He advances on me, his gaze slipping to my chest. “However, you do have something of value I need.”
I look down. My blouse is flaring where the button tore off, exposing my bra. Clutching the ends together, I ask through trembling lips, “What?”
When he nods at the two men, I look over at them. The blond one has a model-pretty face. He’s lean and tall. The one with the beard is stockier with eyes so black the pupils bleed into the irises. Both are dressed in dark suits and carry guns.
The bearded man goes through my tote, unpacking the overall I use for work on the table with my purse and hairbrush. The bag with my banana lies next to it. He picked up my tomatoes, the split skins visible through the transparent plastic. When he finds my phone, he hands it to the man who grabbed me. The man pockets it. Then, like my captor promised, his men leave. The key sounds in the lock. I’m locked in with the stranger.
Fear heats me from the inside, making me feel nauseous. Even my hunger disappears. “What do you want from me?”
The man doesn’t answer. As soon as his accomplices are gone, he turns his attention from me to inspecting my living space. His gaze moves from the ratty couch with the broken springs to the framed photos on the wall and finally to the daisy in the vase on the table. His evaluation is invasive. I know what he sees, but I refuse to be ashamed of my poverty, especially in front of a man with an expensive suit who snatched me off the street.
He walks to the daisy and touches the stem. “Nice touch.”
“What?”
“The flower.” Meticulously, he strokes every petal. “Where did you get it?”
What the heck does that matter? “From the pavement.”
He gives me a doubtful smile. “You didn’t take it from someone’s garden.”
Despite my fear, my anger blooms. “No, I didn’t steal it. It grows wild.”
He doesn’t react to the silent accusation. He only continues to watch me intently. After a moment, he asks, “A boyfriend didn’t give it to you?”
“No.” Where is he going with his line of questioning? Why doesn’t he tell me what he wants?
“No boyfriend, then.”
“No.” I watch him as he moves to the wall to study the photos, my heart pounding like a pendulum against my ribs.
“Your family?”
“Yes.”
He points at the tallest boy on the yellowed Polaroid picture. “Who’s this?”
“Why do you care?”
He looks back at me with a quiet warning in his eyes. He doesn’t need his foreign-sounding words to instill fear.
“That’s Ian,” I say reluctantly, “my oldest brother.”
“The others?”
“Next to him is Leon, then Damian, and me.”
Leaning closer, he studies the girl with the pigtails and too short dress. “You were cute. How old were you?”
I grip my blouse tighter. “Ten.”
He motions at Mom and Dad. “These are your parents?”
“Late parents.”
“My condolences.”
He picks up the book about Venice from the couch and turns the cover. I don’t want him to touch it. I don’t want this man who stole into my privacy to also invade my dreams. My dreams are mine. They’re private, but I’m helpless from stopping him as his gaze skims over the table of contents and the library stamp before he drops it back onto the couch and opens the book on the coffee table. It’s on loan from the library, too, about the same topic, just like the book next to the bath and the one on my nightstand. When he’s done inspecting that one, he goes to the bookshelf and tilts his head to read the titles. Shelf by shelf, he goes through them.
Losing interest in the books, he makes his way to the kitchen. He stops in the doorframe and assesses the shelf with two chipped glasses and a dented pot, the only inherited items that haven’t yet broken or rusted. His attention moves to the geranium on the windowsill. The sturdy, green plant is my pride and hope. I found it in the trash and managed to save it. Whoever discarded it must’ve thought it was dead, but there was still a tiny bit of green in the stalk. It was dry, neglected, and I felt sorry for it. The fact that it fought and survived to bloom and thrive is a reminder to myself to never to give up.
He looks at the darker square on the lanoline floor where the fridge used to stand. I long since sold it when I couldn’t pay the rent, just like the rest of the furniture and everything else that were worth a few bucks. Without groceries, I don’t need a fridge. A few minutes ago, where tomorrow’s dinner was going to come from was my biggest problem. I never imagined my life could get worse.
Suddenly tired, I hug myself. “Look, just tell me why you’re here and then leave me alone.”
He doesn’t acknowledge me. He’s staring at the food cupboard. Instead of a door, it’s covered with a curtain, which I left open, exposing the almost empty jar of peanut butter and crust of bread.
“I suppose an introduction is in order,” he says when he finally turns back to me. “Since I already know your name, it seems only fair.”
“I don’t want to know your name,” I blurt out. The less I know, the better my chances of survival.
He extends a hand. “Maxime Belshaw.”
My shaking gets worse. This doesn’t look good for me. When I don’t move, he strides over, grips my fingers, and presses his lips to my knuckles. The gesture seems taunting instead of chivalrous, and I yank my hand away from his touch.
“Now that we know each other, Zo, we’re going to have a conversation.”
“Don’t call me that.” Only people who care about me call me Zo.
He raises a brow. “Isn’t that what your friends call you?”
The fact that he knows is disturbing. “Exactly. They’re friends.”
Rather than upset, he appears amused. “Zoe, then. Your older brothers, they left town a long time ago. Am I right?”
“If this is about Ian or Leon, I haven’t heard from them since they left.”
“No.” Reaching out slowly, he drags a thumb along my jaw. “This isn’t about them.”
The gentleness of the touch catches me off guard. I have to bend backward to escape the odd caress because my calves are pressed against the couch.
“This is about Damian,” he says.
When he drops his hand, I straighten, trying to hold his gaze without letting him see the fear in my eyes.
“This is how our talk is going to work,” he says. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, and you’re going to answer them.”
“Never.”
I’m not ratting on Damian. Of all the people in our dysfunctional family, he’s the only one who cares. Damian is only five years older than me, but he single-handedly raised me. He looked out for me when no one else did. He’s suffered enough. He didn’t deserve any of the terrible things that have happened to him.
Maxime looks me over. “You’re tougher than I expected. The poor ones usually break easily.”
My anger makes me forget to be frightened. “Fuck you.”
“Did I hit a nerve?”
“Go to hell,” I hiss.
“Fine. We’ll play it your way.” He takes his phone from his pocket and swipes over the screen.