“I promise, Kerstan. I’ll find my way back to you. There’s something I have to do.”
He looked into my eyes curiously. I’m sure he expected me to tell him my plan, but I still had to work on it.
It would probably take days, weeks, or maybe even a few months, but I would accomplish what I needed to do and I would finally be freed from the chains that held me in Amsterdam and I would take as many of the girls as I could with me.
Eight
Valentina
I kept pressure on my cut. The napkin I held against it felt wet and warm and I wondered how the hell it was possible that something like this could have happened. It should have been easy; get in, find the American, and get out. Now I wouldn’t be able to work for Smith because he knew and I wouldn’t be able to work for Kerstan because he knew as well.
I sat back against the lush leather seat in Kerstan’s car as he yelled at his driver to go as quickly as he could. He sat with me in the back and pulled the napkin away again.
“Does it hurt?” he asked me.
“Niet,” I replied, slightly shaking my head.
“Liar,” he said with soft chuckle as he pressed the napkin back against the side of my face. He sighed and ran his hand back through his hair, “Why didn’t you listen to me when I told you not to go? Did you really think I was going to leave her there?”
I rolled my eyes, slid away from him, and glanced out the window. “This is not about you and what you want. This is what I have to do for myself. I chose to help the American because I heard rumors about a House Master falling for one of his girls and I knew it was you. Who else would it be? You forget that I was one of your first workers, Kerstan. I know how soft you can be even though you portray yourself as something completely different. Have you really become this cruel, this hard?”
Kerstan sighed.
“I am whatever is required of me to keep my business intact and unchallenged. I was going to stop a couple of years ago, but then Luuk, he approached me with a business offer I couldn’t refuse. In return for helping him set up his own House and getting revenge on a whore that tore his family apart, I was to get an even split of the money his girls made for him. How could I say no?”
“And the American? How do you feel about her?” I asked with a grimace. I hoped this conversation would be over soon, as I was starting to feel dizzy.
“I feel nothing about her,” he shot back, giving me a stern look.
I smiled at him, a knowing smile that told him I knew better, before I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes. It took another ten minutes for the feeling of nausea and dizziness to go away, but that was better than not going away ever.
I felt strong hands wrap around me moments later, and opened my eyes. I was tired and I’m sure it was due to the loss of blood, but as I looked groggily into Kerstan’s face, I knew I would be somewhat safe for now. He reached into the car and pulled me up into his arms, cradled me against his chest, and used his foot to close the door as he walked toward the main doors.
As soon as he walked through the doors, there were gasps and whispers. He bellowed for any of the grandmothers and as they approached, he began speaking to them rapidly in Dutch. He told them that I was to be taken care of hand and foot on a twenty four basis. He told them to call a doctor who would come and glue my wound so that it wouldn’t scar as terribly as it would with stitches.
In a matter of him being done giving them directions, he set me on my feet and one of the elderly women took me away to my own private room on the floor. One I imagined had once belonged to the American at some point.
I sighed as the grandmother laid me down on one of the two beds and told me she would be back with clothes and a warm blanket for me. I closed my eyes again, but reopened them moments later when I felt like I was being watched.
“Did you see her?”
I turned slightly on my side to get a better look at the girl with the angelic face, drawn tightly together in old anger and desperation. She had long brown hair, big brown eyes, and kept her arms crossed tightly across her chest. Her accent was not of Dutch descent, but I couldn’t figure out where she was from.
“Amity? Did you see her?” she asked again, taking a few tentative steps toward the bed.
I didn’t answer. Not for any reason other than I didn’t know if I could trust her. Instead, I pulled the napkin away from my cut, opened and refolded it, and pressed the cleaner side down.
“Do you speak English? Do you understand or speak German. I don’t speak Dutch. I understand some of it. Amity? Lieve?” she asked desperately close to tears.
“Are you a friend?” I finally inquired.
“Yes. My name here is Betje, but my real name is Wendeline. Is she okay? Is she alive?”
“She’s alive,” I confirmed, not wanting to say much else about how mentally broken Amity seemed to be.
“Thank God,” the little German said, sitting on the bed next to me. “I miss her so much.”
I watched her wring her hands as she looked at me. It seemed as if though she wanted to ask me more questions, but wasn’t sure if she should.