I offer her the manila files and dozens of loose sheets of lined paper covered in a green-inked scrawl: web addresses, notes on webcams, websites for escorts, and dark web accounts.
“Thanks,” Cassie says, walking toward me. “Best to keep it at the house.” She smiles, wiping a stray lash from her cheek. “It’s safer there.”
I take a manila file and open it.
“Who’s this?” I ask, holding up a photo of a topless teen girl, skinny, with delicate breasts. A lunatic smile.
Cassie snickers.
“One of Navid’s favorite girls,” she says, a sly look stretching from me to a notebook pulled from another drawer. “Recognize her?”
“No. She works here?” I ask.
“It’s Jane!” Cassie guffaws, stuffing a bunch of gray notebooks and receipts in a plastic carrier. “Before all the work and red hair dye!”
I join her laugh, colluding with her gibe. “She looks so different. He made her get the work done, right?” I goad, placing a manipulative hand on her shoulder.
She nods with raised eyebrows. “And he paid,” she says, rubbing together her thumb and forefinger.
“How old is she here?” I ask, trailing the slim contours of Jane’s face with my finger.
“Fifteen, sixteen?”
I open another file; inside, a list of names, phone numbers, and email addresses printed in a heavy font, some of the names ticked off in the same green ink.
Cassie leans over, points at the names with no ticks. “Navid’s working on these ones.”
“What for?”
“They haven’t joined the live webcams yet, but they’ve shown interest.”
“So, they pay to sign up?” I ask.
She nods. “But that’s not why we want them to join.” Pauses, then: “They’re good for bribes. Men in positions of power. Police, lawyers, politicians—those types.”
“I get it,” I say, nodding back. “And these?”
She hesitates, swiping the sheet from my hand. “Navid better look after these. Dark web codes. For the very young girls.” She looks at me knowingly. “Their babas make them do it.”
She folds the paper in half, places it in the top drawer of Navid’s desk, and locks it.
Shit! Runner whispers. We need those codes.
I clear my throat. “Shall I put the rest of this stuff in the carrier bags?”
“Yes, and these,” she says, handing me two passports.
In the bottom drawer, I note a camera, a padlock, more porn magazines, and several small handbags: a clutch and a slim crocodile purse.
“And what about these, do you want me to move them?” I ask, recognizing Ella’s purse.
“No. Leave those,” she says, checking that the drawers are otherwise empty. “New rule: Navid said all the girls have to keep their things down here from now on. He insisted we make some changes after what happened with Annabelle. He even said we can only wear clothes that don’t have pockets.”
“Oh?”
“Pockets hide things,” she says matter-of-factly.
I look at her with confusion as I reach into my coat pocket, not surprised to find another pilfered object—a screwdriver—surely Runner’s idea.
“Extra tips, clothes, and gifts—apart from drugs—are also on hold, until he can trust again.”
“How long will that take?” I smile.
“Depends.” She shrugs. “But not too long; as long as there’s some coke everything will be fine. He knows girls perform better if they’re high.” She taps the side of her nose.
“Oh, right,” I say.
“He said I have to keep tabs on them too, you know, credit cards, receipts, men’s business cards. That sort of thing.”
Cassie leans the four plastic carrier bags against the wall. Files, notebooks, and paperwork stuffed inside.
“Keep an eye on these while I go grab a box from the closet upstairs,” she says.
“Yep, no problem,” I reply, careful that my voice doesn’t shake.
I wait for a couple of seconds, then take out my phone: tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
Quickly scanning the room for more evidence while watching the door and aiming my phone at the stash of black-market porn boxed in the far corner. Tap, tap—
My phone starts ringing: grace.
What can she want? I decline the call, switch the volume to silent.
Quick, Runner orders, Cassie won’t be long.
Wraps of cocaine, two bottles of poppers, and a spliff stupidly left on the shelf. Tap, tap.
I pull on the top drawer again, knowing it’s locked but trying all the same.
Shit.
Next, I scavenge through paperwork on Navid’s desk, anything that might help our cause: the top copy of an offshore bank account statement and a memory stick quickly folded and stuffed in my jeans pocket. I see an unopened letter sealed with tape, and as I reach for it, knock over a mug of stale coffee. Outside, Cassie’s footsteps are approaching.
Hurry, wipe it up!
I hear Cassie talking to one of the girls.
“Wǒ bìxū zuò suǒyǒu de shìqíng?” she shouts.
Runner looks at me. What’s she saying?
There’s a problem upstairs in the bar. She’s bothered she has to take care of everything. Quick, help me clean this up.
“You okay?” Cassie says, looking in.
“Fine-fine,” I say, wiping the spilled coffee with a bunch of tissues found on Navid’s desk. “What’s happening?”
“Some problem upstairs. I’ll be back in a couple minutes.”
I am breathing too fast. My mouth a pit of sand.
Get it together, Alexa.
“Need me to do anything?” I ask. “Shall I come with you?”
“No. Wait. Actually, okay.”
I follow her outside the office, up the stairs to where Jane is waiting. “It’s that weirdo from last week,” she says. “The one who had a thing for Amy. He’s refusing to pay for his drinks.”
Cassie turns to me, hands me an empty box. “It’s okay. Here; start filling this with all that stuff we pulled out,” she orders. “Jane, get Shaun. Where is he anyway, who’s working the bar?”
They disappear.
Evidence #4
Names, addresses, and phone numbers of men using the dark web—both those who watch and those who post their daughters online. Mostly minors. Cassie Wang and Navid Mahal have the codes. (Top drawer of Navid’s desk, currently locked.)
Navid keeps track of the girls, demanding now that they leave their purses in his office while they work. He bribes them with drugs.
I quickly check I haven’t missed anything in the cabinet drawers, then reach for Ella’s leather purse, thinking I’ll take it to her. But just as I’m about to place it on the desk, the Fouls order, Open it.
And I do. The act surprises me, my snooping like this. Though why should it? I’ve just spent the last hour doing exactly that, playing spy at the expense of our safety—only Runner truly on board.
Staring back at me and grinning behind a small plastic window of her wallet is a photograph of Navid—replacing the one of Ella and me.
Confused and stunned, I instinctively hurl the wallet and purse against one of the paper-thin walls. I kick the metal cabinet, causing a small dent.
Is she fucking him? Oneiroi asks.
Probably, Runner says, wouldn’t put it past her.
Hold on a second, Oneiroi says, alarmed, I imagine there’s a reasonable explanation for this.
Pfft, Runner dismisses, get real, dream queen.
Heavy with betrayal, I collect Ella’s belongings and remove the photograph from the wallet, noticing the one of Ella and me tucked behind. Taken in Paris on my twenty-first birthday. Ella and I had spent the weekend as tourists. Both of us smiling at some dude whom she’d asked to photograph us as we held our arms up to the Eiffel Tower, a lit sky, the perspective making the Parisian icon a perfect hat.
The Fouls take the Light and tap the small plasti
c window with their long bony fingers, a smell of repugnant dead animal now alive in my nostrils.
Part of you has always known she’s attracted to him and his power, they whisper, we’re just your subconscious, Alexa. We’re only showing you what you choose to ignore.
Maybe they’re right, I think, crushed and loath to admit it—Ella’s need to be loved beginning to outweigh any regard for her safety. Her longing potentially leading her to something so utterly destructive.
I claim back the Body and stare down at Ella’s purse, tears filling my eyes. I am suddenly overwhelmed by how hateful I feel and how alone I am. And then a realization—hate is simply love turned angry.
51
Daniel Rosenstein
She swims toward me. Her red mouth untouched by the pool’s low and still water.
“Isn’t it divine?” she sings, her voice calm and sweet. “So heavenly and warm. I will stay here forever.”
Her words are dropped like cubes of sugar into unsweetened tea.
Stirred, I open my arms to catch her. My feet planted on the pool’s tiled floor. She falls like rain into my reach, our bodies swaying, treading water, our breathing slow and free. I trace her skin, her hair, and the curve of her spine.
“Who are you?” I whisper in her ear.
She presses her mouth to meet mine. Runs her tongue along my lips. “I’m whoever you want me to be.”
“Alexa,” I say, “I want you to be Alexa.”
Pulling me into her, she cradles my neck and hangs from it, then, with one swift move from her hips, she wraps her legs around my waist.
“If you surrender, I could drown you,” she whispers, the wetness of her red mouth now pressed on my mouth. Her hand guiding the swell between my legs.
She closes her eyes, lets go, and dips her head beneath the trap of water, a playful tickle felt from the brush of her lissome thighs. I too dip beneath. And as we hold our breaths, both of us barely moving, I think to myself:
We are not alone.
Monica takes my waist.
“You were dreaming,” she whispers, pulling my body closer.
A pause. A reorientation of my surroundings.
“What?” I say, confused.
“You were dreaming,” she repeats, taking my damp cheeks in her hands, softly stroking my hair, our noses nearly touching.
Another pause.
“Daniel.”
“Yes?”
“I want a baby.”
52
Alexa Wú
“So why’s he in there?” I say, clearly vexed. “I mean, it’s one thing acting the spy, but carrying a photograph of him in your purse like that—it’s not right.”
Ella pulls up the collar on her new sheepskin coat, her back facing Old Street Tube station. Her movements a little jerky, her eyes a little bloodshot. For a moment I wonder if Navid’s slipped something in her purse, as Cassie suggested earlier. Ella’s high the result of a slim wrap of coke left by him like a bone.
“I just did it to please him. It doesn’t mean anything. Look,” she says, pulling on her gold necklace, the dainty key hanging loose, “same as this. He gave it to me. I’m working on gaining his trust.”
“You’ll give him the wrong idea,” I say. “You have to be careful.”
“Alexa, I work for him. I’m already giving him the wrong idea.”
“What do you mean?”
“He thinks all the girls want to sleep with him. I’m just playing along.”
“So you’re one of his ‘girls’ now?” I spit, taking hold of the chain around Ella’s neck. “Key to his heart?” I snort, remembering Runner’s previous comments. Sarcasm the lowest form of wit.
“I don’t know what it’s for, but maybe it unlocks something important,” she defends.
Silence.
“Are you fucking him?” I ask.
My Reason throws me a look. “Are you seriously asking me that?”
“Well—”
“NO! I am NOT fucking him,” my Reason shouts, grabbing my arms. “Look, we both agreed to do this. I’m keeping my side of the bargain. What about you? Are you gonna chicken out now?”
I realize I’ve peeled the potatoes but want to avoid their mash.
“No,” I say, shaking my head in defense, “I just want to make sure you’re safe. That’s all.”
Liar, the Fouls whisper. Admit it, you don’t believe her.
We follow a woman in suede boots. A light dusting of snow evident on her heels as she clicks down the pavement before veering up the shoulder of Rufus Street. I look up at the unblemished winter sky, clear and starless, my eyes leaking from the cold as we dodge a loud stream of people heading along Old Street, dotted with Christmas lights and garlands. More than once my step falters, and I bump into a group of girls waiting outside a Spanish tapas bar, red wine in their hands.
“Want a smoke?” Ella says, showing me an open packet.
“No,” I say, a little gruffly, “I want a drink.”
We walk a while longer before Ella throws her cigarette to the curb. “Let’s go in here.” She points.
“Two vodkas. On the rocks,” Ella says, inching her way to the bar.
A girl with a huge beehive smiles. Her Ramones T-shirt tight across her perky breasts. “Sure,” she says.
Ella moves toward me, smoke on her breath. “What’s going on? I feel like you don’t trust me,” she begins.
She’s onto you, the Fouls snicker.
“It’s not that I don’t wanna do this anymore,” I lie. “My work’s suffering. All this snooping around, hanging out at the Electra and the Groom House—it’s not how I wanna spend my time. It’s not safe.”
“You promised you’d help,” she says, knocking back her drink.
I take a tissue from my purse and wipe the bar. Straighten the coasters. Wipe the bar again.
“I am helping,” I defend, “but Christ, we need to get our lives back. You said you were only going to work there until you’d saved enough money for your own flat. Well, surely you’ve done that now? So leave.”
“I will, stop buggin’ me!” she shouts. “You know, I had to buy other stuff too.”
“What? More boots? Clothes? Makeup? Guts to move forward with our plan?”
“All right!” she snaps. “I get it.”
“Come on, we’ve got enough proof now,” I argue, not letting up. “Names. Web accounts. Phone numbers. What more do we need? Let’s just go to the police.”
Ella orders two more vodkas from the Beehive, then shifts her eyes to my eyes.
“Navid told me you’re gonna photograph Britney. Is that true?” she asks.
“Poi-Poi,” I correct her. “Not Britney, her name’s Poi-Poi. And she asked me to—not him.”
“How come?”
“She asked me what I did. Navid overheard us. It’s a mess.”
“So, will you? If we have photos of Britney, then we have proof he’s using underage girls. Then we can go to the police. With all this evidence, they’ll definitely have enough to arrest him.”
Silence.
“And I can leave the Electra for good.”
I look away.
“Please,” she says, taking hold of my shoulder, staring at me with her mother’s eyes.
“And how do you think that’ll make me feel? It’s hardly Teen Vogue, for fuck’s sake.”
“I’ll do it with you,” my Reason says. “You won’t be on your own.”
“I don’t know, Ella, it’s wrong. I don’t think I can do it. We’d be colluding with his crime. Christ, she’s only eleven years old. She’s a child.”
“Yes, but it’s the sure way to get him arrested. With this, he’ll go to prison for a long, long time.”
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
“I know, but we have to do it. We can finally put a stop to this. Help the other girls. Don’t forget, some of these girls are even younger than Poi-Poi and Grace.”
“That’s a low blow,” I say, casting my eyes down
at the floor.
“But it’s true.”
I look around the bar at people smiling and dancing. All unaware of the scene less than a mile away. Girls crammed into a house like imported sardines; a room with pink beds like bars of soap; evil cameras; a red sarong and a pine pole; stuffed animals; a whirring fan; a wandering cat.
I am angry that the one thing I love, the one thing I’m actually good at, will now be used to incriminate a man in the ugliest of scenarios. Is there not another way we can hold him accountable, another way that doesn’t involve me photographing a vulnerable eleven-year-old girl?
A helpless panic finds my chest that I sometimes felt when I was at home alone with my father. How I’d hide in my closet, the bathroom, behind the curtains or beneath my bed. But he always found me eventually. He made it his business to know all of my hiding places.
You have to help her, Dolly whispers.
She’s right, Runner adds.
A pause.
“Okay,” I agree, “but that’s it. Once we have the pictures, we go to the police.”
Ella smiles and squeezes my hand.
“By the way,” I say, “Grace left me a message. Said she hasn’t been able to get ahold of you. You need to look out for her, Ella. Take care of her. Take her calls.”
Ella rolls her eyes.
The Beehive collects our empty glasses.
“Two more,” she orders.
53
Daniel Rosenstein
We tilt over Antigua’s bay. Me by the window, Monica unfortunately in the middle, while some guy who appears to be hot and mildly irritated marshals his bulky mass in the aisle seat. I notice his armrest is raised. His thick legs leaking into her space like some consuming blob in a low-budget movie.
Be kind, I tell myself, retrieving my copy of New Psychotherapist from the holding net attached to the seat in front.
Monica releases her safety belt, twists her body while the guy inches back, allowing her to pass. I dare him to notice her ass. Go on, I goad in my mind. But he looks away, instead glancing at the queue for the toilet snaking down the plane’s narrow aisle, Monica falling in at number six. I gaze out of the small oval window. The lights from life below shimmering, long stretches of island roads shaping a fine chain of luminous white.
The Eighth Girl Page 27