Lee tried Flora, then Isabelle.
Both phones were off. Now this was unnerving—the girls were never,everoffline.
Lee inhaled. She had done her part! She was ready to escape this family and this world. Still, Flora turning her phone off was especially strange. Lee opened her Find My app, as Flora had shown her how to do.
Flora had disabled her Find My app.
Lee stood and gathered her things.
“Do you understand that once you step off this plane, you cannot return?” asked the perky bitch guarding the jet-bridge.
“Yes,” said Lee.
On the way to the address where Isabelle had tagged her photo, a place called Atelier Nyx, Lee tried calling Regan one more time.
No answer. Bitterly, Lee hoped she was enjoying the hell out ofGiselle.
The taxi reached a modernist mansion set back from the street behind high walls draped with bougainvillea. “I’ll be right back,” said Lee.
“Oréa oréa,” said the driver.
Lee stepped from the car onto the narrow street. A gate stood slightly ajar, and Lee walked through, crossing cement tiles to reach the entranceway. From inside came the distant sound ofclassical music and a man’s voice giving directions: “Perfect. Now turn your head slightly. Beautiful. Show me more.”
What the hell? Lee pressed the doorbell.
Shuffling footsteps approached, followed by the metallic slide of a lock being disengaged.
The heavy oak panel swung inward. There he stood—the older man from Isabelle’s Instagram post. He wore an Egyptian cotton shirt tucked into tailored trousers and no shoes. A Patek Philippe watch. Professional camera equipment hung around his neck. “Hi,” said Lee. “I’m here to pick up my niece? Isabelle Willingham?”
“Of course,” said the man in an overly smooth baritone. “Parakaló, come in. I’m Spyros Alexandros. I’m a photographer. We’re having a little…artistic session tonight.”
He led the way through a hallway lined with framed photographs—all young women in various states of undress, all with the same pick-me-please expression. Lee’s gut tightened, thinking of skeevy, predatory Mr. Ragdale.
They passed a dining room where several too-young girls sat around a table with wineglasses, looking bored and drunk.
“Isabelle is just finishing up,” said Spyros. “Would you like to see some of my work? I’m documenting the transition from girl to woman. It’s quite…profound.”
“No. Take me to Isabelle now.”
From down the hallway, Lee heard the sound of a camera shutter clicking rapidly, accompanied by a male voice: “Gorgeous. You’re a natural. Now look at me like you want something. Like you’re hungry for it.”
Jesus Christ. Lee knew she should dial 911, or whatever the Greek 911 was called. She pivoted, turning from Spyros and moving toward the man’s voice. Through a partially open door, she saw a room set up like a professional studio—lights, reflectors, abackdrop. An older man wielded a camera. Next to him, a videographer. “Perfect,” said the man behind the camera. “Now slip the shirt off your shoulders. Show me you’re ready for this.”
“Close set!” yelled Spyros from behind Lee. The door was thumped shut before Lee could get inside. “Don’t jump to conclusions,” said Spyros, his wrist tight on Lee’s upper arm. “Art is complicated.”
Lee pulled free and threw her shoulder against the door, mercifully unlocked. She wedged her way inside.
In the center of the room, Flora stood in her underwear, eyes pressed closed, her face a mask of effort to stay still. Lee could see strain in every line of her body.
Lee froze, witnessing Flora—the smart one, the overlooked one—trying to transform herself, desperate to be seen at any cost.
This was the moment she’d been hurtling toward, the reason she’d never been able to rest, the danger Lee had always known was going to come.
Flora was performing for love, just like her Auntie Lee. Depression’s voice roared in Lee’s head:You can’t save her. You’ll make it worse. You always make it worse. Just go.
But something stopped her from leaving, something quiet and simple. She just…loved Flora. Flora—a young woman who mattered.
Lee walked toward her niece.
