Pushing all thoughts of candy from my mind, I take a sip of tea and try to pretend it’s hot chocolate. It doesn’t work, but I’m not about to arrive in Zurich bloated and breaking out because I got low and deviated from my diet plan.
The dark image crumples as I crush the page in my hand and toss it into the fireplace. Maybe after another cup of chamomile, I’ll be able to conjure a happier scene.
The doorbell helps me leave the little pity party behind, and I tip the kid with a face full of freckles and barely there stubble. “Thanks,” he says, his voice cracking. If I had to guess, he’s all of seventeen.
“Have a nice day…Kevin.” His name tag is skewed so badly, I have a hard time reading it, but the smile he gives me? It’s worth the struggle. Genuine, pure—the kind of smile you lose once you know how bad a place the world can be.
I pause, the bag balanced on my hip, as I gingerly scoop up the small pile of mail in my entryway. Junk, mostly, but one envelope catches my eye. The handwriting is vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it and there’s no return address.
After I put the groceries away—the spinach won’t last on the counter for even an hour—I limp back to the recliner with a fresh cup of tea and the mystery envelope. Only a dozen people in my life know this address. All my official mail goes to a P.O. Box that one of Max’s assistants checks for me once a month.
Tearing the letter open, I shake the contents into my lap, then freeze. The photograph is old. More than fifteen years old. My wide brown eyes, the lids puffy from crying, stare back at me. Frayed, red spaghetti straps hold up a dress that probably belonged to half a dozen girls before me. Fingertip bruises ring my throat.
Memories from that night come flooding back to me. The excitement of getting off the plane in New York City. Nerves as I handed the Customs agent my passport.“Da. I am here for vacation. Seven days.”
Dimitri waiting for me, all smiles and a big hug.“You made it, Sophiana! How was the flight? Did you get to watch a movie?”
“Da! I watchedThe Fast and the Furious. The second one too! The flight attendants were so nice.”
“I am so glad. Let me carry your purse and your bag for you. After such a long flight, you should not have to worry about anything.”
And I didn’t. Until he led me out to a van waiting by the curb. Inside? Six other girls. One from my flight—I remembered seeing her at the back of the plane when I got up to pee—and five others who’d landed an hour earlier. All frightened, some with bruises.
I asked him to explain. He answered with a slap to my face.
My lips press together over and over again, and my stomach protests even the simple smoothie I had after my shower. It takes me three tries to unfold the letter.
Tears fill my eyes the second I start to read.
Hello Sophiana,
No. Wait. It is Sloane now, yes? I see your pictures everywhere. Such a slut. Always selling your body for money. At least when you worked for me, you knew what you were. Now, you pretend to be someone better. Someone different. You will never be anything but the stupid shlyukha who thought coming to America would fix all her problems.
I know it was you who fucked that cop. You ruined my life, and now you owe me. So you will pay. Two thousand dollars every month or I will make sure the only pictures anyone sees of you are the ones I took. You know I have lots. The police never found my private stash.
Because I am a nice guy, you can pay every week. Your first payment of $500 is due on Wednesday, November 3rd. Do not be late, my little Sophiana, or I send a copy of your passport and this photo to Channel 5 News. Tell anyone about our new arrangement, and not only will I ruin your career, but you will never be pretty again.
Dimitri
At the bottom of the letter, he’s scrawled bank account information. Along with a handful of Xs and Os.
Nausea crawls its way up from my stomach, and outside a car horn blares. With a yelp, I stumble to the front door, my fingers shaking as I double and triple check the locks, arm the security system, and cycle through the videos from every camera—all six of them—around my home.
The two panes of beveled glass on either side of my front door are no longer pretty. They’re dangerous. Dimitri could be watching me right now. Choking back a sob, I head for my linen closet, and even though my heart is beating half out of my chest, I manage to tack up sheets to stop anyone from peering in.
I hate the darkness. Hate not being able to see the sky, the trees, the outdoors. But I close all the blinds, plunging my cheery bungalow into gloom.
Curling up on the couch, I wrap myself in my favorite blanket and stare at the letter, chewing on my lip, clenching and unclenching my fingers, even scrunching my toes to try to release anounceof this terror.
Max. I have to tell Max. He’ll know what to do.
Except, he’s in Zurich. Where it’s close to midnight. I don’t care. He’ll know what to do.
My phone slips out of my hands seconds after I pick it up, but I scrub my palms over my yoga pants and try again. As his voicemail greeting ends, I swallow hard.
“It’s Sloane. I—there’s a problem. From my…uh…past? Please call me back. It’s important. I don’t care what time it is. Just…call me.”
I can’t say anything more over the phone. His assistant screens his messages, and she’s new. She knows nothing about what Max did for me all those years ago. Getting me fake papers that declare me an American citizen? A new name? A clean Social Security Number? He could go to jail.
