I wake on my sofa, still drunk. What time is it?

Juliette?

I look around, hoping she's somewhere the condo. Christ, my tolerance for alcohol has gone way down since I was injured. Gripping the back of the sofa with one hand, I hoist myself up. Scratch my head. Smack my mouth. Wow, I stink.

The only proper noise I can make when sitting all the way upright is a groan. Reaching for the phone might make my head split in two. The room's still spinning at slow speed. Yeah, I'm still drunk.

Juliette?

I squint at the phone, bringing it a little closer to my eyes. It's eleven? And she hasn't called?

Oh, fuck. Everything comes rushing back. The party. Juliette, slurring her words in the bathroom. Seeing her on the stairs with Sebastian.

Him telling me that she'd gone upstairs to lie down.

Leaving her there. I left her there. With him. Goddammit, that was the worst thing I've ever done. Even if she finds out that I left, and forgives me, I might never forgive myself.

Did I call paramedics last night? I check the phone. Sure enough, there's a call to 911.

What happened to her?

The black hole of panic opens in my chest once again.

* * *

I clap my hand over my mouth.

"Come on. Let's get you downstairs in my apartment. I'll give you some clothes." Lena stands up and extends her hand.

"My dress. Where's my dress?" I mumble, ignoring her help. I'm still not sure if I can trust her. "I can get up fine."

She puts her arm around me. "He had me take it to the dry cleaners. Where's your phone?"

My phone. Griffin. I need to call Griffin. "By the nightstand."

It's nice of her to retrieve it, and I stare at the cell, like I've never seen such an amazing thing.

Like a zombie, I follow her out Sebastian's lavish bedroom, down the stairs, and all the way on the other side of the mansion. This is obviously the servant's quarters, because the hallways are smaller and there's no art on the walls.

Lena takes me through a door, into a small, sparsely-decorated studio apartment. There's a bed, a tiny kitchen table with two chairs, a television. A dorm-sized fridge and a hot pot. Everything seems like it's in miniature compared to the rest of the house.

She locks the door behind us and I must look alarmed because she pauses. "It's okay. He won't be back for several hours. And, anyway, he asked me to get you some clothes. He just doesn't know I'm bringing you here, and don't tell him."

I shake my head. Unsure of myself, I stand there in the robe, barefoot, while she opens a drawer.

"Here." She hands me a folded t-shirt and leggings. "The bathroom's over there. Oh, and here. I have an extra pair of flip-flops. You look like you're about my size." She scoops them from under a bureau.

With mechanical movements, I go to the bathroom, change into the clothes, and wash my hands twice. The only thing that will make me feel better now is a shower at my house.

Well, that and a ticket to a faraway country, one without Sebastian Engel.

I pad out, still feeling shaky and skittish.

"You can leave the bathrobe on that chair." She points to a blonde wood chair near the bed.

The sound of boiling water in a kettle on the two-burner hot plate echoes in the room, and Lena's lining up boxes of tea on the table.

"Which would you like?"

I shrug. "Doesn't matter. I want to leave soon."

She nods, and busies herself by pouring tea. I study her white-blonde hair, her slim frame, her precise movements. Lena's like a pretty bird, one I imagine thriving in winter. She places a steaming mug of tea on one side of the table, and gestures to the seat. "Please."

Reluctantly, I sit. Wrap my hands around the hot mug. It's a little too scalding to touch, but I do it anyway, just to feel something. Because otherwise, I'm pretty numb right now.

"You knew he'd do that to me?"

"I wasn't sure. He's brought a lot of women here, but rarely do they stay over. When they do, they're willing to do anything he asks because they need money. You seemed different."

Am I, though? "He needs to be locked up. He's insane."

She nods, and the mournful look in her green eyes almost makes me want to comfort her. What's going on here? Is she on his side? Or not?

"How did you meet him? How did you get to be," I wave my hand in the air, "This? Here? With him?"

She sighs. "We met at an event at Art Basel. A year ago. I was here on business, and he was so charming. It was the first time I'd been out of Latvia, my country. I'm an artist, and had always wanted to come to the big art biennial here in Miami. A gallery owner here paid for me to come and show my work. It was like a dream come true, because my life back home..."

I stare as her eyes begin to water. This was a bad idea coming down here with her, I think. It's too much to handle.

"My son's in a facility in Latvia. He nearly drowned when he was five, and suffered severe brain damage. I was all alone, and couldn't care for him well. I did the best I could, working as a secretary and doing my art. I came to Miami when he was eight, and his needs were growing. Costing more. Doctors said he should be put in a facility for children with brain damage. I hoped to sell my paintings and wanted to move him into the best facility in my city. Or hire a private nurse. And then I met Sebastian."

"Don't tell me. He offered to help your son." Lena's eyes flicker from her mug to my face, almost as if I've wounded her.

"Sorry. That wasn't a jab at you. I'm just sensing a pattern with him. Asshole."

A tear slides down her cheek. "Yes, he offered to help. He was so kind that it didn't even seem like I was doing anything immoral. And he was such a gentleman. I didn't mind the idea of sleeping with him for, well, you know. And for a little while, I thought I might fall for him. That we might make a life here, and in Latvia. But one night, I was with him here, at dinner. I got extraordinarily sleepy, and ended up passing out. Turns out he drugged me, and raped me."

I groan and shut my eyes. "Oh my God," I whisper.

"Of course, by that time, my son was settled in his new facility, I'd sold some art here in Miami, and I was half in love with Sebastian. So when he told me about his fetish, I thought I could tough it out long enough to save some money and then go home. I thought it was worth the tradeoff, but he not only took advantage of my situation, he exploited it."

I wince.

"He asked me to move in, and mentioned marriage. About six months ago, he said I'm too old to marry. Imagine. Too old at thirty-seven! He trusted me as his personal assistant. Maid. Whatever I am. I wouldn't want to marry him anyway. He's stopped paying me, and I don't even have enough to get a plane ticket home. And then I saw what he did to a few other girls. Young girls. And then he made me..."

The only thing I can do is look at her in horror. "Made you what?"

"Made me participate with the girls as they were passed out."

Oh God. I stare at the ceiling. "I can't believe this. Did you..."

She takes a deep breath. "No. Not with you. He was so angry when you threw up. I cleaned you and changed the bed. He wanted nothing to do with you. He'd lost control of you once you showed signs of life."

"Do you know if he went through with..." I bury my face in my hands and she reaches to touch my arm.

"He didn't. I got upset with him and swore at him. It was the first time I'd ever done that. But when I saw you, I was so angry. He was fully clothed still."

When I sigh, it feels like my breath and my soul leak out of my body. "Why are you telling me all this? What's your motivation?"

"I hate him. Every time I tell him I want to leave, he says he has photos of me, things that will ruin my art career. And he refuses to pay me, or let me go. It's a sick power game."

I take a sip of the scalding tea. The thought crosses my mind that she could be trying to drug me, and I wonder if the liquid is too hot or if it's just a weird flavor.

"That's blackmail."

"I know."

"He has photos?"

She nods. "And video. Keeps everything on a laptop somewhere in his office. It's why he doesn't keep any security cameras here. He doesn't want an outside company to see what he's doing. But he likes to keep a record. I know that much."

I raise my eyebrows. "Did he take any of me last night?"

"I'm not sure. I don't think so. He wasn't with you for long."

"Why haven't you stolen the laptop and given it to authorities?" Surely it can't be that difficult...

Her mouth quirks to one side. "Do you think police will believe me? An immigrant? He's close to the police chief."

"I know. He was at the party last night. But with that kind of evidence, how could they ignore the truth?"

Lena smirks. "Juliette. Powerful men ignore the truths of women every day. They always have and always will. I've learned that the hard way, and so will you."

"Depressing, but true," I mutter. "Where's his laptop now? Can we get it?"

"Took it with him. Probably to jerk off while he's in his office."

We both grimace, sipping our tea, letting the misery of the situation settle in.

"Have you ever talked to any of his other victims before? Why didn't you warn me?"

She shakes her head. "You're the first. And I wasn't sure you'd actually stick around. So many don't, after the first few dates, or he doesn't ask them back. A couple have agreed just to get the cash, but he didn't ultimately like them. He doesn't do this with many women, and the few he does, he selects carefully. Most don't get as far as you did. As we did. I'd hoped to talk to you last night, but he kept me so busy with the guests. I actually thought you'd gone home at first."

"So why me, why now? Aren't you worried about your son?"

She licks her lips. "I think it's time I put myself first."

I nod. "And what do you gain by telling me all this?"

Lena looks me in the eyes, and for the first time all morning, her expression is defiant, not beaten down. "An ally. I'm illegal. I don't have my work papers. I need someone who will join me."

"Join you...to do what?" My brain's not making important connections.

"To make him stop. To help. I have some ideas."

There's a buzzing noise, and we both jump. I put my hand to my chest. "Jesus, that scared me. Is that your cell?"

She shakes her head. "No. I think it's yours."

Crap, I left the phone in the robe pocket. What if it's Griffin?

As the phone buzzes insistently, I go to the robe and fish it out. It's a number I don't recognize.

"Hello?" I'm breathless. I need Griffin right now. Please let it be Griffin, to take me away from all this.

"Juliette, my God. Where are you? I'm going crazy here. Why haven't I heard from you? Are you in danger? If you can't talk, just say so. Is he there? If you can't talk, just say wrong number and hang up. Or if you're hurt or in a bad situation, say that you can't hear me."

His voice is such a relief, I almost weep. I sneak a glance and Lena, who's gotten up from her chair and is washing her cup in the sink. Her back's to me.

Do I trust her? No, not yet.

If I talk to Griffin right now, will I become hysterical and tell him everything? If he finds out what's happening, he'll want to kill Sebastian. If that happens, Zoe's life will be in danger. And maybe, if I talk to him, my sadness might turn to rage. How had he known I was passed out? Did he really call an ambulance here? How could he just leave me, knowing I was in danger?

Maybe Lena can answer some of these questions. Does she know about Griffin? Also, I need to find out what she has in mind for Sebastian. I take a huge breath.

"Sorry, wrong number."

____