Gone are her lush curves.
She must not have eaten for weeks.
It’s galling.
“Here.” I give her my hand, which she takes, and with the other I test the temperature of the water. It’s hot but not too hot.
“Get in.”
She steps into the bath and slowly sinks into the foaming, fragrant water. I strip off my jacket and roll up the sleeves of my shirt and sit down on the floor beside the bath. She turns her small, sad face toward me but remains mute.
I reach across for the body wash and a nylon scrubber that Kavanagh must use. Well, she won’t miss it—I spy another on the shelf.
“Hand,” I say. Leila gives me her hand, and methodically and gently I start to wash her.
She’s grimy. She hasn’t washed for weeks, it seems. There’s grime. Everywhere.
How does someone get this dirty?
“Lift your chin up.”
I scrub under her neck and down her other arm, leaving her skin clean and a little pinker. I wash her torso and her back.
“Lie down.”
She lies down in the bath and I wash her feet and her legs in turn.
“Do you want me to wash your hair?”
She nods. And I reach for the shampoo.
I’ve bathed her before. Several times. Usually as a reward for her behavior in the playroom. It was always a pleasure.
This, not so much.
I make brisk work of her hair and use the handheld shower to rinse out the suds.
By the time I’m finished, she looks a little better.
I sit back on my heels.
“Long time since you did this,” she says. Her voice low and bleak, devoid of all emotion.
“I know.” I reach over and pull the plug to empty the murky water. Standing, I reach for a large towel. “Up you go.”
Leila stands, and I offer her my hand so that she can step out of the bath. I fold the towel around her and reach for a smaller one and towel-dry her hair.
She smells better, although, in spite of the scented bath oil, the foul odor of her clothes still pervades the bathroom.
“Come.” I take her out and leave her on the sofa in the sitting area. “Stay there.”
Back in the bathroom, I grab my jacket, and from the pocket extract my phone. I call Flynn’s cell number. He answers immediately.
“Christian.”
“I have Leila Williams.”
“With you?”
“Yes. She’s in a bad way.”
“You’re in Seattle?”
“Yes. In Ana’s apartment.”
“I’ll be right there.”
I give him Ana’s address and hang up. I collect her clothes and head back to the living room. Leila is sitting where I left her, staring at the wall.
I go through the kitchen drawers and find a trash bag. Checking the pockets of Leila’s coat and the slacks, I find nothing but used tissues. I dump her clothes in the trash bag, knot it, and leave it by the front door.
“I’ll find you some clean clothes.”
“Her clothes?” Leila says.
“Clean clothes.”
In Ana’s room, I find some sweatpants and a plain T-shirt. I hope Ana doesn’t mind, but I think Leila’s need is greater.
She’s still on the sofa when I return.
“Here. Put these on.” I place the clothes beside her and move to the sink at the kitchen counter. I fill a glass with water and, once she’s dressed, offer it to her.
She shakes her head.
“Leila, drink this.”
She takes the glass and has a sip.
“And another. Just sips,” I say.
She takes another sip.
“He’s gone,” she says, and her face contorts with pain and grief.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“He was like you.”
“Was he?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
Well, that explains why she sought me out.
“Why didn’t you call me?” I sit down beside her.
She shakes her head and tears well in her eyes once more, but she doesn’t answer my question.
“I’ve called a friend. He can help you. He’s a doctor.”
She’s exhausted and remains impassive, but her tears trickle down her face, and I feel at a loss.
“I’ve been looking for you,” I tell her.
She says nothing but starts shaking, violently.
Shit.
There’s a throw on the armchair. I drape it over her shoulders.
“Cold?”
She nods. “So cold.” She snuggles into the blanket and I head back into Ana’s room to find her hair dryer.
I plug it into the socket beside the sofa and sit down. I take a cushion and place it on the floor between my feet.
“Sit. Here.”
Leila gets up slowly, pulls the blanket around her, and sinks onto the cushion between my legs, facing away from me.
The high-pitched whir of the hair dryer disrupts the silence between us as I gently dry her hair.
She sits quietly. Not touching me.
She knows she can’t. She knows she’s not allowed.
How many times have I dried her hair? Ten? Twelve times?
I can’t remember the exact number so I concentrate on my task.
Once her hair is dry, I stop. And it’s quiet in Ana’s apartment again. Leila leans her head against my thigh, and I don’t stop her.
“Do your folks know you’re here?” I ask.