Mr. Joe came over to me with his eyes lowered. He stood close, examining his fingers as he turned his hands over. Then he drew from his pocket a bracelet with small, pointy studs, through which he inserted his four fingers before curling his hand into a fist. Before I could react at all, the two goons grabbed my arms in order to hold me in place. Mr. Joe remained calm and made a sign to one of them, who left the room while the other stayed behind to hold me. “Where is Shaygha?” I wanted to ask, but I was afraid of doing anything that might provoke them, so I kept quiet. He wasn’t going to hurt her, that was for sure. They would lecture her a bit to teach her a lesson, and then they would send her back to her work. The bastard wouldn’t harm the goose that lays the golden egg, even if he would punish me in front of her in order to scare her enough to stay away from me, and for me to keep away from her. Was he thinking of killing me? No. No, I didn’t think so.

Shaygha’s groan reached me from the other room. It sounded like she was waking up from a deep sleep. Then the goon must have slapped her, for the groan changed into the screech of a cat being tortured. I shot Mr. Joe a glance, appealing to him, but the corners of his mouth curled up in a smile and he shook his head as though to say, “Just wait. You haven’t seen anything yet.” Fear struck me—the kind I don’t like, the kind I can’t stand, the kind I hate. It plunged into my belly like a dagger, and the more I thought about Shaygha or pictured her in the hands of this beast, the blade went deeper. Yes, they would hurt her. They would hurt me. They would cut off everything that connected us so that she would no longer be able to stand the sight of me, or I the sight of her. The hatred one victim feels for another would fill our hearts and attach her to the executioner.