Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(64)

“The woman steps forward. She slaps Vero across the face. Then she rips Vero’s shirt from her body. She tells Vero she stinks. She tells Vero she is stupid and ugly and filthy and what kind of ungrateful child refuses such beautiful clothes? Then she holds up the new dress and rips it in half, too. If that’s the way you’re going to be, she tells Vero . . . Holly . . . then you can wear nothing at all.

“She takes all of Vero’s clothes, even her panties. Then she leaves. And Vero sits in the middle of the pretty bedroom, naked and alone. For days and days and days.

“Vero cries for her mom,” I whisper. “But her mom never comes.”

“What happens?” Wyatt asks softly.

“Vero learns. She wears what they tell her to wear. She answers to the names they call her. She speaks only when spoken to. There are daily lessons. Some are like school, reading, math, the basics. Others are in clothing, hair, makeup. Then there’s music, culture, art. She studies, every day. She tries, because the room is beautiful and the dresses are nice and when she does well, the woman praises her. But when she messes up . . .

“She’s alone. Except for lessons with the woman, she sleeps alone, wakes alone, sits alone. She starts to tell herself stories. Of where she once lived. Of the woman who once loved her. Of life before these walls. As days become weeks, become months, become years? It’s hard to tell time in the dollhouse. There is just now. Everything else ceases to exist.”

“What happens?” Wyatt asks.

“Eventually she passes her lessons. She is old enough, educated enough. Then the men come. And she’s sorry she ever studied at all. But she doesn’t fight, doesn’t protest, doesn’t complain. She already knows the men aren’t the real danger. It’s Madame Sade she has to fear.”

“The woman, Madame Sade, runs a brothel?” Wyatt asks bluntly. “She trains the girls, then brings men into the house for sex.”

“Our job is to make them happy.”

The detectives exchange glances. They are no more fooled by Madame Sade’s euphemism than I was.

“What can you tell us about Madame Sade?” Kevin asks.

My lips tremble. My grip on the quilt tightens. I can’t speak.

“Describe her,” Wyatt prompts more gently. “What does she look like?”

“A china doll. Beautiful but scary.”

“Is she as old as Vero’s mom?” Kevin presses.

“Older. Fifties maybe.”

“Does she have kids, a husband, a special friend?”

I look at him, the memories heavy. “Some of the men want her. But the girls, they whisper: Be careful what you wish for.”

“Are there other people in charge?” Wyatt asks.

I shake my head. “It is Madame Sade’s house. She makes the rules. She doles out the punishments.”

“How many other girls are there?”

“I don’t know. Until Vero is twelve, she stays locked in her tower room, a precious flower, a rare commodity.”

Kevin looks away. Wyatt’s face is too shuttered to read, but that’s okay; I’m too lost in the murky corridors of my mind to focus on him anyway.

“What happens after twelve?” he asks at last.

“There are other floors in the dollhouse. Vero moves downstairs, to a smaller room she shares with another girl. Chelsea is older and not happy to see Vero. She steals Vero’s makeup, cuts holes in her dresses. She won’t allow Vero to sleep on a bed. Instead, Vero is given a spot on the rug. Vero is no longer alone, but she’s still lonely. She has her stories, though. She whispers them, night after night. Once upon a time, in a secret realm, there lived a magical queen and her beautiful princess . . .”

“Do the men still come?”

“Madame Sade likes nice things. We make the men happy; she gets more nice things.”

“Can you describe the clients?” Wyatt asks.

I shrug. “They are men who have the right jobs and wear the right clothes and grew up with the right connections. Madame Sade doesn’t allow just anyone to come over to play.”

“Would you recognize these men if you saw them again?”

“Do you really think I was looking at their faces?”

Wyatt flushes, sits back.

“What can you tell us about the house?” Kevin asks.

“Vaulted foyers, marble parlors. Levels and wings and towers that go on and on.”

“A mansion? Something castle-like or more Victorian in style?”

I rub my temples. “Victorian,” I whisper.

“Were you ever allowed out of the house?” Kevin continues. “Can you tell us about the surroundings? Were there street signs, other homes nearby? What about neighboring woods, water, mountains, other distinct geological features?”

I shake my head. My forehead is on fire. The telltale nausea is back. I don’t want to have this conversation anymore. I don’t want to have these memories anymore.

“Vero . . . Nicky.” Wyatt tries to regain my attention. “What you’re describing sounds like a very high-end sex-trafficking ring. This is a big deal. Do you understand that? Some of these people could still be actively exploiting children. Organized operations such as the one you’re describing have a tendency to grow larger and more sophisticated with time. Think of the mafia. Thirty years later, the original don might be retired, but he has a whole new generation of lieutenants running the show. This place . . . We need to find it.”