I give him the address. He starts driving and neither of us talk. Not during the drive. Not when he pulls up along my street. I live on Elfreth’s Alley, a historic street in Philadelphia. Vehicles are restricted and I’m grateful for it, especially tonight.

When I reach to open my door, he finally speaks.

“Remember what I said will happen if you talk.”

“I wasn’t ever going to talk.”

I slip out, my purse in my hand. I dig for my key in my pocket and he doesn’t drive away until I’m inside and Pepper, my fourteen-year-old German Shepherd greets me, and I’m sobbing. Sobbing on the floor of my kitchen.

5

Sergio

I go straight into my study when I get home. Even though I’m alone, I close the door out of habit. I sit with just the lamp on the desk turned on and I look at the photos. I scroll through each one. Study her face in them. I see her anger. Her fear. Her humiliation. I see it in that order. I study more too. More of her. And my dick’s hard.

“I wasn’t ever going to talk.”

I knew that. I knew it all along. She’s right. I am a pervert. Sick. Only a sick person would do this, would violate an innocent like this. It wasn’t necessary to do what I did. I just wanted to.

But I came to terms with this darker part of me a long time ago. And I’m not psychoanalyzing it now.

The last picture, the one with my hand on her hip, has my attention. The Benedetti family ring is prominent on my finger, my hand big, masculine and rough on her softly curving hip. It’s not even the gleaming pink of her pussy that’s got my eye. It’s how she’s looking at me. Watching me with those dark eyes through that veil of hair. Like she’s seeing me. Really seeing me.

I stare at them. I can’t look away. What I see, it’s not what I expect. Not hate. Not even fear. Something else. It has me curious. It’s almost as if there’s something familiar about her.

I can still smell her if I try. Was she aroused or is that just my sick brain at work? Making something up that wasn’t there. I wonder if she’s thinking about it now. If she’s lying in bed with her fingers between her legs remembering my hands on her. My eyes on her. She’d hate herself for it, I know.