Page 177 of One Minute Out

Verdoorn asked, “Is she tied?” referring to Maja across the room at the table, her hands behind her.

“Yeah, boss,” Loots said.

“Okay, come with me. We’ll start hauling shit to the cars.”

“You gonna be a good girl and sit right there?” he asked Roxana as he walked.

She nodded without speaking, and he left the kitchen.

As soon as they disappeared, Roxana looked around frantically for a telephone, and she found one across the kitchen on a cradle. This gave her a moment of optimism, though she had no idea how the hell she could possibly dial her sister’s number, country code and all, with her hands tied behind her back.

But then she turned her attention to the pool house, where she’d caught glimpses of what she took as a young trafficking victim through the window. That girl had clearly not been bound, and Roxana wondered if she could make it out the back screen door, across the pool deck, and inside the pool house without being detected.

She knew she had to try.

She looked quickly back over her shoulder to make sure no one was approaching from behind, then she rose, shot across the kitchen, spun around, and used her hands behind her back to unlock and slide open the glass door. She shut it behind her, then ran as fast as she could in her stocking feet to the pool house. Once there, she turned around again, felt blindly until she grasped the door latch, opened the unlocked door, and stepped inside.

On her left she saw the open kitchen, so she stepped to a counter, found a paring knife on a cutting board, and carefully cut the ties lashing her wrists together.

When this was done, she looked down at the knife in her hand. It was a weapon, but she knew she couldn’t fight her way out of here.

She thought about using it to kill herself, but only for a moment.

No, she wasn’t doing that. Roxana was on a mission, and the mission was to find a damn phone.

A noise startled her, and she looked up to find the girl she’d seen through the window, now walking through the living room. She wore a purple wetsuit, unzipped at the waist with the arms hanging down by her legs. On her body she wore a black long-sleeved rash guard, and she had handmade bracelets on both wrists.

Roxana had seen dozens of sex trafficking victims; none of them dressed like this.

The girl saw her, stopped, and stared, obviously confused.

“Do you speak English?” Roxana asked breathlessly.

“Uhh... yeah. Who are you?” The girl spoke with an American accent, and this Roxana found bizarre. There had been no American slaves at the ranch, and certainly none in the pipeline.

Roxana began to answer her, but the American asked, “Are you a friend of Sean’s?”

Roxana just looked at her before saying, “He brought me here. My name is Roxana.”

“Hi,” the girl said awkwardly.

In the quiet that followed, Roxana suddenly realized she’d seen this girl before. Moments ago, in the photos in the kitchen of the Director’s house. She had been younger then, but she was the oldest of the three kids pictured on the ski slope.

“What is your name?” Roxana asked in disbelief.

“Charlotte Cage.”

“You are Ken’s daughter?”

The young girl nodded nervously, like she’d been caught doing something wrong. She said, “Sean and I were supposed to go surfing this morning. I guess he forgot. Look, I’m not supposed to be here. I mean, I’m supposed to meet Sean, but my mom told me not to come home. Will you do me a favor and—”

“I won’t say anything, but your father is over there in the house right now.”

Charlotte looked out the window. “Shit,” she said again.

“Stay here; I’ll tell Sean where you are, and when they are finished with what they are doing, you guys can go surfing.”

Charlotte looked relieved. “Thank you. Please don’t tell my mom and dad.”

---