Screw it. I’m going. No matter how annoyed it makes me.
Wait—damn it. No, I?—
I stand, snapping my fingers for Elliot to get out, then I jerk toward the windows overlooking Chicago. The city pulses with urgency during the end-of-day rush hour. Cars are packed together, brake lights flicker, and clusters of people push through crowds to get home.
Steel, glass, the familiar restlessness of the unforgiving city. From this height, I’m removed, and as the sunlight cuts sharp between the buildings, I count down the hours until dark. Until I can make my way to EV.
I don’t even know her. But some messed-up part of me acts as though it does. As though it’s already decided. I tell myselfit’ll fade once I see her again, hear her, remind myself she’s just another means to an end. I tell myself I know better, but I’m not sure I’m listening.
CHAPTER TEN
THEA
Icy water sputters around me. Fat drops land everywhere but on me, and I huddle under the cold spray, trying to recall the memory of the hot bath I soaked in last night. Anything to replace my current predicament.
I’m accustomed to spittle showers with tepid temperatures. Our house’s water heater was shoddy at best, and after my mom passed and my father’s drinking became more dire, he spent the money on booze and at the bar instead of on home improvements.
Congressman DuPont’s men dropped me back off at EV an hour ago, and luckily Edmond rode along. None of this is okay, but for a moment, it felt like I was supposed to be in the car and that Edmond was looking out for me.
It’s stupid—supposed to be there. I need to look out for myself. Though I can’t help but hear my mother’s words.
EV staff escorted me from the vehicle while Edmond stood beside the passenger door, head dipped and eyes cast down, resigned. I imagined the shadows hovering over his features were from the toll this takes on him. The constant drain must affect him, right? Does the congressman care?
According to the mumblings of the guard assigned to bring me back, I’m the first of the auctioned girls from last night to come back. Meaning only three girls were here when I arrived, most of them lying checked out in their beds. Someone had placed a fresh outfit at the foot of my bed, and I carefully removed the GHB vial from my bra and tucked it under my mattress. Then I headed for the showers.
I lick the water from my lips and finish lathering my hair. I’m not even halfway done rinsing when commotion stumbles into the bathroom. Frantic pleas and curt, whispered instructions. Startled, I slip on the soap swirling down the drain and reach out to grab the plastic shower curtain of my stall. When I catch my balance, I peek around the side of it.
Juliette and three other girls pile into the bathroom, each dressed in their crooked lingerie misplaced over their bodies. Juliette’s eyelids are heavy and smeared with a mix of black and champagne-colored makeup from last night. Beneath it all, faint bruises shadow their skin—some marks they don’t bother trying to hide and others that have been treated and hidden.
“Get her in the shower!” she yells, and the two girls push forward another who’s barely standing.
One arm is slung over one girl’s shoulder; the other hangs limp at her side. Her skin is pale, her eyes half lidded like Juliette’s but glassy and unfocused. They drag her across the slate tile.
My mouth parts, and my gasp reverberates off the three stall walls around me. I fumble with the shower handle, turn off the water, and hop out, quickly wrapping a towel around myself.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as they guide her toward the shower next to mine.
Ignoring me, they move quickly but carefully, like the girl they carry might shatter.
Hands clasped over my towel in front of my chest, I pad closer. She’s one of the blondes I don’t know, thin and tall. Her lips are cracked, streaked with red and purple where the skin’s split. A large welt, the size of a hand, blooms deep violet across her cheekbone, and as I scan her body, finger-shaped bruises ring her wrists. Cuts mar her thighs, spelling out the same word over and over again, but between the torn flesh and bloody streaks, I can’t make out what.
Intentional, my brain mutters. Someone did this to her, and not by accident.
I slap a hand over my mouth to keep the sickness down. They allow the men to destroy the Market girls, her, like this?
Juliette hisses as she yanks back the shower curtain and pulls the handle. A low sputter fills the silence, punctuated by random moans and whimpers.
In a better world, steam would unfurl, ready to help the aching pain she must feel. But it’s lukewarm at best and not comforting.
The blonde’s teeth chatter while another girl with dark skin removes her hoop earrings, tears spilling down her face. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” she repeats, brushing the sweat-slicked hair from the girl’s forehead.
She doesn’t resist, doesn’t speak as they haul her into the shower and allow her to crumple to the floor. Blood whirls and twists with the water, filling the drain and pooling around her, where she’s half covering it with her backside.
I stand there. Frozen.
I’ve seen things. Broken things. But this … this is different.
It’s the violent echo of evil, the hollow. The aftermath of being used.
