17. Clara
Chapter 17
Clara
G od, I fucking hate him. I hate myself too, but him more.
Stupid, weak body, craving what it can’t have. I’ve spent too much time focusing on Deniz, and it’s warped a neural pathway in my brain. The simple solution is to block him out completely.
I refocus on the moderator at the podium, shifting in my seat and crossing my legs. I’m sitting on a panel, representing the Costa Family Foundation, where we’ve been answering questions about social media and human trafficking for the past two hours. Legislators, donors, non-profit heads, and community organization members all sit around tables, listening to us provide updates on the newest threats in this horrible field we work in. The moderator, a representative from the State Department, softens each harsh reality we describe with stories of victims we’ve returned home. The Costa Family Foundation is often the focus of these examples, because that’s how the world sees us. As a place victims can go to find safety, security, health services, and if possible, a passage back home .
Ironically enough, almost none of them know the most important work we do.
The State Department representative wraps up her closing statement, leading a round of applause for the panelists. I shake hands with a professor from Stanford studying patterns of human rights abuses; I found her answers about improving economic opportunities for women and girls in vulnerable areas particularly insightful.
Light jazz picks up over the speakers, and I step down from the stage to mingle with attendees. There are plenty of other organizations who do similar work to my family’s foundation, and I recognize a number of familiar faces in the crowd.
Maybe that’s why it takes a few minutes to notice the feeling. There are so many eyes on me, I don’t feel it right away. But the unmistakable sensation of being watched, like spiders crawling over my skin, slowly becomes evident.
I should be used to this feeling by now, knowing that Deniz’s eyes are nearly always on me, one way or another. But a quick scan around the room reveals no cameras; the session wasn’t recorded or live-streamed, and there wasn’t even a presentation. Of course, he could be accessing some sort of AV equipment I can’t see, but something feels…wrong. As I continue conversations with colleagues, I casually scan the room, keeping an eye out for anyone whose behavior seems out of place. Everyone seems engrossed in their discussions, no one hovering or staring.
Still, the feeling won’t dissipate. I excuse myself from the conversation I’m not paying attention to and make my way toward the back of the room where the crowd is thinner, hoping I’ll get a better vantage. I pretend to look at my phone, the unwelcome eyes still clearly locked to my skin. I usually don’t feel this uncomfortable when Deniz is watching me—though I won’t go so far to admit that I enjoy it—but now this ominous feeling won’t go away.
I quickly text Lee to meet me out front, unnerved that I still can't determine where this feeling is coming from. Maybe I really am losing my mind. Most likely, it is Deniz, and my Costa Sixth Sense is malfunctioning.
As I slip out of the conference center, my heels silent against the carpeted floor, I convince myself that I’m overwhelmed and distracted. I know I’ll spend the entire evening running background checks on every attendee, employee, and guest in that room. Especially after Lee closes the door, tucking me safely into the back of my car. When the sensation finally stops.