She swallows, her eyes cautious on mine.

“We’re going to go inside and get this done and if you do as I say, you’ll be home in no time. You can make it easy or you can make it hard. Up to you.”

She just keeps staring.

“Understand?” I ask.

She nods.

“Just to be clear, if you run again, that’ll be making it hard, understand?”

“Yes.”

I get to my feet and hold out my hand. She ignores it and gets up on her own and this time, when I walk up to the house, she follows.

The house is dark apart from one dim lamp in the living room and the light over the stove in the kitchen. I turn to my guest who’s looking around in awe.

I guess it is an impressive house. Big, old, but completely renovated with an imposing staircase dead center, the kitchen to the left, living room taking up the back half of the house, my study on the right. All the windows are leaded, and it lends a dark, almost gothic feel to the house.

“It’s pretty,” she says when she turns to find me watching her.

“Thanks.”

I take off my coat and hang it up then wait for her to give me hers. It’s a puffer jacket and although I felt how small she was at the warehouse, she’s almost petite when she’s left in her Henley and jeans.

I walk into the living room and she follows. I go directly to the liquor cabinet and get the whiskey and two tumblers. She’s standing at the entrance looking at everything, nervously pulling the sleeves of her shirt down to tuck her thumb through the holes at the wrists.

I carry the glasses and the bottle to the couch, sit and pour for both of us.

“Come here.”

She hugs her arms, but moves toward me.

“Here.” I hold one of the glasses out to her. She eyes it but doesn’t reach out for it. “It’ll calm you down.”

“What is it?” she asks.

“Whiskey.”

She takes it, drinks the smallest sip. Flinches when she swallows.

After draining mine, I pour a second glass and reach to turn on the lamp beside me. I sit back folding one ankle over my knee and stretching an arm over the back of the couch to get a good look at her. She was wearing makeup at some point but her earlier tears have smeared mascara across her cheek. Her eyes, a pretty almond-shape, are so dark, they’re almost black. Her skin has a pale olive tone and she keeps biting her lower lip so it’s bleeding a little. I can’t tell how long her hair is. She’s bound the dark mass into a messy bun.

“What did those men do?” she asks, surprising me.