The Woman in the Trunk - Jessica Gadziala Page 0,81
No one would ever walk past that house and suspect someone was being held captive in the basement.
Not wanting to attempt anything in the daylight, I spent some of the precious money I had to get myself something normal to wear, so people didn't keep looking at me sideways. It was hard to miss a strange woman in a bright red dress first thing in the morning. On a weekday. In a small town.
Changed, I made my way back toward the house.
From what I could tell, it was empty.
No one had come or gone all day. No lights were on inside.
Getting close, there did seem to be a radio playing, but when I glanced in the backdoor, it was just sitting there in the kitchen unattended.
I made short work of the kitchen door, having a self-satisfied smile at the fact that the mafia seemed to believe that their reputation alone would scare off anyone who dared poke around their property.
The inside of the house was as bare as I had been expecting. The furniture looked dated, likely belonging to the dead sheriff. Everything was neat, but cobwebs graced the corners, dust covered various surfaces.
Paranoia had me inching my way through the house, walking on tiptoes across the hardwood, wincing anytime one of the boards squeaked.
I did three laps around the house, heart pounding harder and harder each passing moment, trying to find a way into the basement.
Circling back, I found a door in the kitchen that I originally wrote off as a pantry, but when I pulled it open, found a steel door behind.
I could pick a normal lock. A prison cell lock? Not so much.
Turning back, I carefully opened all the cabinets and drawers in the kitchen before finally finding what I was looking for. An almost comical round ring full of keys.
"I swear to all that is holy," a female voice called as I started down the stairs, "if you don't bring me something other than stale bread and sun butter this time, I will claw your fucking eyes out, Terry."
I shouldn't have been able to smile. It was a terrible situation. This woman had been held captive for a huge chunk of her life. But a smile tugged at my lips at realizing that Arturo hadn't won. She refused to lose her spirit. You had to respect a woman like that.
"Who the hell are you?" the voice asked as I made it to the bottom landing.
The woman in the picture had been younger, her dark hair flawless, her body womanly and soft, but fit. This woman was years older, of course, her gray roots were growing in, her body was made thin from, apparently, only being allowed to eat sun butter—not peanut butter—sandwiches. Which sort of confirmed my idea that Arturo hadn't just locked her up and thrown away the key, that he came to visit her.
"My name is Giana," I told her, giving her a wobbly smile as I looked at the cell that had been her home for so long.
There was the expected metal bunk, stainless steel toilet and sink, and a little cement cubby with a drain in the floor that served as the shower.
No privacy.
Nothing soft save for the blanket on the bed and a pillow that made my neck hurt just thinking about it.
The shelf was lined with books, which looked to be the only form of entertainment this woman had been allowed.
"Giana," she repeated, brows pinching. "Since when does Arturo hire women? He's terrified of us."
"He didn't hire me. He stuck me in a basement," I told her. "I got out," I said, waving a hand. "When I found out you were in a basement, I decided to get you out before I am done with this fucking family for good."
"How did you get out? I know that basement. There was no way out."
"I had some help," I admitted, pain stabbing in my chest at the memory of Lorenzo passing me the key. "I'm sorry, I don't know your name."
"Celeste," she told me, offering me a strained smile.
"Celeste," I repeated. "I just need to figure out which key it is, and I will get you out of here," I told her, walking over to the door.
"Why would you risk this? Arturo will kill you when he finds out. But not before he plays with you first."
"Arturo won't be playing with anyone," I told her, grumbling when the third key didn't fit.