reason people will listen. Brazil is where my story started. Once that’s moving, the work doesn’t stop at a border. It expands. It has to.”

“You keep saying ‘I.’” Julian leaned in another inch. “Not ‘we.’ Not a foundation, not a board. You, personally. You’re serious about going down there?”

“Because it is personal.” My chest went tight and hot at the same time. “I was two years old in that place. I don’t remember it, not really, and for most of my life I told myself that not remembering meant it didn’t touch me. But it touched me. It’s touched me every day since, whether I could name it or not.”

He moved closer like a shark to chum. He was feeding on this story. Feeding on me.

Oily. Smarmy. Sadly necessary.

I noticed it, filed it away where I kept the things I didn’t have time to deal with yet, and kept talking anyway, because the cause was bigger than any issues I had with the man asking the questions.

“Angelica Drakos is going back to Brazil.” He said it slowly. He was trying to figure out how to advertise his podcast in real time. Fine by me. “That’s the story.”

“That’s just true.”

“Let’s talk about the plane crash,” he said.

“Let’s not.”

“People want to know.”

I glared at him.

He held up his hands.

“I hear you’ve been babysitting for Kit Lord.” He lobbed me a softball.

“I won’t go into details, but her daughter is beautiful. I love my downtime between projects. Babysitting is a thrill for me.”

“Am I hearing wedding bells in the future?”