Page 16 of Inez

I can't see her inside the huddle of women, only a flash of black hair.

Abruptly, the whole cluster seems to sag, and then collapse as Inez crumples and the women catch her, help her settle onto the floor.

Her shoulders are shaking. Six heads angle toward hers, arms wrap around shoulders.

A scream rips out of Inez's throat, and this is a primal sound of raw agony, grief and horror, rage, and sorrow. This is a scream long denied finally emerging. It becomes a wail, shuddering and awful, and my heart breaks all over again for her. The wail tapers off into a sob, and I hear murmurs from the other women, whispering support, encouragement, understanding.

I can only watch, and feel as if I’m somehow intruding on something sacred, viewing an ancient ritual of feminine trauma at the hands of men.

I do not belong here; I should not be watching this.

I turn away, find a doorway with stairs leading up. The door at the top of the stairs opens into a large, open, dark room—the main nightclub. It's silent and empty. I find a nearby bar, pull out a stool, and sit.

I lean my forearms on the edge of the bar, wishing I had a drink.

That scream…it still shudders in my soul. It is a sound I will not soon forget.

I hear footsteps approaching, feel a presence nearby. "Lorenzo." The voice is deep, dark, smooth, and powerful.

I frown in the direction of the voice. "You have the advantage," I say. “You know me, it appears."

"I am…a friend of Inez's."

I snort. "No, you are her mysterious employer, I think."

The answering silence is confirmation enough.

"Why are you up here?" he asks me.

"Inez and the women." I shrug. “They're…talking. I was in the way."

"Talking, are they?" His tone suggests he knows more than he's saying.

I peer into shadows, but all I can make out is a vague outline—tall, broad-shouldered. "Yes. Talking."

"You are careful. I like that."

"Imagine my relief." It's more than a little sarcastic.

He huffs a laugh. "I care about her," he says after a moment. "And I respect her."

"Good."

"What are they talking about?" he asks. "Rafael?"

If he knows that name, then he probably knows everything.

"Among other things," I respond. "She's giving them…context."

"It's good she's opening up to them. I have often wished she could have done it much sooner, but she had to find the courage to do so on her own."

The shadow moves, and I hear glass clinking, liquid pouring. Glass thunks on the bar and slides to me. "Na zdravi," he says.

Dim light reflects off of glass.

I take the glass in front of me, sniff—excellent scotch. "Saúde!" I say in answer, touching my glass to his.

I sip—the scotch is world-class, very, very expensive. "Thank you."