Pretty Little Girls

by Jenifer Ruff

  Anastasia jerked her hands away and stared. A small, rounded object nestled inside the foil, pink and brown with dried, crusty blood. “What is it?”

  “A parting gift from your friend.” Svet’s grin was even bigger now. “No matter how long you’ve been around, or how valuable you think you are, this is what happens when you don’t keep your mouth shut.”

  Anastasia grabbed hold of her ear lobe and tugged. She turned to Sofia. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” Sofia’s heart sunk. “It’s nothing.” She pressed the tinfoil closed around the object and tucked it under her seat.

  “You don’t recognize it, Anastasia?” Svet laughed. “Some friend you are.”

  “What is it?” Anastasia pleaded with Sofia, her voice a mere whisper. “Tell me.” She sounded afraid and desperate. She twitched her ear back and forth at record speed.

  In the rear-view mirror, Svet watched, laughing like a frightening lunatic.

  Sofia didn’t want Anastasia to know. She needed her friend to be strong. But if she didn’t tell her, Svet would. Somehow, he would find a way to make the situation more heartbreaking than it already was. Sofia shielded her mouth with her hand and leaned close to her friend. “It’s Sasha’s tongue.”

  Anastasia stopped tugging and instead, squeezed her ear so tight it turned bright red. She stared down at her lap. Tears rolled down her flawless skin.

  Svet slapped the steering wheel repeatedly like it was a drum. “And for the finale, someone in Sasha’s family is going to disappear to pay for her misbehavior. That’s what happens, ladies. Get it? Play by the rules or die. You die, and then something very bad happens to someone you love.”

  Still grinning, Svet turned his heavy metal music up and bobbed his head to the beat.

  Sofia reached for Anastasia’s hand and squeezed it. “Don’t cry,” she whispered. “You’ll mess up your makeup.”

  She glared at the back of Svet’s head. This has to end.

  The van turned into a neighborhood and slowed. Sofia whispered into Anastasia’s ear. “Do you see a street sign? And can you read it?”

  “Old Sycamore,” Anastasia whispered back, massacring the pronunciation.

  They arrived at a stately brick home with black shutters, still clutching hands. The house was familiar. They’d been here before, but Sofia couldn’t remember the details. This time, she hoped and prayed, would be the last. “Memorize the street name and the house number,” she whispered. “We’ll need that information for when we find a phone and call the tip line.”

  Svet escorted them to the front, pretending to be a gentleman with his dates. They looped their arms through his like they were taught to do.

  Wreaths made of bright fall leaves decorated double doors forming a tall arch.

  “Oh, no.” Anastasia turned pale. “Please, no.” She reached for Sofia’s arm and tightened her grip.

  As Svet rang the doorbell, Sofia searched her friend’s face for the source of her fear.

  A silver-haired man in a sports coat opened the door. He greeted the girls warmly, like they were actual friends invited over for a dinner party. Sofia cringed. A coil of panic tightened inside her stomach. She remembered the stories Anastasia told her about the owner of this house. He was someone important—a politician or business executive—and he had sadistic penchants. He didn’t want to have sex with the girls, he wanted to do things to them. Things that made her stomach turn.

  Sofia squared her shoulders. The man stared longingly at Anastasia’s neck, then turned his back and went into the house. “Don’t worry,” Sofia murmured. “I’ll go with him. You went last time.”

  Svet suddenly dug his fingers into Sofia’s arm. She gasped.

  “Whoever he wants is who will go. Got it?” Svet snarled, his voice low but threatening.

  Inside, a small number of guests were also well-dressed, mostly overweight, all of them old. Their laughter was loud and frequent, evidence they’d been drinking for some time from their etched crystal glasses. Their eyes roamed over the girls, making Sofia feel like Hansel and Gretel—one of the more disturbing stories from her childhood—before the witch decided to eat them. There were no other women in the room.

  Sofia took hold of Anastasia’s wrist and gently pulled it away from her ear. They had important work ahead of them and needed to focus.

  Under Svet’s watchful eye, Sofia flitted from room to room pretending to admire large pieces of framed art and leather furniture while she searched for a phone. She needed to lean close to the carved mantels over the glowing fires, close to the grand piano that had a room to itself, and close to the shelves lined with leather-bound books because her eyesight was worse in the dim light. Anastasia was supposed to be doing the same, but Sofia knew in her heart that when it came down to it, if anyone had the guts to pull this off, it would be her.

  She turned sideways to pass a leering man with a gray beard and moustache, trying not to get too close. Surely he’s too old. He lurched forward and pulled her onto his lap. He had one long and errant gray hair protruding from his eyebrow.

  “Can I get you a cocktail?” His voice was hoarse and gravelly.

  “Thank you, sir, no.” While he stared at her cleavage, she eyed his suit coat and pants pocket for the outline of a phone.

  “Come with me.” He pushed her up.

  From across the room, Svet met her eyes and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  Hobbling, the decrepit man led her down a hallway, away from the rest of the guests, and into a bedroom.

  She squinted at the dresser and the tables next to each bed. When she finally spoke again, she lay her thickest accent over poor English. “Room very nice.”

  He grunted and pushed her toward the bed. “Take off your dress.”

  A wave of panic hit and she rubbed her damp palms against her dress. When he finished with her, someone else might take his place. If I’m stuck in here all night, we won’t have a chance.

  He started removing his belt and a quick glimpse of his flabby, hairy stomach repulsed her.

  She screwed up her face into a grimace. “Excuse me. Powder room?”

  The man frowned, holding on to his belt buckle. She didn’t think he was going to let her go. With an irritated puff of breath, he finally pointed a gnarled old finger. “There’s one down the hall. Hurry up because I’m ready now.”

  She knew all about men waiting for their pills to take effect. She hurried into the hall. It was now or never. She had to find a phone.

  Svet frowned and stepped in front of her, blocking her way. “Where you going?”

  “I have to pee first, or I might wet myself. And no one here tonight has asked for that . . . yet.” She smirked to hide her hatred.

  “Hurry up,” he grunted. “There’s only the two of you now. You need to keep busy.”

  Maybe you should offer to service some of them. But she dared not say it.

  Svet didn’t know where the bathroom was any more than she did, so Sofia hurried into the first doorway she came to and locked the door behind her. She turned and took in a large master bedroom.

  Quickly, she opened and closed each drawer in a dresser that ran almost the length of one wall. Her search came up empty. She darted across the room to check a giant closet with men’s clothing. Nothing. Across from it, an even bigger closet held women’s gowns, sweaters, an entire wall of shoes. The door of a safe was slightly ajar. She opened a polished-wood box inside. Jeweled earrings, bracelets, and rings stared back at her from compartments and slots. Above the safe hung gold and silver necklaces.

  But no phone.

  She hurried back to the bedroom door, opened it a crack, and peered into the hall. Svet was talking to one of the old men, but not the one Sofia had left. She didn’t think she’d been gone more than a minute, but any second Svet might come looking for her and drag her back to the other bedroom. In a frenzy of emotion, her hope was draining as if her wrists had been cut and left to bleed out.

  She flew into
the bathroom in the back of the master and yanked each cabinet drawer open and shut, so desperate and rushed she wasn’t even trying to be silent anymore. Don’t rich people keep cell phones around their homes in case of an emergency? Or does each person only have one? She didn’t know. In Ukraine, only children of very wealthy parents had cell phones. But not here.

  Frantic, her face tight with worry, she ran her eyes over everything again. A shower with three glass walls. A clawfoot tub in front of a large window.

  If that window opens, I could fit through.

  Trembling with anticipation, she hitched up her dress, climbed into the bathtub, and pulled a lever on the window. Jammed! She threw all her weight against it and pushed instead of pulled until the lever flipped to the opposite side. She pried her fingers under the sill and tried to hoist it up. It didn’t budge. Forcing her fingers deeper into the miniscule crack, she pushed again with all her might. Her pink nails shattered. With a squelching release and the snapping of old paint, the window let go its hold and nudged upward until it was higher than her shoulders and tall enough for her to fit through.

  Giddy with fear, she peered into the darkness below. She was on the first floor with maybe seven feet from the bottom of the window to the ground. She couldn’t see well enough to be sure. Chills flared through her body. She hoped the darker objects under the window were bushes that would break her fall. And was there a fence around the yard? She couldn’t remember.

  Her pulse pounded. She pulled off her heels and dropped them into the tub. Where would she run to? If she didn’t get far away, and fast—if she failed—if the microchip was real—Stephen would murder her. He would make it long and painful, do it right in front of Anastasia and the new girl so they wouldn’t even dream of trying to escape again. And what might happen to her family then, if she didn’t get away? An image of her younger sister, Katya, popped into her head, making her already queasy stomach drop and clench. Katya was so young and innocent. Not near as tough as Sofia. She’d never survive.

  Her hands shook as they gripped the window ledge, her mind racing. It’s now or never. A chance to see her family again was hers for the taking. If Ms. Bois shipped Emma to another country, the opportunity would slip away. Sofia might never have another number to call with people who wanted to know the truth. As long as she could make a deal about leading them to Emma, she and Anastasia had a fighting chance at freedom.

  The overwhelming desire for change had finally outweighed all the risks now that she had a branch of hope to grab hold of.

  But how can I go home empty-handed after all this time? Nothing to show for all I’ve endured.

  She spun around, leaped out of the tub, and ran back to the woman’s closet. Yanking the jewelry box open, she pulled out everything she could grab then snatched some of the necklaces down from the wall. Her sheath dress had no pockets, so she flung beads around her neck, slid bracelets over her wrists, and jammed rings on her fingers.

  She raced back to the bathroom, slammed the door, and twisted the lock just in time.

  “What you doing in there?” Svet was through the locked bedroom door.

  Her heart was in her throat, pounding fear and adrenaline through her body so she could barely think straight. “I’m not feeling well. I got sick.” She flushed the toilet for effect. “I just need a minute to clean up and I’ll be back out.” Her whole body was shaking like she’d caught Emma’s fever. “Just let me get cleaned up.”

  The bathroom door handle rattled.

  “Open door now, Sofia!” His voice was a low, sinister growl. “Don’t screw with me or you’ll regret it with every ounce of your whoring body! Open door now!” He pounded against the wood.

  She scrambled over the tub. I’m so sorry for leaving you, Anastasia. I’ll come back for you. If I’m alive, I’ll come back for you. Before she could change her mind, she heaved herself into the open window and leapt out. Her dress tugged, caught on something. It ripped as she fell to the ground, hitting the bushes. She jumped up. With branches grabbing for her and scratching at her skin, she ran for her life.

  “Hey!” Svet’s angry voice came from somewhere behind her. He was shouting now, all pretenses abandoned.

  I’m out! I’m free! I’m running!

  She could scarcely believe it was happening. Under the full moon, she yanked her dress up and ran faster, feeling like an Olympic sprinter who had no other choice than to win the race.

  Just need to get somewhere safe and dial the number. Faster! Faster! Keep running!

  Aiming for a house brimming with light at the top of the street, she pumped her arms harder, eating up the sidewalk like her life depended on it.

  A man and woman exited a house with a small dog on a leash.

  Sofia screamed through gasping swallows of air. “I need your phone!”

  The roar of a gun permeated the silent night.

  Her body jerked violently. A searing pain roared over her shoulders, sliced through her nerves, and exploded across her back. Hitting the ground face first, confused and angry, her ragged breath still loud and rapid, was the last thing she remembered.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Stephen opened Allison’s wine refrigerator, selected a bottle, and held it up. “Nice.”

  Allison winced. “That’s a very expensive vintage.”

  “I know.” He unwrapped the top. “That’s why I’m opening it.” She was still angry about the girls being in her home. He didn’t care.

  “Fine.” Allison sat on a leather-topped barstool, scowling. “Just make yourself at home why don’t you?”

  “I have.” He enjoyed Allison’s less than humble abode. “Just need a cork screw.”

  “Top right drawer.” Allison pressed her hands flat against the marble counter while Stephen found what he needed and opened the bottle.

  He sniffed the top. “Very nice.” Grabbing two glasses from her shelf, he set them on the counter.

  Allison watched him pour the wine. “Busy night, I presume.”

  “Petar and Damian are at the motels. Svet has Anastasia and Sofia at a house party for McCullen.”

  Still frowning, Allison accepted her glass. “Our client arrives in Charlotte in a few hours. He’ll smuggle Emma out and sign the papers for the new building. So, let’s get this done, make sure we’re in agreement.”

  “First you wanted us to buy the place, then you didn’t.” He sang the words to a tune only he could hear. “Now you do . . .”

  “Don’t start, Stephen. Focus.”

  “Who is the client?”

  “One of our contacts in Japan—”

  “What’s his name?” Stephen took a drink of his wine, staring at Allison from the other side of the kitchen island.

  “Yusaku. The one who bought Camila last year.”

  “The freak with the toe fetish.”

  “Yes. He’ll lease the building through a holding company. I’ll order some supplies and cots, and you can have the girls move in when you finish in Winston-Salem. The whole Carolina crew. All of them in one location.”

  “Hmm.” He swirled his wine. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  “Think about it—”

  “I will. We’ll need a name for the business front, if it’s going to work. Massage something.”

  “Calling it a spa would be better.” Allison smoothed her hand over her hair and pulled it forward over her shoulder.

  “Spa something. Okay. How do we keep people from coming in to get an actual massage?”

  “Train the girls to do massages?”

  “There’s no chance in hell of the motel girls giving a real massage. You know that. They don’t have the strength to wipe their own asses most of the time.”

  “Sofia and Anastasia—no reason they should lay around sleeping all day.”

  Stephen smirked. “Right? The two of them together don’t have the muscle to do it. I go to this woman . . . the arms on her, she could wrestle an—"

  “I’ll figure it
out. We wouldn’t be reinventing the wheel. These places are everywhere. It’s going to be much easier than continuing to find new places every time they’re in Charlotte. This is our best market.”

  Stephen picked at the wine label, creating small tears across the top. “About the American girl—her parents actually do have money. I’m thinking of orchestrating a ransom.”

  Allison huffed. “No. Ransoms never work. People get caught picking up the cash. Besides she’s seen all of us. It’s out of the question.”

  “I didn’t say we’d give her back after we got the money.”

  “Okay.” Allison took a sip of wine. “I’m listening.”

  “Damian will do the pick-up and hold on to the money until it’s safe. If he’s caught, he can be replaced with a new spotter. He won’t give up names. Never. It’s his fault the whole city is looking for this girl anyway. All because Martinez asked for a prep school girl. I can make anyone look like a prep school girl. Can’t believe he snatched a real one.”

  Allison ran her red-tipped finger around the rim of her glass. “Just when you think the extras are with the program, you find out how brainless they really are.”

  “Damian is the least stupid of the lot.”

  Allison shrugged one shoulder. “Have you confronted him yet?”

  “He just got back in Charlotte. I’m still deciding how I’m going to do it.” He grinned. “Lots of options. If I only had one hand that worked, I’d be quite worried about protecting the other.”

  “Damian is too nice for our operation anyway. Always bringing the girls presents or whatever the hell he buys them.”

  “Disfigured Damian has checked in, but can never leave. Not alive anyway.” He silently entertained the chorus from Hotel California but refrained from sharing it with his colleague. He returned his thoughts to the matter at hand—what to do with Emma and Damian.

  “Don’t waste your time talking to him about it.” Allison rested her forearms on the counter. “Just get rid of him. I’ll tell Svet to do it. Give him a bonus.”