Jesus Christ. “And you told all this to Ben?” I ask her.
“Yes. He said he would make sure I was safe. Help me out. A new start. I speak English. I’m clever. I want a normal job. Waitressing, something like that. Because—” Her voice wavers. She puts up a hand to her eyes. I see the shine of tears. She swipes at them with the heel of her hand, almost angrily, like she doesn’t have time for crying. “It’s not what I came to this country for. I came for a new life.”
And even though I never cry I feel my own eyes pricking. I hear her. Every woman deserves that. The chance of a new life.
Mimi
Fourth floor
I sit here on my bed, staring into the darkness of his apartment, remembering. On his laptop, three nights ago, I read about a place with a locked room. About what happened in that room. About the women. The men.
About how it was—is—connected to this place. To this family.
I felt sick to my stomach. It couldn’t be right, what he’d written. But there were names. There was detail. So much horrible detail. And Papa—
No. It couldn’t be true. I refused to believe it. It had to be lies—
And then I saw my own name, like I had in his notebook, when it had been so exciting. Only now it filled me with fear. Somehow I was connected to that place, too. There were horrible things my older stepbrother had said. I had always thought they were just random insults. Now I wasn’t sure. I didn’t think I could bring myself to read it, but I knew I had to.
What I saw next . . . I felt my whole life fall apart. If it was true, it would explain exactly why I had always felt like an outsider. Why Papa had always treated me the way he had. Because I wasn’t really theirs. And there was more: I glimpsed a line, something about my real mother, but I couldn’t read it because my eyes had blurred with tears—
I froze. Then I heard footsteps outside, approaching the door. Merde. I slammed the laptop closed. The key was turning in the lock. He was back.
Oh God. I couldn’t face him. Not now. Not like this. Everything was changed between us, broken. Everything I believed in had just been shattered. Everything I had ever known was a lie. I didn’t even know who I was any more.
I ran into the bedroom. There was no time . . . The closet. I yanked the doors open, slipped inside, crouched down in the darkness.
I heard him put a record on the player in the main room and the music streamed out, just like the music I had heard every hot summer night, floating to me across the courtyard. As though he had been playing it for me.
It felt like my heart was breaking.
It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be true.
Then, over the sound of my own breathing, I heard him entering the room. Through the keyhole I saw him moving around. He pulled off his sweater. I saw his stomach, that line of hair I had noticed on the first day. I thought about that girl I had been, the one who had watched him from the balcony. I hated her for being such a clueless little idiot. A spoiled brat. Thinking she had issues. She had no idea. But at the same time I was grieving for the loss of her. Knowing I could never go back to her.
He paced close to the closet—I cringed back into the shadows—and then moved away again, stepping into the bathroom. I heard him turn on the shower. All I wanted, now, was to get out of there. This was my moment. I pushed the door open. I could hear him moving around in the bathroom, the shower door opening. I began to tiptoe across the floor. Quiet as I could. Then there was a knock on the front door to the apartment. Putain.
Back I ran, back to the closet, crouching down in the darkness.
I heard the shower stop. I heard him go to answer it, greeting whoever it was at the door.
And then I heard the other voice. I knew it straightaway, of course I did. They talked for a while, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I opened the closet door a crack, trying to hear.
Then they were coming into the bedroom. Why? What were they doing in the bedroom? Why would those two come in here? I could just make them out through the keyhole. Even in those snatched glimpses I could see there was something strange about their body language—something I couldn’t quite work out. But I knew that something was wrong . . . something was not how it should be.
And then it happened. I saw them move together, the two of them. I saw their lips meet. It felt like it was happening in slow motion. I was digging my nails so hard into my palms I thought I might be about to draw blood. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real. I sank down into the darkness, fist in my mouth, teeth biting into my knuckles to stop myself from screaming.