He admitted to the aliases, the false identity. But the women?
“They weren’t victims,” he said coldly. “They were partners . We had agreements. And some couldn’t keep their end of the bargain.”
I asked them what happened.
He did not respond.
That night, I searched his studio. I found a floorboard that gave way under pressure. Underneath it, a safe. Inside were IDs—driver’s licenses, passports, credit cards—all belonging to women. Five names. Five faces.
And a scalpel.
The next morning, I packed my suitcase and tried to leave. The gates of the housing development were closed. The conductor wasn’t there. My phone had no signal.
Charles greeted me in the lobby.
“You broke the contract,” he said simply.
He didn’t yell. He didn’t hit. He just seemed… disappointed.
But I had already anticipated this. I had sent photos of the identifications to a friend in Charleston, with the promise to forward them to the police if I didn’t turn myself in within 48 hours.
Charles looked at me intently when I told him.
Eпtoпces, iпesperadameпte, soпrió . «Qυé iпgeпioso, Leah».
I left the factory that afternoon. There was a car waiting for me.
Two weeks later, federal agents raided the property. Charles Harwood—or Gregory, or Michael, or whatever his real name was—had disappeared. The house was empty the night I left.
Nυпca lo eпsoptraroп.
But sometimes, I still receive letters. Yes, return address. Just a white envelope, and inside, a pressed rose. Always with the same address:
“Well played.”
