Page 26 of Magic of Sins

“Amy!” I shout, hoping to get her to slow down.

I shouldn’t be here. I should try to get back to the limo.

“Come on.”

Amy walks up to a door with darkened glass panes and a wooden frame and pulls it open. Muffled sounds reach us. A worn black curtain blocks my view of what lies beyond. A flickering neon sign above the entrance readsCrime and Punishment.

“What is this place?” I ask, although I already have a hunch that this isn’t an establishment I want to enter.

Amy grins. “A strip club. But don’t worry, no one’s going to tryto get in your pants here.”

Oh, great. What a perfect way to end this evening!

But it seems a little late to chicken out. I tug my dress into place and run a hand through my hair. I hope I don’t look as bedraggled as I feel.

“All right,” I say to Amy, who nods approvingly.

Together we step through the curtain. The hall is bathed in red light and looks nowhere near as rundown as the building’s exterior suggests. There are several enclaves that can be closed off from the rest of the room with purple, heavy curtains. Scantily dressed girls dance on stages surrounded by seating areas.

I try not to look and instead stare at the red carpet at our feet, but my eyes keep wandering to the dancers. To the fringed skirts that only barely cover their bare thighs. To the black lace bras that leave little to the imagination. To the feather boas the girls wave as they contort their bodies in snake-like ways.

Amy laughs.

“Don’t tell me this is the first time you’re seeing something like this?”

“Well, it is.”

She makes it sound like it’s nothing out of the ordinary that these half-naked bodies are writhing around on stage, or that they’re casting seductive glances at the men who sit with their legs spread wide and leer. It’s horrible. I want to turn on my heel and leave, but for some reason, I’m frozen.

One of the men beckons to a dark-haired dancer, pulls her onto his lap, and strokes her bare thigh with a bill. His other hand wanders to the front of her black lace bra and slides under the fabric. The girl throws her head back and laughs.

I swallow against the nausea rising inside me.

I wonder if the girl is here by choice. If she maybe even enjoys the touching. I find it hard to imagine. It could be that the manincited her lust. How much of a free will would she even have if that’s the case?

I force myself to look elsewhere. At the bar, where an older man is downing a glass of golden liquid. At a waitress who moves between the seats while balancing a full tray. Anywhere but to where the dancer is currently letting her hand wander over the man’s chest as she slowly undoes the buttons of his white shirt.

“Jared,” Amy calls out, heading for one of the booths in the back where a young man is sitting.

He has tousled black hair and a scruffy beard. He seems half asleep, and his black shirt is wrinkled. Everything about him seems to give the appearance that he just stumbled out of bed. Nevertheless, he exudes an attraction that I can hardly resist.

Amy pulls me over to his alcove, and he acknowledges us with a lazy nod in our direction.

“Do you have a new girlfriend?” he asks, reaching into a bowl of strawberries on the table in front of him.

With relish, he shoves one into his mouth. Without wanting to my eyes stray to his sensually curved lips.

“This is Kaya,” Amy says. “She’s trying to find out what happened to her mother.” Then, with a look in my direction, she adds, “Go on! Show him the picture!”

I hesitate to hand over the picture. Suddenly the whole thing seems strange to me. This girl just picks me up off the street, doesn’t even ask me why I’m crying on the ground with my knees blooded, and then brings me here. To a guy who supposedly knows everyone in the East End and can solve my mother’s murder, no problem. Pretty implausible.

“I don’t know,” I mutter, turning the photo indecisively in my hands, but Amy reaches over and takes it from me and tosses it on the table in front of Jared.

I nervously clasp my now empty hands together.

Something about Jared’s posture changes. I feel it morethan I see it. It’s like his muscles suddenly tense. His fingers wander over the photo, tracing my mother’s features, a gesture which seems oddly personal and also a little invasive. He pulls something out of his pants pocket that looks like an old smartphone and snaps a picture. Then he looks up at me with his head tilted.

“Why don’t you sit down, princess.”

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