Page 32 of The Seller

Stavros

It’s like a bad dream - except bad dreams don’t hurt this much when you wake up. I must have passed out in the car, right on the verge of asking her why she wasn’t honest with me. If she’d just come to me in the first place I could have been of service to her without all the lies and the death. I would have taken payment just to transport her without all the rest of it, the selling, the training. She made it so much worse than it needed to be, for both of us.

I lie still, trying to get my mental and physical bearings. The last twenty four hours have been one long whirlwind of chaos. One minute I was being beaten down by men who are not going to last until the end of the week if I have anything to say about it, the next Siri was standing there with a weapon, saving my ass. Now, if I’m not mistaken, we’re at one of my safe houses in the south of Greece. I recognize the wall coverings. They’re ugly as hell. I never bothered to replace them, because I never really thought I would need it. I wonder how she found her way here, then I remember Siri knows a lot of things she’s not supposed to know.

I push off the bed with some difficulty, my heart sinking at the idea she might already be gone. She certainly has no reason to stay.

I shuffle out of the bedroom and into the small kitchen where I see a piece of fluttering fabric through the doorway to the outside world. It’s part of a dress and my spirits rise as I realize she’s here, standing in afternoon sun.

Siri is clad in a light patterned dress, one foot resting on top of the other as she leans against one of the poles supporting the balcony, drawing on a foul smelling cigarette.

I don’t know if it is the bright sun, or my relief, but she has never looked as beautiful as she does now. She seems so young, and innocent, but she’s not. She’s a walking mockery of the very notion of innocence.

“You’re awake,” she says obviously.

“You’re smoking.”

“Yeah. Is that your biggest concern right now, really? The smoking?”

“It’s bad for your health.”

She shakes her head and stubs the thing out in a nearby ashtray, her pretty blue eyes lifting to mine.

“You look like shit.”

“I feel worse.”

“There’s no medicine here, but there’s alcohol, if that helps.” She points to a bottle of whiskey on the table.

The bottle has been opened, and there’s a good third or so missing. Part of it is sitting in a glass on the table.

I wouldn’t expect a woman her age to be able to cope with everything she has been through. She’s no doubt been smoking and drinking the trauma away while I lie passed out inside this place she should never have known about, and she’s right, I shouldn’t care about that, but I do.

“How much of that have you had?”

“Enough,” she says. “Which is more than I can say for you.”

I ease myself very slowly into a wrought iron chair clearly designed to hurt anybody stupid enough to put their ass in it. My head feels heavy and fuzzy and my memory is jumbled. I remember being in bed, then in a jet boat, then a church - so many locations and so much violence.

I’m not even going to bother asking her to explain what’s going on. I’ve done that dozens of times and it never gets me anywhere. I have a fuzzy memory of what she told me and I can piece enough of it together now. She’s on the run, and she thinks that getting herself trafficked is the easiest way to disappear. She’s probably right. It’s a brilliant plan, one that speaks to her willingness to suffer for her freedom.

“There’s money in your account,” she says. “Three million dollars. A helicopter will be coming for me today, and for you tomorrow.”

“Why is there money in my account?”

She turns to me, the bright blue of her eyes reflecting the wild sky. “Because you sold me, silly. I think you’ve got some amnesia. You should really see a doctor.”

“Girls don’t sell themselves.” I can’t believe she’s still going ahead with this insane plan.

“This one does.” She reaches out for another cigarette from the crumpled packet. I reach out and put my hand over it before she can take another one of those disgusting sticks and pollute her body with it.

“Maybe I don’t want to sell you.”

“No refunds,” she says. “What’s done is done.”

I stay silent for a while. Then I pull the packet toward me, pull a cigarette out of it, and use the book of matches sitting nearby to light it.

“I’m not going to ask you what’s going on,” I say, exhaling a stream of smoke. “But I will tell you something.”

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