minutes, she was there. Boiko Jeritza was there as well, sitting in a stuffed chair in a dark living room, his mouth duct-taped shut, his hands tied behind his back. Boiko’s wild eyes followed them as Sky led her into the grimy kitchen where he showed her the photographs, sixteen in all: of children — boys and girls — naked or half-naked, some forlornly posing, some having sex with men. One of the men was Boiko. In the same folder that had held the photographs was a list of customers, some highlighted in yellow, some with amounts in euros next to their names and addresses. Before Megan could speak, they heard a noise from a back room and there they found Jeanne.
The plan was to frighten Boiko into submission, but Megan now believed he was dead. Was, in fact, sure he was dead. She had been to visit Annabella a half-dozen times since, and not seen Boiko once. Two weeks earlier, she summoned the courage to ask the old gypsy about her son. They were drinking tea laced with whiskey late one night in Annabella’s back room. The old gypsy’s face had healed but occasionally Megan would see her lightly brushing the back of her fingers across one cheek or the other. Annabella had put down her cup on the oilcloth covered table between them, and said, “He is in hell.”
“In hell?” Megan had asked.
“With Satan, where he belongs, and can do no more harm”
“He’s dead?”
Annabella smiled before answering, looking Megan in the eye for a second or two. A long second or two.
“Yes, but you know that he is,” she said finally.
It was Megan’s turn to be silent. Missing, gone away, did not mean dead. Was she fishing? Tying to confirm her suspicions? Or did she, as Megan more and more was