IRINA MILOSOVICI CURLED UP on the hard prison bunk and forced herself to lie still, staying as far away from the cell door as she could until the men disappeared, and the courthouse was quiet again.
There were men everywhere. Big men, leering men. Rough men. They’d wrenched her away from the dead man’s body. She’d felt their hands on her skin, through her ragged clothes, as they dragged her into their police car, and then out again and into the cell. She’d felt their eyes on her, read the hunger. They were tough, violent men, and she was nothing but prey, no matter the badges on their chests or the guns at their waists.
The men wanted her. She could tell from their eyes. They would come for her, too. It was only a matter of time.
Irina gathered that the Americans believed she’d killed the young man. She’d tried, frantically, to tell the first woman, the large woman from the diner, about Catalina. Tried to tell her the whole story, but her English wasn’t good enough. Glossy American magazines didn’t teach the right vocabulary words for situations like this. And then the men had arrived.
The men had replaced her clothing when they’d put her in the cell. They’d forced her to bathe, too, but Irina still felt the stink of the box, a maddening filth on her skin, in her hair, inside her body. She knew how awful she must appear, her long hair—her pride and joy—tangled and unkempt, her eyes sunken, her cheeks gaunt. A pitiful little vagabond in the wilderness.
Not that it mattered what she looked like. The men still consumed her with their eyes. And Catalina was gone. Still in the box probably. Or maybe with the thugs, enduring horrible things. Or maybe she was already dead.
> > >
IRINA HAD RUN AWAY from her family once, as a child. Spent the night in the forest on the outskirts of her little town. She’d decided that she would disappear into the woods, carve out her own civilization, live free from her parents and her sister and the other girls at school, the girls who laughed at her dresses and unfashionable shoes, who tripped her and pulled her hair.
She hadn’t realized the woods would be so unpleasant. Brambles caught in her clothes. Branches raked her face. Very quickly, her shoes and stockings were soaked through with mud. Within an hour, she’d eaten the one sandwich that she’d brought. She’d imagined—foolishly—there would be berries to pick, and wild animals she could hunt. She’d imagined she would be queen of the forest, told herself she needed no one else.
Catalina had found her at sunset. Irina could still remember her little sister trampling through the woods, loud as a bear, calling her name and dragging her big suitcase behind her. At first, Irina had hid, desperate to be alone, to make a point to her parents, her classmates, the entire world that she didn’t need anybody.
She’d hid well. Catalina had passed her, wandering deeper into the forest, unfazed by the setting sun, the shadows, the temperature dropping. Irina had waited until Catalina was almost out of sight before calling to her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked when her sister had turned around and dragged that big suitcase back to the crook of the root where Irina had hidden herself. “Why are you following me?”
In response, Catalina tipped the suitcase over on the ground, fumbled with the catch. “I brought chocolate,” she said proudly. “Matches to start a fire. Magazines, in case we get bored.”
“I have matches,” Irina said. “Anyway, the wood is damp.”
“So we can burn the magazines.”
Irina stared at her sister. Felt frustration like an itch. This is my story, she wanted to say, my tragic escape. Why do you always have to be such a tagalong?
Catalina seemed to read her mind. “I won’t stay if you don’t want me to,” she said, smiling wide. “I won’t tell them where you are, either.”
She stood, set out again in the direction of the village. Irina watched her go.
She felt lonely suddenly, stupid for running away. “Wait,” she called out. “Catalina.”
> > >
SHE’D MADE THEM spend the night in the forest out of principle. It was a long night, cold and restless. Irina had huddled close to her sister, shivering and afraid, thinking of her parents, hating Catalina for finding her, and loving her all the same.
Catalina had always followed her. Stolen her clothing and makeup and glossy American magazines, tagged along with her friends to movies after school. Of course she’d followed Irina to the United States.
Irina had bragged to her little sister incessantly about Mike, about America, the places she would visit, the people she would meet. She had conjured a magnificent fantasy. Was it any wonder, then, that on the day she was to meet Mike, she’d found Catalina at her door?
“What are you doing?” she’d asked her sister, staring at her battered suitcase, her inexpert makeup. “What about school? Mom and Dad will kill you.”
Catalina had laughed and pushed past her into the dingy apartment. “It’s summertime,” she’d said. “They’ll forgive me. Soon as we become movie stars.”
Movie stars. Irina pulled the thin blanket around herself and tried to find comfort on the hard mattress. She was tired, but she dared not close her eyes. Could not let her guard down. The men could come back for her at any minute.
And if she slept, she would only dream of Catalina, and the American men who would devour her like monsters.