Chapter 2: The Door That Didn't Lock
The knob turned.
I hadn't heard footsteps. Just that soft click of metal and the hinge sighing open, and all at once the air in the room shifted. His hand was still fisted in my pajama top, the blue piping biting into my throat where he'd pulled. I could feel the heat of his knuckles through the fabric. Behind me, the other one's hands were still on my shoulders, fingers dug hard enough to leave marks. I couldn't breathe right. My chest was rising and falling too fast and I was still clutching my collar closed with both hands, the light pattern of the pajamas wrinkled where he'd yanked.
I stared at the door because I didn't know what else to do.
Marta came in with the laundry.
She had the basket balanced on her hip, white sheets folded over the rim, and she'd pushed the door with her shoulder. She stopped dead when she saw us. The basket tipped a little against her side. Her eyes went from me on the floor to the man in the black leather jacket leaning over me, then to the other man behind me, and she didn't move.
For a second nobody moved at all. It was this awful freeze-frame. The warm light from the big window fell across the marble floor and cut across their black leather and my pale pajamas, and I could hear the clock ticking from the hall.
Then the hands on my shoulders let go.
The man with the wavy long hair and beard behind me lifted his palms off me like he'd been burned. He took a half-step back and his face changed so fast it made my stomach turn. He forced a smile, wide and empty, and held his hands out to his sides, casual.
"Whoa," he said, his voice too light. "Easy."
The man with the shaved buzz cut didn't let go right away. His stubble was inches from my face, his leather jacket creaking as he leaned over me. He breathed hard through his nose, and then he looked toward Marta and his whole posture shifted. He loosened his grip on my top but didn't drop it completely, turning his fingers into something that could pretend to be helpful.
"We were just helping her after she fell," he said. He said it smooth, like he'd rehearsed it. "She slipped on the marble. We were trying to get her up."
That lie hung in the warm air for a beat.
I didn't look at him. I looked at Marta, at her hand gripping the laundry basket, at the doorway still open behind her. My throat was dry. My voice came out smaller than I wanted, but it came out clear.
"Don't touch me," I said.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't a scream. I said it to the man in front of me, his hand still caught in my collar, and my fingers tightened over his.
Marta's eyes widened. She didn't come forward yet. She just stood in that doorway, her body blocking it, and I realized she understood exactly what she was seeing.
The shaved-head man finally let go. The fabric snapped back against my skin. I sucked in a breath and my hands flew to hold it closed again, knuckles white around the blue piping.
"See?" he said to Marta, spreading his hands now, palms up, innocent. He even laughed a little, a short, ugly sound. "She's upset. She hit her head maybe."
The other one, the one with the long hair, kept that forced smile on. He took another step back, putting space between us that hadn't been there before, his black leather vest catching the window light.
Marta didn't smile back. She set the laundry basket down on the floor with a thump, right in the doorway, and stayed there. She didn't leave. She didn't close the door.
I knew I had to move.
"Please," I whispered. I wasn't sure who I was talking to — Marta, or God, or just the room itself. I don't think the men heard it, or if they did they pretended not to.
I put my hand flat on the cold marble and pushed. My knees hurt. My pajama pants slid a little on the polished floor as I crawled, not toward the door where Marta was, but sideways toward the window wall where the big wooden-framed window let in all that daylight. There was a low marble island — the built-in window seat that ran under the sill — and I wanted it between us. I needed something solid between us.
The marble was cold under my palms. I scrambled the three or four feet and got my back against that wall, under the window, and pulled my knees up. The light fell across me now, bright on my patterned top, and I kept both hands locked on my collar so the top stayed closed. My breathing was still too fast, and I could see my own hands shaking.
Both men watched me go. They could have reached for me again. For a second I thought the shaved-head one would — his hand twitched — but Marta made a small sound in her doorway and took one step forward, just one, and kept her eyes on them.
That was enough.
The man with the shaved head stood up straighter, rolling his shoulders inside his leather jacket. The other one shoved his hands into his pockets and looked away toward the window, like he was bored.
May you like
They each took two steps back. Two deliberate steps onto the marble, away from me, away from Marta's line of sight. The distance wasn't much, but it was a line. I pressed my spine harder against the wall under the window and didn't let go of my collar.
Marta stayed in the doorway, her hands now empty at her sides, the laundry basket at her feet like a doorstop. She didn't come to me. She didn't have to. She just stayed there, a witness, and kept the door open.
