The Woman in the Trunk - Jessica Gadziala Page 0,68

asked.

"You just did," he told me, taking my bowl over to the sink. "Go hit the john one more time. Here," he added, going under the sink to grab me a fresh cleaning rag. "You'll feel more human if you can do a little washing up," he told me, shrugging, grabbing another rag. I figured for himself since he hadn't had a chance to go back to his place to shower or change either. The two of us were going to be pretty gross if this went on another day or two.

Whore's bath completed, I made my way back down the stairs with Chris behind me smelling like dish soap and stale coffee.

My ass immediately objected to the hard floor as I lowered down.

A day and a half passed.

Chris left the door open much of the time, and he was right. It felt better seeing another person, even if that person was sitting in a leather chair, dozing off for twenty-minute spells at a time.

I knew how unsatisfying that kind of rest was. Because that was all I was getting as well, always jerking awake when my head would fall forward, my chin hitting my chest, sending a shooting pain up the back of my neck.

Eventually, after a few hours of that, we both resigned ourselves to groggy consciousness, him giving me a regretful look as he slid the door closed when there were footsteps on the floor above.

Arturo didn't come down to see me that day, that night.

So, as was becoming our ritual, when he went to bed, I was brought up to use the bathroom, gratefully brushing my teeth side-by-side with Chris when he found some extra brushes and paste in the linen closet, washing all my important parts when he left to grab us food.

We sat in companionable silence, jumping at every noise, as we ate.

Maybe I should have run away then.

But there was no window to sneak out of in the bathroom.

And un-cuffing myself and trying to escape in front of Chris put him in a bad position. He would either have to let me go, in which case he would be in major trouble with his boss. Or he would have to try to retrieve me, which would bring the other guards in on it, would make things messier. And I was not so vain as to think I could escape Chris as well as the two or three other guards that were always hanging around. And then what would become of me?

I couldn't take that chance.

If I did need to escape, I had to be smart about it.

But I told myself I would try to get through a meeting with Arturo first.

If that failed, then I would make my escape.

Until then, I had to learn to accept the confinement, the endlessly slow hours of the day, the helplessness. And be thankful for Chris's kindness, his loyalty to Lorenzo even when there seemed to be no proof that Lorenzo was alive.

The piercing in my chest at that was enough to make me nearly miss a step on the way down the stairs, Chris's quick reflexes the only thing keeping me from falling down the steps, and both of us from being found out.

"Hopefully not too much longer," Chris said, giving me a weary smile that neither of us was buying.

Anything akin to hope died around the third day of absolutely nothing from Arturo Costa. Like he had forgotten me entirely.

To be fair, he spent most of his days and nights out of the house, seemingly coming in just to charge up the stairs to his bedroom.

Invariably, I would hear one of his guards inside the house, going upstairs, coming back down, and talking on the phone, ordering food.

You notice a lot of things stuck in a quiet house, listening to all of its secrets.

Like the fact that Arturo probably had an enlarged prostate given how often he got up to use the bathroom each night.

Like there was the telltale skittering of mice somewhere in the basement.

Like the boss of the Costa family, apparently, had a nut allergy, judging by the way the guard who ordered would always make sure the meals were nut-free.

Like one of the guards let himself in the house in the middle of the night to watch—of all things—reruns of I Dream of Jeannie.

Like the other guard, apparently, sometimes snuck away at night to go screw some girl a block over.

I cataloged all of this, clinging to each bit of information because