Page 61 of Slow Burn

The room of punishment.

There were no light switches; the bulbs were unshaded, too bright, harsh. They burned constantly. The light slid gold over her skin, black over her hair. She opened one fist and watched blood flush pink back into her palm.

Paolo had been to Velvet’s apartment. Someone had been there first. She was gone—either fled or dead. Dead, she was a great loss.

Fled, she was a great liability.

Ming turned her hand palm-down and laid it on her thigh, never quite relaxing.

Velvet did not know very much about this room. About the drain in the center of the floor, the water taps placed low to the ground to flush the floor clean. Velvet had never watched the red whirlpool disappear.

“No one leaves,” Ming said softly. The air in the room was dead, no echoes. Voices fell into immediate silence, lost. “No one leaves here. It is the rule.”

She had managed to conquer her need for this place—now she indulged it only once a year, rarely more than that. She had planned to bring Velvet here, to let her understand the silence.

It might still be possible. It might still benecessary.

A knock on the door. She smiled slightly, though she felt no joy.

“Come in,” she said. The door creaked. “Come inside.”

Paolo hesitated in the doorway, looking nervously at the empty walls, the plain concrete floor, the drain like a dark eye in the center.

“Uh, no, ma’am, I just—uh—”

“Did you find her?”

Paolo’s silence gave her an answer. She closed her hand into a fist again.

“Unfortunate.” She considered the uneven bricks in the wall, the red brown that concealed so many stains. “Perhaps it’s time to have another session with Mr. Julian. He seemed so—eager.”

“He didn’t call.”

“Then call him. Tell him Velvet’s ready for him.”

“Uh—” Paolo straightened when she looked at him. His eyes went blank and businesslike. “Ma’am. Uh-huh.”

She turned her head back to contemplation of the wall.

“Close the door when you leave.”

Such a small sound, the closing of the door. She shut her eyes and listened to the metal snick of the lock closing, played and replayed it in her head like a favorite song.

She liked the quiet, late at night.

Chapter Twenty-four

Sol

“The note says she’s sorry,” Kelly said as she laid the jacket over the back of the couch. Sol threw her a look that slid off her face and landed on the jacket, stuck like Superglue. He hit the mute button on the TV, derailing the movie in mid-scream, and reached over to touch the fabric.

“Who says?” Eggplant wool, soft as a baby’s butt, rich as butter. He pulled it over to look at the label—small, discreet. His eyebrows went up like balloons.

“Velvet,” Kelly said. She sounded suspicious and pouty. “The hooker. Why’s a hooker sending you presents?”

“Think, sweetheart, think. She learned her lesson.” The lining was pure silk, dark blue. It felt like warm skin. “She learned it perfectly.”

“Well, try it on,” she sniffed, and flounced down in the leather armchair, crossed her legs, and swung her left foot impatiently. “Go on. See if I care.”

---