“No.” I try to tone down some of the intensity in my voice. It’s not easy because I’m scared. I know it’s only a matter of time before someone comes up those steps.

The woman stares at the .22 in my hand. It’s scaring her, I realize; she looks like she’s about to bolt, so I lift my skirt and holster it. “I’m not going to hurt you,” I tell her. “Do you understand?”

She nods.

“I need you to tell me what’s going on here.” I motion toward the door. “We don’t have much time.”

She nods. “This is where they keep us when we first come in from Canada.”

I can tell from her accent this woman isn’t Canadian. “Where are you from?”

“Odessa.”

“Odessa?”

“Ukraine. I’m … looking for a job. To start a new life. I have visa.” But her eyes flick down and to the right. She’s lying. At the moment, it doesn’t matter.

“Are you being held here against your will?” I ask.

“No, I just have to … you know, pay before I can go.” She shrugs. “If they find husband for me, that would be good because then he pay.”

“Who brought you here?”

“Ivan.”

“What’s his last name?”

“All I know is that he’s American and promised us he would take care of our papers. I meet him in Donetsk last year when the tanks rolled through. Everyone was afraid and he was promising some of the women new lives in Canada and the U.S. Wealthy husbands. Jobs. We got on the marriage list. A few weeks later they put me on the boat. Gave me the papers. Sofiya was supposed to be on the next boat, but she never came.”

I stare at her, trying to get my head around this new direction in the case. Her story raises more questions than it answers. I don’t know what to make of it; I’m not even sure I believe her. But if she’s telling the truth—if women are being smuggled into the U.S. from eastern Europe and “married off” for money—the situation is more explosive than anyone imagined.

“How long have you been here?” I ask.

She lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “Six weeks.”

“How many of you are here?”

“Five at first. But then two left.” She shrugs. “Husbands or jobs. I don’t know.”

“They were staying in the rooms downstairs?” I ask.

“I think they’re waiting for their papers.”

“Who else is involved? What are their names?”

“Jacob and Jonas.” She looks down at her hands. “They come here, to my room sometimes.”

“Who else?”

“The elder. I don’t know his name, but we call him Dido.” Her mouth twists into a parody of a smile. “It means grandfather in Ukrainian.”