I wish that I could return the sentiment. Honestly, I do. But instead, I nod politely and see myself out. Some things cannot be found again, once they’re lost.
Hurriedly, I make my way out into the winding back gardens of our home. Stepping out into the early evening, I suck in deep breaths of warm air. I reach into my pocket for my smart phone and a scrap of paper, onto which I’ve scratched a phone number. I punch in the digits and listen as the line rings once, twice, and clicks.
“Hello?” says a clear female voice on the other end of the line.
“Miss Levy,” I say, “This is Lukas Roth.”
“Oh! Hello Mr. Roth,” Hannah replies, her voice sending tendrils of long-dormant desire wriggling through my mind.
“I enjoyed meeting you this afternoon,” I go on, ignoring the sudden huskiness of my own voice, “And I was hoping—Well, I would like to offer you to position. It would make my mother very happy to have you here. It would...make me happy to have you, as well.”
A long moment of silence passes as I mentally kick myself for the phrasing of that last sentiment. Finally, I hear Hannah draw in a breath and answer.
“Yes. Of course. Thank you, Mr. Roth. When do I start?”
Chapter Five
-Hannah-
“You got it?!” Sophia shrieks the moment I open our front door.
“How did you guess?” I ask, grinning so wide that it hurts.
“Oh please,” Sophia scoffs, “Your face is like an open book. One that I’ve read about a hundred times, I might add.”
A mouthwatering aroma catches my attention, and I notice the vintage apron tied around Sophia’s waist. She smiles deviously, producing a bottle of fine Italian wine from behind her back.
“Sophia!” I cry, “What’s all this?”
“I figured that when you got home you’d either need a celebratory feast or a conciliatory meal,” Sophia shrugs, “I wanted to have my bases covered.”
I close the space between us and wrap my arms around my best friend. We spin around the living room, laughing like school girls. I may not have been born with any sisters, but I’ve certainly found someone just as good—or better—in my best friend.
“Why don’t you slip out of the secretary outfit so we can relax?” Sophia grins, pulling away from me. “The grub will be done in just a minute.”
“Have I ever told you how wonderful you are?” I ask her, heading back to my room.
“Only every day since we’ve met,” she says, rolling her eyes, “You’ve got my ego inflated like a hot air balloon, you know.”
“Stop being so awesome, and I’ll quit it,” I tease. “Be back in a sec.”
I slip into my bedroom and close the door behind me. I can hear Sophia humming something by Bob Dylan as she puts the finishing touches on dinner. Instinctively, I lock my door behind me. Even though it’s only Sophia and I in the house, I can never be truly at ease these days. Without thinking, I scan my darkened bedroom to see if anything’s out of place. It might seem like a paranoid practice, but it’s certainly not unwarranted.
Satisfied that my room is safe and sound, I unbutton my blouse and slide the pencil skirt down over my curvy hips. Stepping out of my clothes, I cross the room to pick up my cotton dressing gown where I’ve left it hanging from one of my bedposts. My own reflection in the floor length mirror catches my eye, and I stop to take a look at myself. Even just standing in the middle of my room, naked but for my baby blue bra and panties, feels irresponsibly brash.
I take in the sight of my own reflection, letting my eyes rake down along my body. I’m a reasonable enough to person to know that, objectively speaking, I’ve been blessed with a very nice body. My hips, breasts, and ass swell voluptuously in the right places while my waist remains tiny. My arms and legs are toned, but not bulky—evidence of my longtime running and yoga habits. My hair is thick and glossy, my fingers and toes willowy. When I look at myself in this detached way, I can acknowledge that the rest of the world probably sees me as beautiful.
But that beauty isn’t something that I can see and feel for myself. To me, my body is a collection of clumsy bones and muscles that will never be perfect enough to warrant real satisfaction. This body that I carry around is nothing but a testament to the trials I’ve been put through. When I look at myself, I don’t see perky breasts or a nice ass, I see the body that was taken advantage of by some college jock. I see the body that barely withstood years of abuse and disdain. My body keeps score. And I’m the one who’s always losing.
I turn sideways in the mirror and scrutinize the souvenirs that Sloan left me. Fading bruises stand out against the sandy skin of my torso. My ribs are covered in layers of yellow and green, evidence of the years I spent under Sloan’s oppressive fist. Even the most recent marks are beginning to fade, now. But even when there’s no physical trace of Sloan on my body, I’ll still know that the damage is there. Even when they become invisible, the marks he left me will never truly fade away.
“Hannah?” Sophia calls from the kitchen, “Dinner’s ready. Are you coming?”
“Yeah,” I say, struggling to keep the upset from my voice, “Be right there.”
I hastily don my dressing gown and make my way to our little dining room table. I gasp as I take in the feast that Sophia has prepared. A huge bowl of pesto linguine waits at the center of the table, with a fresh loaf of crispy bread and a kale salad with almonds and parmesan flanking it. There are tiny bowls of fine oil and olives, roasted cashews and luscious grapes, placed all around the table.
“You’ve outdone yourself yet again,” I breathe, “Everything looks amazing.”
“I try,” Sophia says, popping open the wine and pouring two generous glasses full of the bold red elixir. “Now sit down and tell me all about the Roths.”
We settle into our places and fill our plates with delectable goodness. Thank God we’ve both been blessed with metabolisms that let us indulge like this whenever we want. If I had to force myself away from Sophia’s amazing cooking for the sake of my waistline, I don’t know what I’d do. We clink glasses and dig in as I walk Sophia through my interview.
“First of all, their place is more like an estate than a home,” I tell her, “It’s this big, gorgeous Tudor with a long drive lined by oak trees. I think I spotted a good old fashioned garden in the back, too—like in a Jane Austen novel or something.”
“Ahh! I love it already,” Sophia moans, popping a plump olive into her mouth. “What’s the inside like?”
“It’s like...a museum,” I tell her, “Incredible hardwood floor and paneling, velvet and gold everywhere. And I’m pretty sure there are enough priceless works of art to support about fifteen generations of trust fund babies. Not to say that that’s what the Roths are.”
“What are they then?” Sophia asks, “Tycoons? Con artists? Drug dealers?”
“None of the above,” I laugh, “At least, not that I know of. Gertrude, that’s my patient, came over to the US during World War II. Her father was a doctor, and left the family a nice nest egg to get by on after...you know.”
“I don’t,” Sophia says.
“The family’s from Germany,” I tell her slowly, “Gertrude’s parents were Jewish.”
“Oh,” Sophia breathes, “Goddamn.”
“Yeah,” I say, “Gertrude made it to the states with her two sisters and mom, but her dad...”
“That’s horrible,” Sophia says, taking a sip of wine.
“I know,” I say, shaking my head, “It’s amazing what people can withstand. The mother married into money once they’d been in the states for a couple of years, and that amazing house came to be Gertrude’s once the rest of the family was...I suppose Gertrude’s husband showed up on the scene at some point. Lukas had to have come from somewhere. But he wasn’t very keen on talking about his dad...”
“It’s Lukas, is it?” Sophia grins, “On a first name basis with the new boss already?”
“Mr. Roth,” I correct myself. “I supp
ose I’ll have to work on that before I start.”
“And when’s that?” Sophia asks.
“In a week,” I tell her.
“What’s the holdup?” Sophia asks, “You’d think they’d want you to start right away.”
“Who knows,” I shrug, “But I can’t wait. I miss having somewhere to be outside of work. It’s going to be hard to get through the next few days with only the hospital to keep me busy.”
“Only the hospital,” Sophia laughs, “You’re something, Hannah Levy, a little nutty I think.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, I guess,” I tell her, lifting a heaping forkful of pasta to my mouth.
“So it’s just Mr. Roth and his mother in the big old house?” Sophia asks.
“Yep,” I say, “Well, and the butler, Mr. Thomas. Maybe a servant or two.”
“No wife for Mr. Roth? No kids?” Sophia presses.
“I don’t think so, I didn't see any evidence of them,” I tell her.
“Huh,” she says, “I wonder what’s wrong with him?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“The guy’s loaded, with a veritable estate at his disposal. I’m assuming he’s attractive?”
“...Very,” I admit.
“I knew it,” Sophia smiles, “You walked in here dreamy-eyed and practically drooling.”
“I did not,” I protest, stifling a grin.
“You did so,” she shoots back. “So, if this guy’s a total babe and filthy stinking rich, why isn’t he attached?”
“There’s no rule saying that someone needs to get married and have kids. Or even be in a relationship,” I remind her.
“Hello,” she drawls, “Remember who you’re talking to—the poster child for alternative lifestyles and free love. I’m just saying, people like the Roths tend to be a little more traditional than yours truly. There are questions of inheritance and whatnot. No...There’s a story there, I promise you.”
“Whatever,” I say, dabbing at my lips with a napkin, “If you want to entertain conspiracy theories about my new boss, be my guest. My guess is that he’s a rich, entitled, self-absorbed millionaire with an iron rod up his ass.”
“Well, everyone’s got their kink, maybe he's gay?” Sophia winks.
I let out a laugh. “You’re incorrigible,” I say, “And you remain the uncontested queen of all things culinary. I’m absolutely stuffed.”
“Hopefully not entirely stuffed,” she says, rising from her seat and scurrying into the kitchen. She reappears a moment later holding a rich, picture-perfect tiramisu.
“You’re trying to kill me,” I groan.
“This would be some way to go though, wouldn’t it?” she smiles.
We manage to tuck into the decadent dessert together, each savoring a few bites of Sophia’s masterful baking. I help her clean up the kitchen, against her protestations, and turn in for the night.
For her part, Sophia decides to stay awake and finish a wood carving she’s been working on all week. But I’ve got another long shift at the hospital tomorrow before I’m forced to take a couple days off. No use worrying about that now, though.
I curl up under my covers and close my eyes, waiting for sleep to claim me. I wait for the inevitable stream of memories to roll through my mind’s eye as I urge myself toward dreamland. My muscles tense up as I anticipate the nightly visions of Sloan.
Every night since I finally called it quits, visions of my destructive ex have haunted my dreams. As much as I’ve tried to spill my guts to my therapist in an effort to banish these nightmares, they’re very persistent. I can practically feel his looming presence lying in wait for me as I finally drift off into sleep.
My consciousness slips into the dream world, and I lose control of the images that bombard me there. I find myself back in a familiar place—Sloan’s dim and utilitarian apartment. I can feel his presence there, know that he’s lurking somewhere just beyond my range of vision. In my dream, I brace myself, waiting for him to strike. Will it be an open hand or a closed fist this time? Perhaps a swift kick, or a brutal shove? But as I linger in that haunted space, waiting for pain to befall me, something shifts.
The too-familiar walls of Sloan’s apartment begin to dissolve. I can hear his voice, growling in protest, as I’m whisked away from his domain. For a moment, I’m suspended in a dark, warm void—the space between dreams. I’m almost afraid to trust the reality of my subconscious escape.
When the world comes into focus once more, I imagine a cool breeze glancing against my skin. I look down and gasp—a gorgeous, sapphire blue ball gown hangs from my body, perfectly fitted and dappled in the moonlight. I’m in some sort of maze of tall hedges, and my high heels click against red bricks as I move through this new, beautiful space.
I can hear a fountain trickling just beyond my range of vision, and dozens of fireflies ride up out of the greenery as I pass. The far off sounds of a party catch my ear—strains of a string quartet, the hushed laughter of guests. The scene reminds me of my childhood, tagging along with my parents to country clubs and golf resorts for the weddings of their coworkers’ children and the like. But although this place reminds me of my suffocating, conservative youth, I don’t feel afraid here.
As I make my way around a tower of wisteria, a small courtyard opens up before me. At the center of the space is the most gorgeous work of art I’ve ever seen up close. It’s a statue, made of copper that has long since oxidized into a brilliant turquoise. The figure is that of a young, nude woman; her posture is one of frantic flight. She stands above a pool of still water, glancing over her shoulder in dismay. Her ankles are bound by shackles and chains, and while her one hand reaches toward the sky, the other is closed around something that looks like a fruit of some kind.
“It’s Persephone,” says a voice behind me. I cannot tear my eyes away from the beautiful young woman before me to see who has joined me in the courtyard.
“She’s beautiful,” I whisper, drinking in the sight of the statue.
“She’s sad,” the voice behind me says, “She’s trapped by circumstance, shamed and enslaved because of events she couldn’t control. Bound to the underworld, relegated to tragic infamy for all time. And all because she trusted that the world could be good.”
“It’s Greek mythology, isn’t it?” I ask, “Just stories, in the end?”
“I don’t believe in ‘just stories’,” says the voice. Am I mad, or do the words I’m hearing have the slightest hint of a foreign inflection. German, perhaps? “I think that the best stories are the ones that we can understand, empathize with in a very human way. Perhaps that’s why you found your way here, to Persephone’s statue. You understand her pain, don’t you Hannah?”
“No,” I insist, restlessly, “No, of course not.”
“Have it your way,” the voice replies, “But you can’t hide from me, Miss Levy. Not for long.”
I whip my head around to face the person behind me, but as I do the dream world falls away. My eyes snap open, take in the first glow of daylight beyond my bedroom window. As I sit up, the dream slips through my fingers. I can’t recall it for the life of me, now that I’m awake. I brush off the uncanny dream and pick myself up out of bed. Another day, another shift—no time for daydreams or wistful sighs. I throw myself into the course of the day and let it swallow me whole once again.
Chapter Six
-Lukas-
The sun begins to lighten the sky, overcast with thick clouds. It looks as though the heavens will open up any moment, pouring torrents of rain down onto the world below. Excellent. Heavy rain makes my job a hell of a loss easier, and less messy.
I peer through the magnified scope of my rifle, checking up on the man I’ve been stalking all night. This is one of my longer stakeouts to date, but I can be patient. It will be well worth the wait, once I get my opening.
Through the lens, a massive, bulbous shape comes into view. The jagged rhythm of my target’s obese body as he pumps away into a bored-l
ooking hooker makes me sick. He’s been at this for hours, going through whores like quick-burning cigarettes.
Those poor women...to have to lay back and entertain this pathetic excuse for a man. I’m sure they’re being compensated, but I can’t image a sum high enough to make up for their loss of freedom and having to spend a night with this disgusting creature. My finger itches, yearning to pull the trigger. But it isn’t time yet. I don’t leave witnesses, I don't do loose ends.
I set my gun down on the passenger seat, keeping my eyes locked on the bay window of my target’s home. One major benefit of working freelance is that no one can tell you how many cigarettes is too many to go through in one night. With a grim smile, I take another smoke between my lips and light up, savoring the burn as the first drag hits the back of my throat. There’s nothing in the world like the first hit of a brand new cigarette. It’s better than sex. Well...almost.
Overhead, the jiggling figure sags forward and slumps almost out of view. Looks like Mr. Impotent sloth has finally managed to get himself off. And it only took five hours and eight women. That must be some kind of record for him.
I’ve been trailing this piece of shit for about a week now, getting the lay of the land. He was kind enough to send his wife and teenage daughter to Paris for a couple of days. His reasons for this sudden act of generosity are currently sprawled in various states of undress all over the room he shares with his wife; but little does he know that the trip is quite a gift to me, as well.
With his family away, there will be no one to question his whereabouts for days. The girls he’s paid off for the night certainly aren’t bound to stick around once his body hits the floor. Hell, I’m sure his won’t be the first corpse any of them has ever laid eyes on. I grind my teeth, thinking about the heinous lives these girls have been forced into; and of course the brutal irony of their having to service the very man responsible for their capture.
I watch, taking deep and steadying breaths, as my target hauls himself up out of bed and tosses a stack of hundred dollar bills at the girl lying naked on the mattress. He throws his head back and laughs as the notes stick to her body where he’s spurted his disgusting seed across her flawless skin.
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