The Criminal

Ch. 24: You shoot her, I'll shoot you.

Fiona introduces me to a young woman, her body overcome with terror. She's been here for five days and has yet to utter and single word. According to the other women who live here, she has nightmares and—oftentimes—these nightmares are intense. I have no other information which certainly makes my job harder, but not impossible. I lead her towards a small storage cupboard which Fiona has kindly transformed into a therapy room. It's small and windowless, but it works.

"I'm Nicole," I offer, pointing towards the sofa. "Feel free to sit."

She quickly obeys, mistaking my suggestion as an order.

"You don't have to say anything," I assure, smiling. "We can just sit today."

I join her on the sofa, leaving a large gap between us. She nervously shuffles, stealing glances from the side of her eye. For that reason, I make sure my movements are slow and fluid. A noise sounds from outside which startles her, a small welp rushing from her mouth.

"It's okay. You're safe," I tell her.

Her face is a picture of concern, half hidden by her long, brown hair. I've noticed she does that a lot. Perhaps it's comforting to her? To hide behind her hair is her way of shielding herself from the world. From whatever evil brought her here. She clutches a Quran to her chest, the religious text worn and ripped. I can tell it means a lot to her. She notices me looking and tries to hide it, again, mistaking my intentions. I'm not sure she speaks English, so I decide to try something other than talking to reassure her. There's an old copy of Pride & Prejudice on the coffee table, the hardcover in surprisingly good condition. It's heavy as I pick it up and flick to the first page. I'm not much of a reader but I know my brother fucking loves Jane Austen. I read the first three pages and when I look up, the woman is reading from her book too. I subtly study her for a moment, noticing the way her lips move as her eyes scan the writing. There's an element of desperation to her reading and I wonder if she's praying. Perhaps for her life? I return focus to my own book and continue for another twenty pages or so. This time when I look up, she's much more relaxed. I gently close my book and as I do, she copies my actions. I smile at her and stand, gesturing towards the door. Like before, she takes my suggestion as an order and leaps into action, fearing for her safety if she doesn't do as she's told.

"Perhaps we can read together in a few days." I say, opening the door for her.

She quietly slips out without saying anything, returning to her room, Quran tucked under her arm.

"How'd it go?" asks Fiona, approaching.

"She's complex," I share. "It'll take a bit of time."

Hunter emerges from the kitchen, carrying a tray of lasagne.

"What's he doing here?" I ask.

Fiona follows my gaze.

"He always comes on Fridays. The girls love his cooking."

I quirk a brow in surprise. "Hunter cooks?"

Fiona laughs and hurries off, her presence needed elsewhere. I gravitate towards Hunter who—up until last minute—doesn't see me.

"How'd your session go?" he asks.

I watch him wrap the tray in clingfilm and bung it into the fridge.

"We just read," I explain. "I need time with her. Lots of time."

"I'm sure you'll figure it out."

I scrunch my nose up at him.

"What?" He laughs.

"Just because you fucked me doesn't mean you have to be nice to me."