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She paused.
Lately, if he wasn’t raging, he was stumbling or nodding off from his heroin high. What had started as recreational use had turned into an addiction. Every day his grasp on the drug weakened, and it overpowered him. It was why he entrusted her with so much of the business: most days he was too high to care.
She ran her fingers through her hair as she walked back to the door. With a lick of her lips, she lightly knocked. “Majig? You up?” she asked, hating the fear that sped her heartbeat. Hating that she was already flinching from the thought of him opening the door and backhanding her; she took a step back.
But there was no answer.
Maybe he’s in the bathroom.
Or maybe he fell.
She turned the knob and eased the door open slowly. She saw his feet first. He was on the floor. Pushing the door open wider, she stood in the doorway and gasped at the sight of his naked body on his side with his arm extended and a syringe still in his vein. He grunted. It was so soft she barely heard it. His eyes were dazed and staring off. His lips were tinged blue. He was sweaty. His breathing was raspy. Drool stretched between his mouth and the floor.
He was overdosing.
She took a step forward.
Wait.
Desdemona paused. She felt like she could hear the pounding of her heart dominate the quiet as death neared. She blinked as moments of his abuse, control, and manipulation came back in a rush. To save him was to continue to enslave herself.
His breathing slowed.
Help him.
“No,” she answered herself.
She thought of other young women falling prey to his lies and getting entrapped in a world of sex for money when they thought they were getting love.
I thought I was getting love.
Three years had passed since that night at the laundromat. How much more time in her life did he believe belonged to him? How many more bust lips, black eyes, bruised ribs, broken arms were in store for her? How many more rapes? How much more disrespect?
This is my escape.
A tear raced down her cheek. In truth, it wasn’t for him, but for herself. The very fact that her life now was at a crossroads, choosing his death or her freedom, was pathetic.
With a rush she stepped out of the room and closed the door, turning to press her back to it as she covered her mouth with her hand and looked up at the ceiling. Frantic. Unsure. Guilty. Panicked. Afraid.
She slid down the door and sat, drawing her knees to her chest. Instinctively she reached to her throat for her heart-shaped locket. It wasn’t there. He had snatched it from her neck years ago and hid it away, knowing it meant the world to her.
She thought of her parents.
Neither would want this life for her, but would they agree with letting a man die?
Help him, Desi.
She scrambled to her feet and opened the door.
Too late.
He lay still. There was no breathing. His eyes lacked life.
I’m free.
She covered her mouth with her hand again, flooded with guilt at that thought. She stepped into the room, and her eyes scanned the room for the cordless phone. In the middle of his bed was a small safe that was open and unlocked. She gave his body an anxious look before stepping over his feet and moving over to the king-size bed, peering down into the metal box.
There were some money and a notepad. As she opened it, her eyes widened at the list of names and phone numbers she found. His client list for the escorts and call girls.
