Page 23 of Luka

I want to askfor what?The question is on the tip of my tongue.

But at the same time, I’m not sure I want to know.

Swallowing, I nod.

7

LUKA

The girl sits with a fresh shirt stretched over her pulled up knees on my couch.

She nibbles on a sandwich as she looks around, her eyes seeming to cross over every inch of my apartment except the chair that I occupy.

Something feels off about her. I stare at her while slouched in my chair, searching for answers to questions I don’t yet have. I can’t explainwhatis off, but I can feel it.

That brand… Somebody seared her flesh with a symbol on such an intimate part of her body, like they were marking it as theirs. If she wasn’t a virgin, I’d guess that she was somebody’s whore.

Abuse would be my first thought, but the image that conveys doesn’t quite fit. Her teeth are too nice. I noticed when I forced her mouth open that she had good dental work, like she came from a good home, or at least from money. She told me her father would give me a million dollars if I let her go… Was there truth to the wealth she let on?

If so, why come here? This is not the land of opportunity for a girl with no green card. I could understand if she was escaping something but not if she was running away from privilege.

So then … it must be abuse.

Then where are her scars? Other than her burn, her skin is flawless. I wouldn’t guess the girl has ever had a paper cut.

Why isn’t this making sense?

I stroke my chin as she rests the empty plate on the table and picks up her third bottle of water.

Do I need to know? Truly, do I?

Seconds pass while I consider it, although the answer is as fuzzy as the others I’ve gathered.

Yes, I do. Something doesn’t feel right, and it’s unsettling me. I could try to ignore it, but it would be there, tickling the back of my mind like a song stuck in my head that I can’t find the words for.

“I don’t have a favorite movie,” I say, placing my hand in my lap. Finally, the girl…Lucia… turns her head to me. Her brow is furrowed like she’s confused.

“If I’m being completely honest, I’ve never seenTheWizard of Oz,” I continue, letting my fingers drum the armrest as I relax into my seat. “Mypapawas not too keen on allowing my siblings and I to watch movies or television when I was young. My mama, on the other hand, disagreed. She felt it allowed us to familiarize ourselves with American lingo so when we came here, we wouldn’t have as hard of a time blending in… My papa won, of course. When I arrived at seventeen, it was certainly a jarring experience. I remember thinking how strange it was to have Russian brothers with American accents. I assumed everyone would sound like me, but…” I shrug.

Leaning forward, I rest my forearms on my knees. Lucia’s expression doesn’t change. She doesn’t yet understand what I’m getting at.

“You know what’s odd to me? Despite my accent, you’ve assumed I’m American and that I call my fatherdad… You didn’t watch many movies growing up either, did you?”

Her lips part, but she hesitates to speak. She settles with shaking her head.

“Was your father strict like mine?”

After setting her water on the table, she wraps her arms around her knees.

“What’s he like?”

“Why are you asking me this?” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “A few hours ago, you didn’t even care to know my name.”

I let her question hang in the air for several moments, debating how to answer. I want her to tell me. I could pry it out of her. Hurt her.

Pulling my lips to one side, I sigh.

“Did your father abuse you, Lucia?”

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