SHE’D LEARNED HER ENGLISH watching American TV shows in Sarajevo, she said. She apologized if it wasn’t any good.
Windermere snorted. “You speak better English than half the people in this country,” she told the girl. “Nothing to worry about there.”
Sanja was her name. She was twenty, her features smooth and delicate. She had the hardened eyes of a soldier, though, and her skin was marked by fading bruises. She shivered. “I’m afraid,” she said.
Windermere reached across the table. “You’re safe, Sanja. The men who did this to you are dead.”
Sanja bit her lip. “They were terrible men,” she said, her eyes downcast. “Worse than the customers. They beat us until we screamed. Forced us to do things with them. They told us they would kill our families if we didn’t obey.”
“How long were you with them?” Stevens asked. “When did you come to America?”
Sanja thought about it. “It’s hard to tell time,” she said. “Maybe a year and a half, maybe two years? The days blur together.”
“Sure.” Stevens caught Windermere’s eye. Jesus Christ, his expression said, and she knew he was thinking about his daughter.
“You were telling me about your friend,” she told Sanja. “Her name was, what, Amira?”
“Amira, yes,” Sanja said. “We came over together, in the box. We lived next door to each other in the brothel, neighbors. Never allowed to talk to each other, but we— There was a vent we could speak through, if we whispered. We talked sometimes, when there were no customers.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Life. Before the box. Our families. Sarajevo.” Sanja smiled. “She told me I would be perfect for her older brother, when we got out of there.”
“And then?”
“And then, they found out about us. About the vent.” Sanja lowered her eyes. “One of the men heard us talking. He . . .” She paused. “He beat us. Did horrible things.”
She stood and turned around, lifted her shirt, exposing long faded scars across her back.
Stevens exhaled. “Piece of shit.” He had an expression on his face like Windermere had never seen, every muscle tense, his mouth tight. Like he was fighting something. Like he could barely restrain himself.
Windermere reached out, touched his arm. Stevens blinked. Relaxed a little. But his jaw remained clenched. “When did this happen?” she asked Sanja.
Sanja sat down again. “Weeks ago. Maybe two weeks? Not long. And then Amira was gone.”
“Gone.” Stevens’s voice was choked. “As in dead?”
“No, no,” Sanja said quickly. “There was another delivery. They took Amira away with them and blocked up the vent so I couldn’t talk to the new girl.” She shrugged. “She was Romanian, anyway, I think. We wouldn’t have had much to say.”
“So they took Amira away,” Windermere said. “Any idea where they took her?”
Sanja nodded. “She had a regular customer, a large man, very fat. After Amira left, they gave him me to play with, instead. Because we’re both from Sarajevo, or because we were neighbors. I heard him ask about Amira, this customer. I didn’t let on that I understood.” She looked up. “I never told them I could speak English. Not the men in charge.”
“So you overheard their conversation.”
“The customer asked about Amira. He didn’t like me the same. Amira had bigger boobs, he said. The man laughed at him. Told him Amira was gone. He could follow her to . . .” She faltered. “I’m sorry, I don’t know this country well.”
“It’s okay,” Windermere said. “Did it sound like he was talking about a city?”
“I don’t know,” Sanja said. “The fat man, he said it was too far, even for a pair of boobs like Amira’s. ‘Navada,’ he said. This is a place?”
“Nevada,” Windermere said. “It’s a state. Where in Nevada did they send her? Las Vegas?”
Sanja shook her head. “I know Las Vegas. Everyone knows. I would have remembered this.”
“Reno?” Stevens said. “Reno, Nevada?”
“Reno.” Sanja sat up. “This is the place. He said Amira went to Reno, Nevada.”
“Well, hot damn.” Windermere looked at Stevens again. “Reno, Nevada, partner. No rest for the wicked.”