Chapter 2
Nora
I clutch my garbage bag to my chest. My ribs ache from the beating last night, but I hold tight. Everything I own is in this bag.
I know who Cillian O’Rourke is. Everyone in my neighborhood knows.
“Cold as a gravestone in winter,” Mrs. Shalhoub from the convenience store told me once.
“Killed his first man before he grew hair on his chin.” Mr. Kline at the laundromat said he runs half of Chicago.
That the cops don’t touch him. People who cross him disappear.
I just got sold to a killer.
The city passes outside the window. We leave my neighborhood—boarded-up shops, liquor stores with bars on windows, people sleeping on sidewalks. The buildings get taller. Cleaner. Nicer.
I count blocks. Twenty-three. Counting is something I do when I’m scared. Numbers don’t lie. Numbers make sense.
What will he do to me?
The question lodges in my throat like a boulder. Will it hurt? I’ve heard stories. Girls who disappear into houses and come out different. Broken. If they come out at all.
I should have run when I turned eighteen. But I’m so tired. I’ve been tired for so long. And where would I go? I have sixty-three dollars. No car. No friends who could help.
At least I’m alive.
For now.
The SUV pulls up to a building that’s all glass and steel. A doorman in a uniform opens my door. He greets Mr. O’Rourke by name. Doesn’t blink at my garbage bag.
“Miss,” he says to me.
No one calls me that. Miss. Like I’m someone.
I follow Mr. O’Rourke inside. Marble floors stretch across the lobby. Actual marble. A chandelier hangs overhead. Everything gleams.
I don’t belong here.
The elevator is mirrored. I see myself and wish I hadn’t. My hair is a mess. The bruise on my cheek looks dark purple under these lights. My clothes are two sizes too big and stained. Next to Mr. O’Rourke in his perfect suit, I look like what I am. Trash.
The elevator climbs. I count floors. Thirty-two.
The doors open into an apartment. Not a hallway. An apartment. The entire floor is one apartment
My legs shake as I step out.
Floor-to-ceiling windows show the city stretched below. The furniture is expensive. With clean lines. There’s art on the walls—real art, not posters. Everything is organized and perfect.
“This way.” His voice makes me jump.
I hurriedly follow him down a hallway, counting my steps. Fourteen.
He opens a door to a bedroom that’s bigger than the floor plan of Dad’s entire house.
A massive bed is in the center of the room, covered in a white spread.
There are more pillows on it than I’ve ever owned.
To the left is a beautiful dresser that looks antique, and next to that is another door—probably a bathroom.
“This is your room,” he tells me.
I stare. My room? That doesn’t make sense. Why would he give me my own room? A room like this. What does he want?
He opens the closet. It’s empty, but enormous—bigger than my entire bedroom at Dad’s.
“There are toiletries in the bathroom. If there’s anything else you need, just let me know.”
My throat closes. This has to be a trick. A test. I’m supposed to say something or do something, and if I get it wrong—
“W-what am I supposed to do?” I croak out.
He turns to look at me. His eyes give nothing away.
“Tonight? Sleep. Eat something if you’re hungry. The kitchen is stocked.”
That’s not what I’m asking. I need to know what he expects. So I can do it right. So I don’t get hit.
“What do you want from me?” I force the words out.
Silence stretches. He studies me. I want to hide.
“I’m still figuring that out.” His voice is flat. Honest, maybe. “But, for right now, relax. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Relax? As if. I can’t remember the last time I felt relaxed, even in sleep.
Something crosses Mr. O’Rourke’s face. Like he knows what I’m thinking.
“I won’t touch you,” he says. Slower this time. “You have my word.”
I nod, but words don’t mean anything. Everyone lies.
“The door locks from the inside if you want.” He gestures to the bolt.
He leaves. The door clicks shut behind him.
I stand in the center of the room and count to one hundred as my heartbeat hammers against my ribs.
I check out the bathroom. Marble counters. A tub big enough to lie down in. A shower with a glass door. Thick towels folded on a rack. Bottles of shampoo and soap that look expensive. A toothbrush still in packaging.
When the mirror catches me, I flinch.
I look exactly like what I am. Bruised, disillusioned, and exhausted by life at nineteen.
I reached for the bedroom door and turned the knob, surprised when it opens.
He didn’t lock me in.
I close it again and lock it from the inside, testing it once. Twice. Three times.
The shower calls to me. I haven’t had hot water in weeks. Not since the electric bill was shut off for non-payment.
I lock the bathroom door, strip off my clothes, and turn the water on hot.
Steam fills the space. I step under the spray. It hits my face, my shoulders. I use the shampoo even though I shouldn’t waste it, and wash my hair three times. Scrub my skin until it hurts.
And then the torrent of tears starts.
I cry for my mother, who died when I was seven. For the girl I used to be before Dad’s drinking, before the beatings, before I learned to disappear. I cry for the fact that being sold to a mobster doesn’t even feel that bad. Yet.
When I finally get out, I wrap myself in a towel softer than any blanket I’ve ever owned.
The bed is too fluffy. Too big. Too clean.
I pull the comforter back. Pristine white sheets stretch across the mattress. I sit on the edge. The mattress doesn’t squeak or sag.
I feel odd here. Like I can’t sleep here. Or shouldn’t. This bed is for people who belong in places like this.
There are footsteps in the hallway.
My body goes rigid. The footsteps stop right outside my door.
I shrink, cower into myself to make myself smaller.
Don’t come in. Please, don’t come in.
The door handle doesn’t turn.
Seconds crawl past. The footsteps retreat.
I exhale. My lungs burn. He kept his word.
Tonight.
I take a pillow, walk to the closet, and sit in the back corner, pulling my knees to my chest.
Better. Small spaces are better. I can see the door. No one can sneak up.
I count the empty hangers above me. Forty-two.
I stare at the closet door in the darkness. He didn’t come in. He could have. This is his apartment. I’m his too, I guess. He owns me now.
But he didn’t come in.
I’m safe for now until he breaks that promise, which I have no doubt he will.
Promises are always broken.