Page 76 of Little Deaths

Stowing the notebook, Rafe walked back into the living room and pulled back the Lichtenstein from the wall to reveal the now-dented safe.Hopefully they didn’t damage the mechanism, he thought, punching in the four numbers. A red light flashed over the numbers and there was a beep. Then he heard the lock release, the grind of gears relaxing.

The door popped open, and stuck.

With effort, he was able to wrench it open the rest of the way. There wasn’t much inside. A deed to the house—he took that—birth certificates, foreign money, a few yellowing stacks of bonds. But in one corner, propped up like a drunk at a bar, was a sagging white envelope.

Even before his father’s wine scandal, Rafe had known that his father wasn’t a moral man. His business ventures had proved that. If your business mantra was fleece or get fleeced, it was only a matter of time before someone came for your skin. But when he saw the words on the envelope written in faded blue ink, something inside him turned to brittle ice.

Donni’s first time.

Inside was a strip of film, which he pulled out in a winding ribbon from the timeworn envelope. Looking at the faded black and orange figures, he realized what he was holding were photo negatives from an old camera. One of the figures was Donni, looking much too young and wearing much too little.

The other was Johnathan Steel.

Audio recording from August 17th, 1998

Man’s voice: Take off your clothes.

Woman’s voice: Please . . . I don’t want to.

M: I don’t care what you want.Playboywants to do a shoot in your Cleopatra costume and now wardrobe is telling me your costume is too tight. Take off your fucking clothes.

She exhales shakily.

M: Stop crying. You’re going to make your eyes red.

W: I c-can’t help it.

M: First you make me wait, now you fucking backtalk me.

W: Someone was asking me where I was going. I didn’t know what to tell them.

M: So you’re an actress who can’t act, is that what you’re telling me?

W: No, I don’t—

M: See, this is your problem. You’re too stiff and you can’t improvise. You need to loosen up in front of the camera. Move your arms. Just like this. You know how I like it.

W: Johnathan,please—

M: Shhh. Don’t talk. I’ve been waiting for this all day.He moans loudly.Yes. Now look at me. God, your eyes . . . you’re just fucking begging for it.

She makes a muffled sound.

M: I made you. I madethis.

The muffled sound gets louder.

M: What? What’s that?

W: I said—you’re . . . hurting me.

M: Let’s get one thing straight. I own you as much as I own that sporty little car you drive around. When I say jump, you say how far? Not “I don’t want to” or “no please” or “stop, it hurts.” So when I say I want to see you in the trailer, you better be in the fucking trailer. Is that clear?

W: . . . Yes, Johnathan.

M: Stop crying. You’ll ruin your makeup. So much for fucking crying on cue.

She sniffles.

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