“Why do they insist on coming here?” she asks, her pint in one hand.
I laugh. “It’s not like they have leprosy.”
“They creep me the fuck out,” she answers, grimacing and shaking her head. “You were in the Bodleian earlier. You probably saw a few of them in there. They like to lurk in the shadows there and huff the dust off the old books.”
“I’ve been there once, Zoey. I’m hardly a regular. And no, I don’t recall seeing any of them.”
She tips her glass back, finishing her drink. “I don’t trust them.”
“They’re perfectly normal people,” I respond, trying not to laugh again.
She glares at me. “They walk around in black, like they’ve all coordinated their outfits. They never talk to anyone else, and they’re always taking the train into London. I’ve seen them a few times. One time, I was on my way to meet Gus in Covent Garden, and they all got off at the same stop.” She visibly shivers.
I can’t help but giggle. “You’ve got an active imagination.”
“Yeah, well. I’ve been around dodgy people before, Evelyn.” I snort. “I’m serious. I don’t trust them,” she repeats, leaning back.
They would’ve gone unnoticed by me, but Zoey made sure to point them out when I first came to Oxford.People call them the Brotherhood, she whispered, pointing to a group of ten people walking together across the Tom Quad one day. Five men, five women. And they all wore thick, black rings. Oxford is hardly a small school, but I guess they stood out because they did all wear black, and they were always together. I didn’t know they hung out in the Bodleian.
“It’s probably something innocuous like a study group,” I add. “Or maybe they’re cosplayers.”
She shrugs and slides a pint over. “Yeah. Anyway, here. I ordered you one.”
I squeeze her hand and smile appreciatively, and she gives me a grateful smile.
“Thank you.”
“And I watched the bartender pour it, yada yada,” she adds, smirking.
I shrug. “Look, we women have to look out for each other. What have I told you? Never trust a man.”
“I know. I wanted you to know, because…” she trails off, but we both know what she’s referring to. Her brown eyes find mine, and she gives me a look of understanding.
Woman, missing for 3 years, found alive in Paris.
Human trafficking.
High class escort.
Sold into sex slavery.
It was hard to type my name into Google without an article popping up about my rescue. The story was outrageous, but it was my story. Auguste Martin, the man responsible for it all, was rotting in a jail cell in France.
Needless to say, I don’t trust men.
I don’t trustmyselfaround men, because I’m not sure what I’d do if any of them tried to hurt me again.
All I know is there’d be a corpse.
Lucky for me, as a psychology student, Zoey knows not to press me for answers if I don’t offer them, and though she has opinions about my coping techniques, she’s been nothing but supportive and a shoulder to lean on when I need it.
Just then, the bartender prowls over, handing each of us a red, plastic basket, steaming with fried fish and thick chips. Slamming down a vinegar bottle, she turns on her heels and walks to another table.
“I ordered for you,” Zoey explains, waving her hands at our food. “Figured you’d be hungry.”
This is exactly what I love about Zoey. She doesn’t probe. She doesn’t dwell. She moves right along and acts like nothing happened. She doesn’t need to know about all of the depraved things I had to do. The most unthinkable things. It was forever ago. And yet it feels like it was yesterday. Plus, I’m pretty sure she has some dark secrets of her own.
“Thanks.” I douse my food in the tart vinegar and shovel chips into my mouth. “Oh, I forgot to mention, my friend, Lily and her family are coming into town tomorrow,” I add, remembering the text I’d seen in the Bodleian.
