Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 84788 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84788 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
And that, well, that sounded fair enough. I nodded, putting down my purse and reaching in for the envelope. I handed it to him. "I have been keeping the books for the Kozlov brothers. I had no idea what they were into until today. I took that," I said as he flipped through the papers, his face expressionless, "to the cops."
"And?"
"And the detective I talked to pretty much told me I was fucked and said they would come for me. He gave me the name of this place, and you, and sent me on my way. I went home and... one of them had already been there so I just... ran."
"Here."
"Yeah."
He nodded, tucking the papers away, but not giving them back to me as he exhaled. "You know what I find more and more often in this job?" he asked oddly, leaving me very little room but to ask.
"What?"
"Men fuck up and women are left with the damage."
I paused, watching him with drawn-together brows. "Is that a round-about way of saying you'll help me?"
"Love, I was going to help you the second I heard you slam into my front door."
"Just like that?" I asked, my big-city distrust rearing its ugly head.
"Yeah, just like that."
"Why?"
"Because it's what I do."
"But... why? I can't pay you..."
"I'm not asking you to."
"So this is just out of the goodness of your heart?"
"Maybe we can call it penance."
I felt myself straighten as he moved to retrieve my cup of hot chocolate. "Penance? You've fucked up and left damage for a woman to clean up?"
"Not in the way you're thinking," he said, handing me the cup which I cradled between my hands, the heat making my frozen fingers tingle in an unpleasant way. "I've never intentionally hurt a woman or put her in harm's way. But I'm no saint. I've done some bad shit and I owe it to the world to put some good back into it. I grew up with a mom who used to get her face bashed in every few months by the son of a bitch she fell in love with when I was too young to do anything about it. When I was old enough, I did. Doing this, helping women, it felt like a natural way to make amends for the wrongs I've done in my life."
Not sure what to say, I took a sip of my hot chocolate.
"The detective said something about you... disappearing women..."
To that, he gave me a small smile. "Something like that, yeah."
"How something like that?"
"Chances are, if a woman is coming to me it is because she is literally out of all other options. I take that desperation and mold it into something I can work with."
"And that is?"
"Determination. I need you to feel the will to survive down to your bones. It's easy to give up. It's simple to just fall into the hopelessness of the situation. But I can't do shit with that. I need you to want whatever help I can give you the way you want to keep breathing. Because, quite frankly in your situation, my help is the only way you will keep doing that."
"I don't want to die."
"Then you're going to have to prove that to me."
I didn't know just how much he meant that at the time.
That night, I was given a cot in a panic room at the emporium.
Yes, a panic room.
When standing, if I threw my arms out, I could touch both sides of said room. It was stark white and had a plastic container in the side with a supply of water, power bars, granola, and peanut butter. Thankfully, I wasn't forced to eat that, being given a decent enough portion of leftover Chinese food and another big cup of hot chocolate before I was handed a big, fluffy blanket and pushed into the room that was impenetrable from the outside. And, while it was weird and a little creepy and eerily silent, it was safe. There was even a camera feed from the outside of the door that gave a one-eighty degree view of the outside so I could be sure it was safe before I opened. And I was given strict orders to never open for anyone but him and even instructed to never open if he showed up with anyone else at the door. Because if that was the case, it was against his will.
I would learn that K was incredibly precise about the small details like that.
The next morning at five A.M sharp, there was a rapping at the door. I had been up for half an hour, staring at the white ceiling. The sound made me bolt upright, my heart slamming in my chest, before I looked over at the TV and saw K standing there, in gray slacks and a black, tucked-in dress shirt, his sleeves rolled up to reveal another nice watch in silver. His hands were holding out two steaming cups of coffee. I rolled out of the bed, tidying the blanket, then spinning the giant wheel. With each spin, I could hear the metal bars click until the door opened with a quiet hiss.