I count blocks. Twenty-three. Counting is something I do when I’m scared. Numbers don’t lie. Numbers make sense.
What will he do to me?
The question lodges in my throat like a boulder. Will ithurt? I’ve heard stories. Girls who disappear into houses and come out different. Broken. If they come out at all.
I should have run when I turned eighteen. But I’m so tired. I’ve been tired for so long. And where would I go? I have sixty-three dollars. No car. No friends who could help.
At least I’m alive.
For now.
The SUV pulls up to a building that’s all glass and steel. A doorman in a uniform opens my door. He greets Mr. O’Rourke by name. Doesn’t blink at my garbage bag.
“Miss,” he says to me.
No one calls me that. Miss. Like I’m someone.
I follow Mr. O’Rourke inside. Marble floors stretch across the lobby. Actual marble. A chandelier hangs overhead. Everything gleams.
I don’t belong here.
The elevator is mirrored. I see myself and wish I hadn’t. My hair is a mess. The bruise on my cheek looks dark purple under these lights. My clothes are two sizes too big and stained. Next to Mr. O’Rourke in his perfect suit, I look like what I am. Trash.
The elevator climbs. I count floors. Thirty-two.
The doors open into an apartment. Not a hallway. An apartment. The entire floor is one apartment
My legs shake as I step out.
Floor-to-ceiling windows show the city stretched below. The furniture is expensive. With clean lines. There’s art on the walls—real art, not posters. Everything is organized and perfect.
“This way.” His voice makes me jump.
I hurriedly follow him down a hallway, counting my steps. Fourteen.
He opens a door to a bedroom that’s bigger than thefloor plan of Dad’s entire house. A massive bed is in the center of the room, covered in a white spread. There are more pillows on it than I’ve ever owned. To the left is a beautiful dresser that looks antique, and next to that is another door—probably a bathroom.
“This is your room,” he tells me.
I stare. My room? That doesn’t make sense. Why would he give me my own room? A room like this. What does he want?
He opens the closet. It’s empty, but enormous—bigger than my entire bedroom at Dad’s.
“There are toiletries in the bathroom. If there’s anything else you need, just let me know.”
My throat closes. This has to be a trick. A test. I’m supposed to say something or do something, and if I get it wrong?—
“W-what am I supposed to do?” I croak out.
He turns to look at me. His eyes give nothing away.
“Tonight? Sleep. Eat something if you’re hungry. The kitchen is stocked.”
That’s not what I’m asking. I need to know what he expects. So I can do it right. So I don’t get hit.
“What do you want from me?” I force the words out.
Silence stretches. He studies me. I want to hide.
