Page 5 of The Seller

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Her personal effects are upstairs. I need to go through them. Look at her Facebook, if she has one. I need to find out who this girl is.

Several hours later, I’m no wiser. According to the ID she had on her, her name is Siri Jones. She doesn’t have a Facebook, or an Instagram. Her phone reveals dozens of selfies with cats, none of which seem to belong to her. Her contacts list has a number for her mom, which is interesting seeing as she said her mother was dead, but no father. Her emails are mostly to classmates, talking about test and study times, so I can confirm she does study economics. Other than that, she’s a blank, and I don’t like that. Even the most friendless of introverts has more than this on their phone. Even more suspiciously, a girl with her looks is going to have men who are interested in her, but there’s no boyfriends that I can see.

Cop.That’s what the voice in my head is screaming.This is an undercover cop.

I can’t confirm that, but one way or another it’s time to get rid of her. I haven’t done anything to her yet. Haven’t touched her. I still have plausible deniability. Before I go any further, this is one fish I’m going to throw back.

Some men in my field would kill her. Some of them kill almost as many girls as they sell. Damage rates are high. Flesh is cheap and people are always making more of it. That, however, is not my style. I am not in this line of work to hurt women. I’m in it to profit, and there’s no profit in having to hide a string of bodies, especially if they belong to law enforcement.

The light sedative is starting to wear off when I go back down to see Siri. I have a yellow dress in hand, something to cover the ragged, filthy night club wear which barely covered her body in the first place. She needs to look decent and not attract attention, and if she is law enforcement, I have to be sure that she has as little as possible in the way of evidence.

“A change of clothes,” I say, waking her from her unnatural sleep. I don’t drug my girls with heavy narcotics or anything addictive. My clients, and I, prefer them clean. There’s also the advantage of being able to rouse them when necessary. If I’d pumped her full of heroin like some of my compatriots, she’d be nodding off for hours and this would be impossible.

“Oh, that’s nice,” she says, her voice light, her smile seeming real. I almost feel as though I’m a sales associate who just went to the back to see if I could find something in her size. She stands up to meet me, and I notice her height for the first time. She’s on the tall side. I like that. It gives her an elegance and a grace. God. Sending her away is going to kill me. I haven’t had anything this good to sell in a long time.

“Take those filthy clothes off and put it on,” I order, turning my back to give her some privacy. I’m no gentleman, but I can play one when necessary.

I hear rustling behind me. She’s doing as she’s told. Good girl.

“Ready,” she says. “Thank you. I hate these tight little things.”

I turn around to see her standing there looking gorgeous. The yellow picks up the tones of her skin and brightens her face, bringing out the blue hue of her eyes. It’s like looking at a little bit of summer, a flower somehow blooming in the darkness of my basement.

In that moment, I want to keep her more than anything. I can tell when a girl has good breeding, and she is a prime example of it. This is a girl worthy of possession. But I can’t, because she is a suspicious little blank slate, and I can’t let a pair of sexy legs and a pretty bow mouth set below engaging eyes distract me from that. What I’m about to do goes against every instinct I have, but it’s necessary.

I clear my throat and hand her the purse she came with. “I’m sorry,” I say. “There’s been a misunderstanding. Follow me, please, Miss Jones.”

Taking her by the hand, I walk her up the stairs. Usually it would be weeks before any girl goes up these, but I can’t move her up them fast enough. Fortunately, the basement connects to the garage, so she doesn’t have to see the house.

I put her into my sports car and make sure she’s buckled in safely. Right now, we’re going to the port of Cephalonia. I’m going to get her on a ferry out of here and then I’m going to get hold of my delivery guy and we’re going to have a good long conversation about being more careful in future.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To town.”

“Why?”

“There’s been a misunderstanding,” I say as we pull out of the garage and into the secluded driveway which rounds my home. “What I told you before? It’s not quite accurate. I run kidnap parties for high end clients. You know, where people are put through an ordeal of their own choosing? Another young woman booked my services, but you were picked up by mistake. You’ll be fully compensated. I’m terribly sorry for the misunderstanding. It must have been very frightening.”

“Wow.”

“Wow what?”

“I mean, wow,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s one lame excuse.”

“Lame excuse?”

“I mean, you kidnapped me, right? You were gonna sell me. At least own it. Don’t be all, oh I’m sorry, I couldn’t get a decent ROI…”

Is she… mocking me? It’s hard for me to tell. I don’t think I’ve ever been mocked by a captive before. Yelled at, sure, spat at, yep, plenty of times, but just plain mocked? It’s a new experience, and one I don’t care for. If I was keeping her, I’d turn her ass red for that.

“You look like another girl who was signed up for the experience,” I lie. “A case of mistaken identity, that’s all.”

“Oh, it was a different teenage girl who wanted to wake up in your basement. Oh.. okay. Sure. Uh huh. Because that happens all the time. One time, I ordered online shopping and the store delivered me someone else’s groceries. They’d ordered chicken tofu, which isn’t chicken at all, but anyway, that’s what I got. They got my actual chicken. So I’m like the tofu you’re exchanging, is that it?”

She’s babbling. Maybe she’s more nervous than she’s letting on.

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