Pete

She was fine until I tried to touch it, smiling and joking, trying to make me feel better about the fact that someone punched her throat and she came home covered in their blood.

But then she got that look in her eye, the one that animals sometimes have in zoos, when little kids try and touch them. It came so quickly that I was almost certain this look was not a sudden acquisition, but that it was always behind her eyes, struggling to rear its head, and that it just gained dominance then. It's gone as quickly as it came.

"Sorry," she said, not meeting my eyes. "That was stupid."

"Don't be. Sorry, I mean. And it wasn't. You know, stupid. I get it. Did you bruise your windpipe?"

"No, I don't think so. I've done that before, and this isn't nearly as bad."

The knot in my chest loosens. "Okay, cool. And please tell me that isn't your blood."

"It's not." This does not make me feel worse, but not better, either, as it's someone's blood, which means she hurt someone pretty bad.

"Great. Why don't you go change, and we can go into greater detail over the pizza I ordered."

"Aw." She booped my nose as she breezed past me, dropping he stuff on the counter. "No, we can't."

I grimace as she heads upstairs. It's not like I can just not know what happened, but even after knowing this kid for just two days, I can tell she won't tell me.

I glance at the envelope on the counter. She didn't have that with her when she left.

Absolutely not, Peter.

Renee told me to keep an eye on her.

Don't bullshit me, you're not doing this for Renee.

Casting a glance toward the stairs, I peel back the lip of the envelop, and several pictures fall out.

They're all of Jamie.

Not smiling with friends, or being a dork at touristy places, but in her underwear.

Not taken through, like, a window, either, by some creeper. They're all taken from only a few feet away, and she's looking directly into the camera, seeming pretty calm about its presence, although she looks absolutely miserable.

I start flipping through faster, picture after picture. God, there must be at least twenty.

Can you really count all of her ribs like that?

"What the hell are you doing?"

I whirl around, not thinking to drop the pictures. Jamie is standing behind me in an oversized sweatshirt and jeans, arms crossed.

"I- I just-"

"Give them to me."

"Jamie-"

"Give them to me."

I hand her the envelope and the pictures, and we've received the pizza and eaten half of it before I speak.

"Were you, like, a prostitute?"

"None of your damn business."

"I disagree, as we're, you know, life-long partners that are supposed to protect each other to the death or whatever."

She doesn't respond.

"I'm not judging you, or anything. I'm just... I want to say curious, but that sounds dirty."

Unable to help herself, she smiles. "No, I wasn't a prostitute."

"Oh. So then..." It clicks. "Oh my God, were they for that guy from last night?"

"Yeah. It was right after we first met. I was the only girl in his circle, and he came up to me one day after my first deal, pressed a gun into my back, and made me take them."

"Jesus Christ." If she can talk about this without batting an eyelash, what has she seen that caused her to freak out like that in the foyer?

"Yeah. Anyway, that was when I realized I might as well make it work in my favor, so I pretended to date him. Not only did it keep me alive, but it got me a few toys." She pauses. "You know what, considering the subject at hand, that was really unfortunate wording. He bought me guns and stuff, is what I mean. Clothes, food. It was repulsive, but it kept me alive."

"So you went to get these pictures back from him tonight? So he doesn't leak them?"

"No. I paid some guy I know to break into Johnny's house and steal them."

I laugh before realizing she's serious. "Oh, you... You really did. Was this the guy who punched you in the throat?" She nodded. "What, did you not have the money or something?"

She hesitates just a second too long before nodding.

"You're a terrible liar."

"Regardless, that's where I draw the line." She puts the dishes in the dishwasher, which is nice of her. "'Night, Pete."

"Goodnight," I say. I sit at that table for at least ten minutes before I realize what must have happened.