Chapter One #3
“He doesn’t want to leave me out of it. That’s the point.”
“I’ll go to the police.”
I held his stare until his shoulders dropped.
We both knew how that sounded on our block, with his signature on a marker and Gennady’s family name attached to rooms no one admitted existed.
“I can ask the floor manager for an advance,” I said.
Petya’s laugh broke apart. “He’ll give you what, two hundred?”
“I can ask Tamar if she knows someone who lends.”
“At what rate? To who? To us?”
“I can negotiate.”
“With Gennady?”
The silence after that was the ugliest answer.
Petya sank down again. “I’ll run. I’ll leave tonight.”
“You leaving gives Gennady a reason to come through that door.”
“He’s already at your job. He already touched you.” Petya’s voice shook. “Nadia, I can’t sit here and watch this happen.”
“Then don’t sit. Start by not lying to me again.”
He stared at the marker. “I don’t know how to fix it.”
“I know.”
That was the problem. He finally knew it too.
I stood because sitting made the apartment feel too small. My feet protested when I crossed to the sink. I turned on the tap, but the pipes coughed before water came out. Brown at first, then clear. I washed Gennady’s touch from my skin with dish soap that smelled like fake lemons.
Petya stayed behind me.
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he said.
Water ran over my fingers. “You tell me before the man comes to my job.”
“I was ashamed.”
I shut off the tap and gripped the edge of the sink. “Shame is expensive. We can’t afford yours right now.”
He made a small sound.
I turned. “Go to bed.”
“I’m not sleeping.”
“Then lie down and be awake in your bedroom. I need to think.”
“I’m not leaving you alone with this.”
“You’re not in charge of me.”
“No, but I’m your brother.”
“And I’m your sister.” My voice softened, and that almost undid me. “I’m the one who has to stay useful enough to keep you alive.”
“I hate that.”
“So do I.”
He crossed to me and hugged me hard. He was taller than me now, all rigid shoulders and angry breath, but he held on like letting go would make the floor disappear. I stood stiff for half a second, then put my hand against the back of his head.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“I know.”
“I’ll fix it.”
“You’ll start by not lying to me again.”
He nodded against my shoulder.
When he finally pulled away, he studied the marker as if it were a lit match near gasoline.
“I’ll figure something out tomorrow,” he said.
“We both will.”
He wanted to believe me. I watched him choose to.
Petya went to the bedroom. The door didn’t latch unless you lifted it, so it stayed open a crack. Springs creaked as he sat on the edge of the bed. A minute later, his fist hit the mattress once, a dull, swallowed thud, and then the room went still.
I stood in the living room in my black dress, bare feet aching on warped laminate, dark hair coming loose down my back, tips and bills spread across the table.
I tried every clean answer first.
Rent. Gas. Electric. Food. Debt.
Extra shifts. Advance. Loan. Sell the necklace our mother left, if the pawnshop gave me anything. Beg for more time.
Every number came back dead.
The folded receipt from Tamar sat inside my coat pocket.
I didn’t touch it at first. I made tea instead, because the jar of instant coffee was empty and the tea bags were cheap enough to taste like paper.
I opened the refrigerator and found half a carton of milk, two eggs, and a plastic container of rice that had gone dry at the edges.
I closed it again before the light could make the shelves look emptier.
In the bedroom, Petya turned over. The couch springs answered. Rain ticked against the taped window. Downstairs, someone laughed too loudly in the hall, then a door slammed.
I pulled the receipt from my pocket and smoothed it beside the bills.
The number seemed harmless in black ink. Ten digits. It carried no name, no door, and no face.
I searched the number on my phone without calling. Nothing came up. Of course nothing came up. Men who bought women didn’t leave customer reviews.
I went to the bathroom and turned the shower on so Petya couldn’t hear me if I broke. The water knocked inside the wall before it came hot. Steam clouded the mirror in patches.
I stripped out of the dress and stood there in my slip, staring at myself above the chipped sink.
Gennady had watched me like the decision was already made.
He thought three days would teach me where to kneel.
My hands shook once. I pressed my palms flat to the sink until they stopped.
Then I returned to the living room, picked up the receipt, and typed the number into my phone.
The first message took too long because my fingers kept hitting the wrong letters.
I deleted it.
I tried again.
Deleted that too.
Finally, I wrote one line.
I need information about a private contract.
I stared at it until the words blurred.
From the bedroom, Petya turned over again. The old floor creaked under the radiator. Rain ran down the glass in thin silver lines.
I hit send before I could hate myself enough to stop.
The reply came less than a minute later.
Available tomorrow. Virgin status required. Payment guaranteed if accepted. Are you untouched?
My breath left me in one long, silent stream.
I turned toward Petya’s half-open door.
He couldn’t know. If he knew, he would run straight into Gennady’s men trying to stop me. If he knew, he would make this about his guilt instead of his survival. If he knew, I might let him talk me out of the only door left that didn’t open directly into Gennady’s room.
I typed with both thumbs.
I typed the answer.
Three dots appeared. Vanished. Appeared again.
Then: Send photo. First name. Age. Confirmation you enter willingly.
The word willingly made something bitter pull through me.
I was standing in an apartment with old locks, cold floors, an empty refrigerator, and my brother crying behind a broken door because men with money had decided our lives were theirs to squeeze. Willing was a clean word. A word for women with options stacked neatly in front of them.
I had one option that might save Petya and keep me from being handed privately to Gennady Kask.
So I lifted my phone, took a picture with my dark hair loose and my face scrubbed pale by exhaustion, and sent it before I could study myself like merchandise.
Then I typed:
Nadia. Twenty-three. I enter willingly.
The message delivered.
My phone sat warm in my palm.
I didn’t feel brave. I didn’t feel pure or ruined or any of the words men liked to attach to women when they wanted to set a price. I felt tired down to the bone, and scared, and awake in a way I knew I’d never sleep off.
In the bedroom, Petya went quiet at last.
I gathered the cash, the bills, the marker, and Tamar’s receipt. I put the receipt inside my phone case where Petya wouldn’t find it. Then I turned off the television and stood in the dark apartment while rain ran down the window.
Gennady had given me three days.
I wasn’t taking them.
Tomorrow was the only deadline that mattered.
I had walked all night through rooms where men decided what women owed them.
Now I had sent my name into one.
And before Gennady could drag me into his private version of mercy, I had chosen the sale myself.