Page 80 of The Sinner: James

He walks me out of the room, but instead of going back, we pivot right, follow the corridor, and stroll through a few more chambers––all looking the same to me––before reaching a large office decorated with modern furniture and a sleek glass wall.

We stride across and enter the next room. The chamber is dark, and there are no windows. Glancing around, I notice a couch, a safe, and a desk next to a small bar.

A wide mirror stretches from side to side, and as I look closely, I realize it’s one of those fake walls that lets you peek through it without being seen.

“What is this?”

I edge closer, my eyes widening with surprise as I gaze at the panoramic view. I spot a stage and private booths and quickly realize it’s the hidden part of Red’s, and it's so much different than the main room.

He stops next to me, his eyes rooted to what lies in front of us.

“This is the favorite spot of the rich and powerful,” he murmurs, bracing his arm against the glass, his eyes pinned on them as well.

Many of the men I spotted earlier at Mrs. Gordon’s party are here, half-naked women accompanying them.

Dancers wearing only glitter hug the stripper poles with their bare legs, doing their dance routines.

Beautiful women wearing nothing other than garters and heels sit on the men’s laps in the booths.

I recognize a few bankers and businesspeople my dad has dealt with. And then a couple of council members and the police chief.

Somewhere in the background, I spot the mayor. I know these people from my family gatherings.

“Are these women paid to be with them?”

He clicks his tongue.

“No. These are all patrons. It just happens that these men attract that kind of clientele and the other way around. Unless cheating will be deemed illegal one day–and who would pass that kind of legislation?–– this is nothing but a private event with consenting adults. The men and women connect on their own accord. Some end up in the cars or the parking lot or the fuck pads scattered all over town. Some go in the back rooms, which is better than fucking in the bathrooms,” he says, calm, unfazed––his honesty is salutary but hard to digest.

My throat turns dry.

Most women are not older than me, while the men must be pushing fifties and sixties.

And that’s not all.

Most of these men have wives and daughters.

“My sister…” I say, lost in thought. “Was she one of these women?”

He stays quiet.

I whip my gaze at him.

“No. She was fucking someone from my entourage,” he says, his eyes trained on the crowd outside.

“Was she getting money for that?”

The ghost of a smile flutters across his lips.

“I don’t know. It’s possible. Some guys reward good performance, and they’re well-off men. And sometimes, paying for sex or getting paid is a turn-on, especially when it involves someone hot.”

He glances at me, his gaze sinking into mine.

“Did you fuck her?” I ask in a trembling voice, dreading the answer.

Without blinking or breaking his stare, he says nothing.

“Daria... Did you fuck her?” I ask, more demanding this time.

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