I step back. “Get up.”
Awkwardly, Leila rises to her feet, but her eyes remain on the floor.
“Look at me,” I whisper.
Slowly, she lifts her head, and her pain is visible on her face. Tears spring to her eyes and start to trickle down her cheeks.
“Oh, Leila,” I whisper, and I embrace her.
Fuck.
The smell.
She stinks of poverty and neglect and homelessness.
And I’m back in a small, badly lit apartment above a cheap liquor store in Detroit.
She smells of him.
His boots.
His unwashed body.
His squalor.
Saliva pools in my mouth and I gag. Once. It’s hard to bear.
Hell.
But she doesn’t notice. I hold her as she weeps and weeps and weeps, snot-sobbing all over my jacket.
I hold her.
Trying not to retch.
Trying to banish the stench.
A stench so achingly familiar. And so unwelcome.
“Hush,” I whisper. “Hush.”
When she’s gasping for air and her body is racked with dry sobs, I release her. “You need a bath.”
Taking her hand, I lead her to Kate’s bedroom and the ensuite. It’s roomy like Ana said. There’s a shower, a bath, and a selection of expensive toiletries on display. I shut the door and I’m tempted to lock it; I don’t want her to run. But she stands, meek and quiet, as she shudders with each dry sob. “It’s okay,” I murmur. “I’m here.”
I turn on the faucet and hot water buckets into the spacious bath. I squirt some bath oil into the cascade, and soon the stifling fragrance of lilies is overcoming Leila’s stench.
She begins to shiver.
“Do you want a bath?” I ask.
She looks down at the foaming suds and then at me. She nods.
“Can I take off your coat?”
She nods once more. And, using only the tips of my fingers, I peel it from her body. It’s beyond salvation. It’ll need burning.
Beneath, her clothes hang off her. She’s wearing a grubby pink blouse and a pair of grungy slacks of an indeterminate color. They’re also beyond rescue. Around her wrist is a tattered, soiled bandage.
“These clothes, they need to come off. Okay?”
She nods.
“Arms up.”
Dutifully she complies, and I pull off her blouse and try not to register my shock at her appearance. She’s emaciated, all jutting bones and pointed angles, a sharp contrast to the Leila of old. It’s sickening.
This is my fault; I should have found her earlier.
I tug down her slacks.
“Step out.” I hold her hand.
She does, and I add her slacks to the pile of rags.
She’s shaking.
“Hey. It’s okay. We’re going to get you some help. Okay?”
She nods but remains impassive.
I take her hand and undo the bandage. I think it should have been changed; the smell is putrid. I retch but don’t vomit. The scar on her wrist is livid but miraculously looks clean. I discard the bandage and dressing.
“You’ll need to take those off.” I’m referring to her grubby underwear. She looks at me. “No. You do it,” I say and turn around to give her a modicum of privacy. I hear her move, a scraping of her flats on the bathroom floor, and when she stops I turn around and she’s naked.
Gone are her lush curves.
She must not have eaten for weeks.
It’s galling.
“Here.” I give her my hand, which she takes, and with the other I test the temperature of the water. It’s hot but not too hot.
“Get in.”
She steps into the bath and slowly sinks into the foaming, fragrant water. I strip off my jacket and roll up the sleeves of my shirt and sit down on the floor beside the bath. She turns her small, sad face toward me but remains mute.
I reach across for the body wash and a nylon scrubber that Kavanagh must use. Well, she won’t miss it—I spy another on the shelf.
“Hand,” I say. Leila gives me her hand, and methodically and gently I start to wash her.
She’s grimy. She hasn’t washed for weeks, it seems. There’s grime. Everywhere.
How does someone get this dirty?
“Lift your chin up.”
I scrub under her neck and down her other arm, leaving her skin clean and a little pinker. I wash her torso and her back.
“Lie down.”
She lies down in the bath and I wash her feet and her legs in turn.
“Do you want me to wash your hair?”
She nods. And I reach for the shampoo.
I’ve bathed her before. Several times. Usually as a reward for her behavior in the playroom. It was always a pleasure.
This, not so much.
I make brisk work of her hair and use the handheld shower to rinse out the suds.
By the time I’m finished, she looks a little better.
I sit back on my heels.
“Long time since you did this,” she says. Her voice low and bleak, devoid of all emotion.
“I know.” I reach over and pull the plug to empty the murky water. Standing, I reach for a large towel. “Up you go.”
Leila stands, and I offer her my hand so that she can step out of the bath. I fold the towel around her and reach for a smaller one and towel-dry her hair.
She smells better, although, in spite of the scented bath oil, the foul odor of her clothes still pervades the bathroom.
“Come.” I take her out and leave her on the sofa in the sitting area. “Stay there.”
Back in the bathroom, I grab my jacket, and from the pocket extract my phone. I call Flynn’s cell number. He answers immediately.
“Christian.”
“I have Leila Williams.”
“With you?”
“Yes. She’s in a bad way.”
“You’re in Seattle?”
“Yes. In Ana’s apartment.”
“I’ll be right there.”
I give him Ana’s address and hang up. I collect her clothes and head back to the living room. Leila is sitting where I left her, staring at the wall.
I go through the kitchen drawers and find a trash bag. Checking the pockets of Leila’s coat and the slacks, I find nothing but used tissues. I dump her clothes in the trash bag, knot it, and leave it by the front door.
“I’ll find you some clean clothes.”
“Her clothes?” Leila says.
“Clean clothes.”
In Ana’s room, I find some sweatpants and a plain T-shirt. I hope Ana doesn’t mind, but I think Leila’s need is greater.
She’s still on the sofa when I return.
“Here. Put these on.” I place the clothes beside her and move to the sink at the kitchen counter. I fill a glass with water and, once she’s dressed, offer it to her.
She shakes her head.
“Leila, drink this.”
She takes the glass and has a sip.
“And another. Just sips,” I say.
She takes another sip.
“He’s gone,” she says, and her face contorts with pain and grief.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“He was like you.”
“Was he?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
Well, that explains why she sought me out.
“Why didn’t you call me?” I sit down beside her.
She shakes her head and tears well in her eyes once more, but she doesn’t answer my question.
“I’ve called a friend. He can help you. He’s a doctor.”
She’s exhausted and remains impassive, but her tears trickle down her face, and I feel at a loss.
“I’ve been looking for you,” I tell her.
She says nothing but starts shaking, violently.
Shit.
There’s a throw on the armchair. I drape it over her shoulders.