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She hesitates. Her eyes flick up and meet mine for a brief moment, but that’s all the time I need to see the absolute terror in the blue depths. She quickly looks back at the floor, but she whispers, “Cynthia.”
“Cynthia,” I repeat softly. “Are you a prisoner here?”
Again, she flinches. This time, though, she doesn’t answer. Instead, she tries to change the subject, “Señor Diaz said you need to be ready within the hour. Please. Let’s get you into the shower to wash the blood off.”
Her defeated demeanor and the unaffected way she discusses the blood staining my hair and arms tell me all I need to know about her experience with violence. She’s more than used to it. Tragically, I suspect it’s part of her day-to-day existence.
I want to ask her more. I want to know how long she’s been “working” for Luis Diaz and what other “duties” he demands of her. But I hold back. Cynthia is skittish, but she’s the first person I’ve interacted with since my abduction who may be convinced to help me. Or at least not hinder any escape attempt I may try to make.
So, I don’t push her. Instead, I nod. “Okay.”
Cynthia’s sigh is one of relief. Her eyes dart nervously around the room as she motions to the door to my left, making me wonder if there are hidden cameras. I wouldn’t be surprised.
I follow her direction and step into the modest ensuite, moving to the side as Cynthia shuffles past me to turn on the water. We don’t speak as she puts soap, shampoo, and conditioner in the shower. She sets a towel on the vanity and then leaves with a meek, “I’ll wait outside,” before closing the door.
I avoid looking in the mirror as I strip out of my stained clothes. I’m barely holding it together and seeing Ashley’s blood on me could send me over the edge. I need to keep my composure. At least until I get out of here.
All too aware there could be cameras in the bathroom as well, I make the shower quick and efficient, wrapping myself in the towel and returning to the bedroom in under five minutes. Cynthia has set up a makeshift makeup and hair station on the lone end table in the room. She motions for me to sit on the edge of the bed.
The mattress gives when I sit. I adjust my towel to make sure I’m covered and look at the pile of clothes she’d carried in. “Are there clean clothes I can change into?”
Cynthia nods and quickly reaches over to hand me a matching set of undergarments and a white, cotton sundress.
“Can’t I wear those?” I motion to the pair of pants and satin blouse still sitting on the bed.
“S-señor Diaz was adamant you wear this dress,” she stutters, once again glancing around the room nervously.
“Okay,” I say to relieve her anxiety. “No problem.”
I excuse myself to go dress in the bathroom before returning to my perch on the end of the bed. Without a word, Cynthia begins to apply makeup to my face. As she moves, my eyes snag on the signs of abuse marring her slender arms. There’s a shadow on one of her cheeks that her concealer failed to hide.
“Did Luis do that?” I whisper, eyes flicking to the angry red mark encircling her narrow wrist.
The hand holding the eyeshadow brush halts mid-air. Cynthia swallows and resumes applying the pale white highlighter to my brow bone. “Yes,” she murmurs. Her hand begins to tremble. “But he’s not responsible for all of them.”
“Can I ask how you ended up working for him?”
She presses her lips together. I don’t think she’s going to answer me, but then she whispers even more quietly, “I was taken a little over a year ago.”
The words are like ice water, dousing me with dread. My eyes grow wide with horror, but I manage to keep my voice low, “You were kidnapped?”
“All of us were.”
Oh my god…
I need to get out of here, and even if Cynthia is unable to help me escape, I need to find a way to bring her with me. Her, and whoever else Luis Diaz has trapped here.
“How many?” I clear my throat. “How many are here?”
“Four.” Cynthia lowers the brush and picks up the mascara. She swipes the dark liquid over my lashes and whispers, “But there’s no telling how many came before us. Or what happens to the women who never make it into this house.”
Sex trafficking.
That has to be what she means.
I feel like I’m going to be sick. I know there are monstrous people who treat other human beings like they are nothing more than property, but to be confronted with the reality myself is nothing short of horrifying.
“Why are you telling me this?” I look pointedly around the room, subtly reminding her that there’s a chance we’re being watched.
