A Million Different Ways (Horn Duet 1)

“What will you do now?” My eyes fell on the half-eaten sandwich she had discarded into the paper bag by her feet. I was so busy contemplating whether I should save it for later that her voice barely filtered through. “Vera?” Reluctantly, I pulled my gaze away from the sandwich.

“I don’t know where else to look. The restaurants and the hotels won’t take me without a visa.” Emilia took one hundred francs out of her purse and handed it to me. I pushed it away and shook my head, my inconvenient pride protesting the indignation. “Emi, I can’t.”

She ignored me, shoved the money into my hands, and gripped them closed. A sympathetic smile softened her angular features. “When you become a famous doctor, you can pay me back…until then, don’t.”

Torn between shame and survival, I stared at the money and swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth. “You can count on it.”

“I just remembered something.” I looked up and found Emilia’s expression pinched in concentration. “One of the waitresses at the club said there was a position available at the Horn estate, outside the city, but they wouldn’t take her because she doesn’t speak proper English. It pays well and housing is included.” She stood up and brushed the crumbs off her skinny black jeans.

“Kitchen or housekeeping?” I asked. Not that it mattered––I was ready to dig ditches in a graveyard if it meant being paid.

“Housekeeping, I think…maybe when you get there you can show them how well you cook.”

I stood and wrapped my arms around her tiny waist, the height difference between us considerable. “I’ll do anything they need me to. Thanks, Em, you know I love you.”

“You’re my oldest friend, Vera…my only real friend. I’d do anything for you.”

The thinly veiled bruises on her soul were evident in her expression. I recognized those bruises, saw them in myself when I looked in the mirror. Liberty had taken its pound of flesh but we had survived. “Horn. Why does that sound familiar?” I thought out loud. Emilia turned around and pointed to the majestic turn-of-the-century building. As the metallic letters glimmered in the sunlight, I recognized the name. Horn Banque.

Chapter Two

I wasn’t surprised to discover that the only housing I could afford in Geneva was a small room in the red light district. The windows of Pâquis embarrassed me. I always stared ahead when I walked past the barely dressed women in the store windows. As if in mutual agreement, they began filing their nails or checking their phones when they saw me, and resumed dancing suggestively as I walked past them. I pretended they didn’t exist, even though the only thing that separated me from them was the thin glass between us… and my education.

After my lunch with Emilia, I went to inform the landlady she needn’t worry about fixing the small refrigerator. The sarcasm escaped her completely. It had been broken for months and no amount of begging had convinced the woman to replace it. The condition of the building was deplorable. Nevertheless, who was complaining? Not the tenants. Not a bunch of immigrants huddled together for some semblance of familiarity and safety, too scared to raise an eyebrow.

That apartment was a constant reminder of how low I had sunk in life. It was dark, cold, and the walls practically transparent. I knew exactly what time my neighbors left for work, who was having marital problems, when the prostitute down the hall was entertaining.

In a hurry to leave it far behind, I purchased a tattered valise in a secondhand shop and threw my belongings in without taking the time to fold anything. The valise had no wheels but I had learned to travel light. I had to be ready to pick up and move at a moment’s notice. And I certainly didn’t need another blouse; I was living the life of a Jesuit monk. Not that I was in any position to complain, but I had been on one date in six years.

In hindsight, I never fully appreciated how charmed my life had been up until that fateful day six years ago. I was raised by a single parent who smothered me in love and support, indulged me in everything. My father taught me that I could do or be anything I wished. I had grand ambitions and carefully laid out plans for my future––until my entire life was destroyed by circumstances outside my control.

There was no time to mourn. I learned to adapt quickly; my survival depended on it.

With only the clothes on my back and the little money I could get from pawning the few valuables I had, I fled, became a ghost, hiding in shadows and rejecting friendships and attachments of any kind. Because I was an accomplice to a crime, an expendable supporting character in a paperback thriller. I wasn’t even the clever villain everyone hates to love. And the only thing I was certain of anymore was that nothing would stop them from coming after me.