With that worry out of mind, I realized I really needed to use the restroom. Avoiding looking at the dried blood on my skin, I swapped my ruined blouse for a yellow Beach Boys tee. Down the dimly lit hall, the clank of pots and pans and an occasional Russian curse came from a bright room to the right. It was a large industrial kitchen, and I wondered how long I’d been unconscious, because it was closing for the day. After finding the bathroom and doing my business, I headed to the sink, where I scrubbed my hands and stomach with the bar of soap, growing queasy as I watched red run down the drain. I shuddered at the thought my attacker might carry some disease. Other than psychopathy anyway. In the mirror, I stared into my ice-blue eyes. I always thought they lacked spark, their shine, even though I’d been told they were striking by a model agent who approached me on the street and slipped me his business card. I was intrigued. Models got to travel, to see the world beyond a television screen, but Papa shut down any idea of that real fast. I started to head back to my temporary room for the night, but a voice— his voice—wrapped around my body and drew me to a stop. I should mind my own business, as Ms. Marta would say when I interrupted our lessons by peeking out the window to see who’d come up the drive. But temptation tightened its grip, pulling me in the opposite direction. As the hallway’s shadows grew darker, one phrase came to mind: Curiosity killed the cat. I brushed off a shiver. A bartender stood behind an old wooden bar washing glasses. White dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, suspenders, a skull and crossbones tattoo on his forearm. He glanced my way and stopped to stare while wiping his hands on a towel. I swallowed and swept my gaze away from him, over the round tables and booths in the timeworn and mostly empty restaurant. I found Ronan easily because the three men sitting across from him roared with laughter at something he said. He rested a lazy arm on the back of the booth, a cigar in his mouth. Russian Gypsy music played quietly over the dim room as I watched him blow out a white cloud of smoke, a smile touching his lips. He glanced over, dark eyes settling on mine. Madame Richie’s voice pulled me back to that overly warm trailer parked at the carnival, a gaggle of preteen cheerleaders frowning at the