Page 66 of Fate and Family

“Dietitian, behavioral therapist specializing in sexual trauma, and an on-site physician,” he explains, pointing to each door. “Every woman goes through an extensive treatment protocol before she can move into the next house.”

His phone rings, and he glances at it. “It’s my mama. If I don’t answer, she’ll call every three minutes.” He steps away, motioning for me to look around.

I pass through an open kitchen with white counters and a “Live Laugh Love” wooden sign over the window. A pot of chili simmers on the stove, and a bowl of rice rests on the kitchen counter. The whole house smells like summer. Daisies in a vase brighten the windowsill.

The kitchen leads into a common area, where two women sit on a big white couch, chatting. They look up when I say, “Hi.”

Their smiles reach up to their eyes. “We know who you are.”

I approach them. “Do you feel safe here?”

The women exchange amused glances and laugh.

“Here? Where we get free food, shelter, and community before we move to the other house? No man touches us. We’re never alone unless we want to be, and we can come and go as we please. ‘Safe’ isn’t the word,” one of them says.

“Free. Human. Seen. Important. Valued,” the other adds.

This is all too good to be true. I dig a little deeper. “And you don’t feel like you’re being forced to say this?”

“Thiago doesn’t force us to do anything. He does suggest we look out for each other and report anything that could get someone hurt. But that’s for everyone’s safety.”

I nod. “How long?—”

“Too long,” one interrupts before I can finish.

“Do you see your family?”

“No, but I can send them money. We also have a phone to receive their messages.” The younger one dips her head. “Weowe everything to Thiago and to The Octopus. If it wasn’t for them, I know where I would still be.”

Thiago reenters the room, clapping his hands. “Ah, there you are.” At first, he’s saying it to me, then maybe to the girls. But the women visibly relax as he approaches. Interesting. He wants them to know he’s coming to avoid unnecessary surprises.

“Wanna see the rest of the compound?” He motions to the back door with his chin.

I don’t love that he calls it a compound. From infrared imaging, the houses radiate too much heat for normal buildings. Whatever is happening here, it’s not a typical halfway house. There’s something else going on. Maybe a greenhouse for pot?

I nod, though my stomach twists. I don’t want to arrest the people who protect Dimitri and Uri.

We step through the screen door into the backyard. Another house sits not far off and he angles in that direction, silently indicating I should follow.

“This is where the women work.”

Yep, I’m going to puke.

The power cables leading to the house are massive. Thiago opens the back door but doesn’t announce his entrance—he doesn’t need to. A woman sits at a screen, monitoring security cameras around the property. A long, gnarled scar mars her otherwise perfect face. She waves at me.

This house isn’t set up like a home either. Instead of a living room, there are standing desks and whiteboards. Calendars with circled dates are scribbled with numbers, crossed out and rewritten in red or blue. Pixelated images of cupcakes, candy, and cartoon princesses—original designs, from what I can tell—cover the walls.

Thiago knocks on a closed door. Inside, three women sit in front of computers.

“How’s the training coming?” he asks.

A woman in her late twenties rubs her eyes. “Ugh, I’m so close.”

Another pats her shoulder. “You’ll get it. By the end of the week, you’ll be coding like a pro.”

Coding?

Across the hall, two women sit on a couch, glued to their phones.

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