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“I will be fine,” I tell her.
“I know. I’ll sit here.” She points to the sideboard and takes herself over to it, and hops on the side. With shaky hands, I untie the belt and shrug the robe off. Her gasp, even though light, is heard over the spray, and I scrunch my eyes tight and slowly move under the water. It hurts but eases too. I feel exhausted and ready to fall. It pummels my body, but I manage to stand still, even if a little wobbly, letting it ricochet over me. Reaching for a sponge, washing where I can, something about the water washing my body clean causes me to unravel. I sob and wash as furiously as my bruised limbs allow, trying to rid it all from my mind.
“It doesn’t work.” Her soft voice filters through my pain. “What happened to you was not your fault. It was horrendous, but you’ve already allowed them too much of your time, your life. Don't give them anymore. You won. It’s okay to be sad, but don't let them take this victory from you too,” she says with such conviction that I feel ashamed for breaking so easily after such a short period of time under their watch. How long was she with them? What has she seen—dealt with?
“How did you cope?” I tremble. I’m a little awed but curious too.
“I knew one day, somehow, he’d come. I had to. Otherwise, I had nothing,” she admits. Callan, of course. And he did. He went to every length, broke every door, crossed every legal line, and cheated people out of money and happiness. What would it be like to have someone love you like that?
“He loves you,” I reply softly. I can’t hate her, and somehow, I don't even feel jealous. She deserves him after all she has been through.
“Yes, he does.” Her voice sounds far away, as though her mind is elsewhere. “But things are different now,” she replies quietly.
“Can you pass me that towel?” I point with my chin,and she picks it up and holds it out for me. I wrap up, and she passes me another for my hair.
“I’ll get you some clothes. Maybe just sit on the toilet until I get back,” she suggests sweetly, leaving me. I make my way and sit down. I finally manage to go to the toilet and clean up before she returns with a pair of lounge pants and a matching t-shirt. “Tony has made dinner. It’s bolognese. He’s a pretty decent cook,” she says, filling the quiet as she helps me into my clothes.
“Thanks.” I chance a look in the mirror and see a battered woman looking back at me.
“It will fade.” She opens the door, and I follow her out, but exhaustion wins, making me wobble on the spot. Tony, who is nearest me, rushes to steady me and helps me to the table where Callan is standing, trying to gain my attention. I ignore him. Seeing him brings me such pain, but there is also anger at how he has treated me. Used me. If he had been honest about Isabella, I would have helped. Stalin plates up spaghetti and bolognese. The pungent smell of garlic fills the air, and after days without food, my mouth waters. There are two empty places, and I move to take the one away from Callan. Isabella takes the seat beside him, and I keep my gaze ahead on Tony.
Reaching up for my usual comfort, my hand comes up empty. Panicking, I begin grappling at my neck, searching for my necklace.
“My… where’s my—”
“Gone.” Callan’s dark gaze meets mine. Gone! No, but it was my father’s. Hot tears spring in my eyes. “The necklace was broken when we retrieved you.”
“But we can fix it, right?” I meet the others’ eyes. Sympathy isn't only what stares back at me, but pity,too. Isabella looks pale and shifts awkwardly. “What’s going on?” Something is happening. Something I know nothing about. Why are they looking at me like that?
“When did your father give you that necklace?” Stalin wonders idly. However, his tone is at odds with his keen stare. Expectant looks hold me in my chair. The atmosphere, already thick, is now cement-like.
“My birthday. I’d just turned twelve.” For once, I want to converse with Callan. I flick a look at him, frowning, waiting for his input to my questioning gaze.
“The file that the Russians were after—” he begins, and I nod, urging him on and dreading his answer all the same, “you were wearing it,” Callan delivers slowly, again suspenseful looks watch on in silence. I’m horrified, and if I had the energy to stand abruptly, I would. Any colour I had in my face leaves rapidly.
My hand goes back to my vacant neck.
“No.” I shake my head. My father would never have done such a thing. I don't believe them. “I want to see,” I snap.
The deep, low, astonished laugh that fills the room brings my head around. Callan is watching me closely.
“What was on that file will never be made accessible to you. It’s not for your eyes,” he spits, “why would you want to see?” Aversion hangs on his tongue.
“No, I just meant I wanted proof. My father loved me—he’d never—” I’m shaking my head vigorously. All those times I held onto that piece of jewellery for comfort, only to be holding onto a sickness in this world.
“It’s gone.” That’s Stalin. “It was anonymously handed to the FBI,” he delivers indifferently, moving food around his plate then filling his mouth.
“But my necklace, they'll make the connection!” Oh my god, they will tie me to those vile humans, and trafficking will be tarred with my name. I’m going to be sick.
“Calm down, Zara. The necklace is here, but the file is gone. I doubt your father ever meant for it to get to this. I think he hid it for safekeeping. No mobster is ever going to assume an innocent child is carrying their secrets around her neck. It was your father’s life insurance. We are certain he intended to hand it over to the FBI, only they got to him first.” I’m breathing roughly, my hands braced on the arms of the chair, half out of my seat. I lower down and let it all sink in. I recall my father telling me the necklace was more than just a gift. That it represented happiness, freedom, and hope. He didn’t just mean my happiness or freedom, and it wasn’t just about my hope but the thousands and thousands of women and possibly children he had tried to save by risking his own life. I think of all the lives affected between his death and now, and how I could have done something before if I had only known. My head is a mess of chaotic thoughts. But one person is at the forefront of my mind, and she is sitting across from me at this table. I look at her, shame and guilt clouding my vision.
“I didn’t know. I would have…” I clear my throat, sickened by revulsion at what I could have stopped.
“I know,” she whispers, her face both pale and pink.
“I’m sorry,” I croak, and she clears her throat, averting her eyes from those around us.
My friend’s terrified face flits to the front of my mind.
