Seaside Daisies

By Mollie Moon

Maria Elena García escaped her poverty-stricken barrio in Honduras and went to L.A. to start a new life. But her trip was arranged by Tío, a drug lord and human trafficker, who had his own ideas about Maria Elena’s upcoming career. He gave her the new identity of Soledad Sanchez, a woman under his care. Trusting her own intuition and taking advantage of a very lucky moment, Soledad escaped but lives with the constant awareness that Tío and his men are still looking for her.
Mrs. Krause rescues Soledad when she sees her sitting on a bench in the rain, clutching her bag. Mrs. Krause seems compassionate and concerned; but in the car, driving home with Mrs. Krause, Soledad realizes the rescue may be a trap when she learns that the “Professor” is already awaiting them.
During her stay with Mrs. Krause, Soledad gets to know the Professor. There is a strong aversion between the two from the moment they meet. Moreover, Soledad witnesses a man named Frank, who lives across the street, cleaning his gun. Frank shows up in inopportune moments, eager to spend time with Soledad alone.
Soledad reconnects with her boyfriend, Carlos, whom she had thought she would never see again, and when life finally seems to be going in the right direction, Tío reappears with one goal only: to locate Soledad, his lost merchandise, to take her back to Honduras and make her his own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suka Press LLC
• Release date: May 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9780998938776

Mollie Moon

Mollie's new novel SEASIDE DAISIES is available in May 2018Other books by Mollie Moon:FIVE WISHESBRANDED BY FATEIf you seek adventure in books, read Five Wishes and Seaside Daisies, describing the continuing journey of the same protagonist.Mollie Moon was born and raised in Europe where she traveled extensively from an early age, mingling and living with people of different cultures and backgrounds. She studied Applied Linguistics at the University of Heidelberg, Germany, and during continued studies in California, fell in love with the land and its people. She enjoys the sunny climate, openness of the people, the vastness of the Pacific ocean, and a closeness to pets and nature. Mollie is fascinated with things unseen - thoughts, emotions, beliefs, mysteries - the invisible world that so affects us all every day, and loves to put her observations on paper. Branded by Fate was her first novel.

Book preview

Introduction

While my protagonist, Maria Elena García alias Soledad Sanchez, came to America in search of a better life, one of the sub-themes of this book is human trafficking. I learned a lot during my research and writing. The facts shocked me and I would like to share them with you. Here is what I have learned:

Global Criminal Operations

Human trafficking is a multi-billion dollar underground business which denies freedom to over 20 million people around the world. It is a form of modern slavery which is regarded as one of the most pressing human rights issues of our time. It affects every community in the United States across age, gender, ethnicity, and socio-economic backgrounds.

Human traffickers can be individuals or extensive criminal networks. Pimps, gangs, family members, small business owners, and large factory owners have all been found guilty of human trafficking. Their common thread is a willingness to exploit other human beings for profit.

Houston, New York and Los Angeles rank first, followed by San Diego in 10th place. Yet in 2017, sex trafficking was the second largest underground industry in San Diego (drugs were first). Currently, 85% of trafficking is controlled by gangs. Most pimps and traffickers have psychology degrees and know how to exploit the victims’ vulnerabilities.

The Victims

The average recruiting age for girls is 13. They are located and profiled at the mall, a bus stop, or on their way home from school. All trafficked victims share one essential experience – complete loss of freedom.

98% of the victims are female. Statistically, within 7 years the victims are dead from either suicide, a drug overdose or beaten.

80% of those known to be involved in sex trafficking are American citizens. The average age of girls involved in trafficking is 16. Recruiting often begins via the Internet. The numbers of victims are increasing annually. Drugs need to be replenished. A girl can be resold over and over again.

The Methods

Victims of human trafficking are lured by false promises of a lucrative job, education, or a loving relationship. Vulnerable individuals are the prime targets: runaway and homeless youth, victims of domestic violence or sexual assault, migrant workers, undocumented immigrants, racial minorities, or children displaced by war or natural disasters.

Often foreign nationals pay significant travel fees trusting to find new opportunities. Instead, they become highly indebted to and dependent on the traffickers and are controlled and manipulated by them. The victims find themselves living in unfamiliar surroundings, are moved frequently, may not speak the language fluently, do not have identification documents or money, and don’t know the local laws. They have nobody they can trust. The traffickers often use physical violence, threats, isolation, lies, psychological coercion or drugs in order to control the victims.

As a result, victims become trapped and fear leaving their undesirable situation for many reasons, including shame, helplessness, psychological trauma, emotional attachment, or physical threats to themselves or their families (including children). Human trafficking impacts individuals, families, and entire communities across generations.

The Law

Human trafficking, also known as trafficking in persons (TIP), is a crime under federal and international law. A federal law came into effect in the year 2000. The first California law on human trafficking was established in 2015 and has been adopted in all 50 states.https://oag.ca.gov/human-trafficking/legislation

A new law for online sex trafficking was passed in 2018.

https://www.congress.gov/bill/115th-congress/house-bill/1865

Despite growing awareness about this crime, human trafficking continues to go underreported due to its covert nature. Besides, like drugs or arms trafficking, individuals who are willing to buy commercial sex create a market and make it profitable for traffickers to sexually exploit children and adults.

Although prosecution and penalties have increased throughout recent years, the high profit margin entices traffickers to accept the risk of detection. Unfortunately, left unchecked, human trafficking will continue to flourish.

Resources

To help victims of human trafficking and for further information, I have provided the below resources.

https://www.acf.hhs.gov/otip/resource/fshumantrafficking

https://humantrafffickinghotline.org/

https://polarisproject.org/human-trafficking

Mollie Moon

Prologue

Eighteen and forlorn.

Sole’s hands were cold, her long dark hair so wet it dripped down her chest, soaking her shirt all the way to her waist.

Los Angeles. College. A professional career. She had already seen herself as a successful, self-made woman, when she had taken that awful journey from Comayagüela to LA a few months ago, hidden in a tiny room without windows deep inside a ship’s hull for five days with twenty-nine other desperate souls. The price of freedom, Tío had said.

She had felt resentful as they finally walked off the ship, like criminals in the middle of the night, and rushed through a back-row alley that led to black limousines, waiting to take them to a destiny lucrative only to Tío. He had planned it all along, she knew. He had lied to the young women, making empty promises of jobs and a good life.

She had not wanted to believe it, so desperate was her wish for a better life in LA, away from her barrio, away from poverty.

In that dark alley on the way to the limos, Sole had stalled when one of the young women slipped and fell. It could not have been more perfect for her, Soledad Sanchez. It could not have been planned any better. When the opportunity arose, Sole hid behind a trash bin, and then she ran, ran for her life, and hid all night in one of the cold metal shipping containers, afraid to be found. Early in the morning, she had jumped onto a truck at an unseen moment, gotten to Santa Ana, and escaped Tío and his deceitful plans.

Until now.

Sole clenched her hands into fists and released them. Then she clenched her fists again. She could barely feel her fingers. You are meant for greatness, her old Honduran friend, Don Francisco’s words popped into her head—he who had protected her and cared for her when she was in dire need—and she wished he were here with her, right here in the car.

She wished.

And Carlos, handsome Carlos, who had come to California to study, just as she wanted to, until his father had had a heart attack and Carlos had to return to Argentina. She loved him more than anybody. She thought of him often. She dreamed of him. But he, too, was far away and might never return to finish his medical degree and become a doctor.

Chapter One

Sole was sitting quietly in the black Mercedes, next to the woman who had found her crouching on a bench in the rain. She had run away from her last maid’s job with the Smiths, who had been so rude and prejudiced. Sole had left the Smiths’ house spontaneously in utter disgust and despair. She had walked aimlessly for hours, filled with anger at her hopeless situation—illegal and without papers in a land of opportunity.

And here she was, sitting in a black Mercedes, driving to a destination unknown. The car’s heater was directed toward Sole’s chest and lap. She would have liked to crawl inside those little slits that blew the heat toward her and hide, hide from her destiny, hide from her future, hide from life.

The woman who had lured her into the black Mercedes was staring at the wet road. The windshield wipers rhythmically pushed aside the pounding raindrops like a cheerleading squad waving their arms back and forth, creating a spectacle one’s eyes could not help but follow.

Sole glanced at the woman, without moving her head, just looking at her from the corners of her eyes. She estimated the woman to be in her late fifties. Her blond hair was cut into a straight bob. She was dressed stylishly in white pants with a cropped light-blue blazer, buttoned only in the middle and revealing a trim figure. Her matching blue-and-white silk scarf had gotten wet outside when she picked up Sole in the rain. She wore a wedding ring on her right hand.

The woman looked elegant and sophisticated, the way Sole wanted to be someday. But besides her favorable exterior, Sole knew nothing about the woman, and having been exposed to Tío, Sole had learned quickly that a charming look could be deceiving. Tío used his good looks to lure women into bad situations for his own profit. He was not to be trusted, and Sole reminded herself to be cautious at all times. Perhaps this woman could not be trusted, either. She looked like an entrepreneur or successful business owner but just what kind of business, Sole wondered.

The bright-green display on the dashboard showed that they were driving at a steady pace of thirty-five miles per hour. It had gotten dark outside, very dark.

How could I? Sole scolded herself. I should have never gotten into this car. A black Mercedes!

That was the kind of car Tío drove when he did business in his hometown of Comayagüela and collected dirty money.

I wonder if this woman was sent by Tío? Perhaps she is…

Are you comfortable?

Yes, ma’am.

Perhaps you couldn’t hear me outside in the rain. The woman smiled. My name is Teresa, Teresa Krause. What’s your name?

Sole pondered for a moment. Did the woman know Tío? Was she his cohort, working with him under the guise of being a good Samaritan? Would she know Sole’s given name or the new fake name on the passport Tío had made and handed her before they left Honduras, the passport he had repossessed before they arrived in LA?

Sole, she responded. My name is Soledad Sanchez.

Soledad, what a pretty name. May I call you Sole?

Yes, ma’am.

I live in Laguna Beach, up on the hill. Have you been there before?

No, ma’am.

Call me Teresa.

Yes, ma’am.

The woman smiled. How did you get stranded out there in the rain?

Sole looked down.

Well, no matter, the woman said, answering her own question. Do you have a cell phone?

No, ma’am.

Would you like to call somebody? A family member, a friend?

No, ma’am.

Well, in that case, let’s just go home. I bet you’re hungry, huh? I know I am. You can take a nice warm shower and get dried off. I’ll fix us some dinner. Then you can tell me all about yourself. I love meeting new people.

The car stopped at a red light. They were now in a small town with little shops and boutiques lining both sides of the street. The windows were lit, showing merchandise, pretty clothes, expensive china, and figurines, the kind of knickknacks one saw in rich people’s homes. Straight ahead was a small white lighthouse with a wooden walkway that stretched for about a quarter mile from each side of the lighthouse, parallel to the street. The wooden planks glistened in the rain.

Are we close to the ocean? Sole asked.

Yes, it’s right there at the edge of the lighthouse. You can’t see it since it’s raining so hard, and it’s dark.

Where are we going?

This is Laguna Beach. I live up on the hill. Professor Truman must already be waiting, the woman said. He likes his dinner at a regular time, and when I’m late, he complains. Loudly. You’ll love him.

The light turned green, and the black Mercedes took a left turn. Sole stared at the road, her big brown eyes reflecting the dark gloomy surroundings. The rain was coming down in sheets now. The car took another left turn and climbed a steep hill with occasional streetlights, showing the shadowy existence of homes on each side of the road, some hidden behind fences, some behind gates. For some homes, only a garage was visible, or a short walkway and an entrance door; the rest remained hidden behind a hedge or a fence, so unlike Santa Ana or Irvine or Comayagüela.

As they ascended the steep hill with tight, serpentine curves, Sole witnessed high canyon walls on both sides of the narrow street, reminding her of the cold metal walls of the ship that had held her imprisoned for five days without fresh air or daylight. Her pulse pounded. She bit her lips.

Professor Truman sounded awful. A demanding man. Just as Sole had anticipated. Mrs. Krause was of the business, Tío’s business. Just a bit subtler. She seemed friendly, kind, refined, so deceitfully refined.

Sole thought of Mr. Smith, her last employer, who would eat a fresh pineapple every night after his wife had gone to sleep, leaving trails of juice and the cut-up peel for her to clean up in the middle of the night, or giving her the choice to wait for the morning, to clean up hordes of ants with it, who would sneak in from outside to enjoy the sticky, juicy treat. Sole shivered.

Are you and the Professor married?

No, no, the woman said with a chuckle, moving her head from side to side, her chest bobbing for a second with the sound of her laughter. He’s just—well—he’s my companion. I’m his slave, really. He’s trained me to give him everything he wants. He’s a master of manipulation, but he’s also very sweet and cuddly.

Sole clenched her fists again. Her fingers were still icy cold, almost white. Should she try to jump out and run when the car stopped? Back out into the rain when she was hungry, tired, and wet from head to toe?

The drive up the hill seemed never-ending. She felt like a stray dog that had been captured and was taken to the pound to await its uncertain destiny. Trapped. But instead of screaming in anger or running in fear or swearing at her captor, she sat quietly, passively allowing the comforting heater to blow its dry air against her chest.

Meanwhile, inside the house, Professor Truman sat upstairs by the window in the dark, surveying the slick street, barely able to see anything through the window as water drops pounded it like pellets from a stun gun, with the drops fleeing in masses to the bottom of the windowpane. Where was the Mrs.?

The rain was slashed mercilessly by a harsh westerly wind, not normal for this time of year. The sky was hung with thick clouds that buried the street in an ominous darkness, reminding one of a suspenseful scene from a horror movie. The residential streetlights fluttered, only enhancing the eeriness by shedding a faint, trembling shadow of light onto the glossy street.

The grandfather clock in the hallway announced six o’clock with six rhythmic, mechanical chimes, sounding happy and innocent as usual, with its soothing bells that vibrated hypnotically through the house.

But the Mrs. was not there.

He had learned to love her. Nonsense. It had been love at first sight. Her big blue eyes that could look right through him. Her sweet, soothing, feminine voice that made his heart sing every time he heard it. Her smile. The caring touch of her hand on his back or his cheeks. The lightness of her being. If he could paint, he would paint her in rose colors and light green and gold, with a halo around her hair.

She had rescued him. She would claim it was the other way around, but Professor Truman knew. Without her, he was nothing.

But this storm was concerning. What if she had run into trouble on the road? What if there had been an accident? What if she never returned home and he lost everything he had?

Everything.

The dark, lonely street called forth in him haunting pictures of the past, a past he had tried to forget or at least repress. But he still remembered what it was like to be homeless. Living on the streets. Eating from the garbage. A piece of fish, half-eaten, with the bones already sticking out but still containing edible slivers of meat. A piece of breakfast ham with traces of the yellow from an egg plastered on it, thick and gooey and cold, like an unintended stain on a white canvas.

He shuddered.

Now he ate good, healthy, nutritious food three times a day from a nice, clean porcelain platter. He wetted his lips.

Staring out the window, he could almost feel the rain on his skin as he once had, being exposed to the elements, with raindrops dangling from his nose and chin. He remembered what it felt like to have his hair wet and limp and dirty and clinging to him, his long, wet coat weighing him down.

A surge of an ocean breeze smacked more rain onto the windowpane, making him shift slightly backward with a shiver rippling down his spine. He took a breath, almost imperceptibly, and moved forward again, his face pressed against the windowpane, staring at the bleak, empty street.

Motionless.

A car slowly turned from the steep hill into the street, its tires slushing in the rain. Professor Truman felt a twinge of excitement at the tip of his heart and sat up taller. But as the car turned into Mr. Rossini’s driveway, the Professor’s shoulders slumped. The car’s lights dimmed as Mr. Rossini’s garage door opened, and he pulled the car inside.

Professor Truman took a deep breath, rubbed his face, and blinked. He stared back at the dark, wet street. Finally, a car approached, but it was not the Mrs.’ white two-seater. It was a black car, a black sedan. A Mercedes. It approached slowly, then stopped in their driveway. Its lights dimmed.

The Professor sat observing, watching cautiously without blinking an eye.

The car door opened slowly on the driver’s side, and a slender leg became visible, then another. The Mrs. He wanted to run down the stairs to greet her, kiss her, but then the passenger door opened. The Mrs. was not alone. Professor Truman kept seated and watched.

A dark-haired figure stepped out of the car. A woman, seemingly young, petite, with long straight black hair, pulled toward the front. Covering her chest. A teenager. Her eyes were fixed on the Mrs., who seemed to be doing all the talking.

Not another stranger!

Professor Truman’s stomach felt as though someone’s fingernails had scratched its inner lining. He turned away from the window and walked downstairs, as he always did, to respectfully greet the Mrs. at the entrance door. But today, he wanted to get a feel for that stranger first and walked into the dark kitchen instead.

Immediately as the stranger walked in, he did not like her. Her overly long bangs covered her eyes, and she stared down on the floor, as if she had something to hide. Her body radiated dark colors, brown and muddy gray, and those colors were slow, stagnant, and stale. A shiver ran down the length of Professor Truman’s arms. Did the Mrs. not see this? He kept quiet and remained in the dark kitchen.

Chapter Two

Just leave the bag here while I give you a quick tour of the downstairs. Then I’ll show you your room, Mrs. Krause said. She slipped off her shoes in the entryway, and Sole quickly slipped off hers.

Sole saw a red plush carpet just as they had in the Shangri-La in her hometown in Comayagüela. Red carpeted stairs led upstairs, just as they did at the Shangri-La. She had not thought they used small homes as brothels in the United States, but now she knew.

This of course is the living room, Mrs. Krause cheerfully explained. Don’t let the white couches bother you. I’ve eaten plenty of coffee cake on them and spread many crumbs. As you can see from all the books on the shelves, I love to study and read.

Sole walked next to Mrs. Krause, leaving deep footprints on the plush red carpet. She looked at the books and said nothing.

Here is a picture of my late husband.

Sole did not look at the picture.

But forgive me. I talk too much.

No, no, please.

Mrs. Krause smiled. You’re very kind. Nothing special about the dining room, she said, continuing her tour.

I like the bench, Sole whispered.

Yes, very European, isn’t it? I’ve always liked nooks, and Ralf and I spent many hours in this dining room eating our favorite dishes and talking about life. Professor Truman loves the nook, too. He likes to take naps on the bench, right in the middle, if he can.

Isn’t that a hard surface for a nap?

He doesn’t seem to mind. Professor Truman? Where are you? Tru?

Slowly the Professor walked from the kitchen into the dining room.

This is Professor Truman. Mrs. Krause bent down and scratched the top of his head. Tru, this is Sole.

Oh, he’s a cat! Sole said, with a derogatory tone of voice. I thought he was your husband or colleague with whom you share your home, or perhaps somebody who… Sole looked down on the Professor.

Oh, Mrs. Krause said, he is the man of the house all right. I prepare meals for him, I clean after him, we talk, we cuddle, and he sleeps in my bed. She laughed heartily.

Professor Truman approached hesitantly and smelled Sole’s leg. He stepped back as though something startled him. He walked a couple of feet away and sat, looking Sole straight in the eyes.

She stood stiff like a marble statue.

He’s a bit shy at first, Mrs. Krause said. I think he resents it when I bring home someone he doesn’t know, but as much as I love him, sometimes it’s nice to converse with another human.

Yeah, you can’t talk to an animal. Sole stared at Professor Truman.

Professor Truman ran toward Mrs. Krause and hid behind her legs.

Well, we do communicate quite a lot. To me, he’s so much more than a cat if you can see past the physical, Mrs. Krause said. He eats and sleeps just like you and I do. He has a mind of his own, feelings, likes and dislikes; he gets happy and sad, and he dreams just like you and me. His body has organs and a nervous system that mirrors yours and mine. His vocal cords are built differently, but that does not mean that he is less intelligent, does it?

Sole stood quietly. Not one muscle in her body moved.

He’s my companion, Mrs. Krause said and bent down to stroke Professor Truman’s back. He leaned into her hand.

When she stroked his chin, Professor Truman licked her hand. He rolled on his back and began to purr.

And he’s so professor-like, you know, smart, full of opinions, always on top of the book I want to study or lying on the keyboard of my laptop. That’s how he got his name. Professor Truman. Mrs. Krause rubbed his belly.

A fleeting grin crossed Sole’s face, but the stiffness in her eyes told the Professor that she did not agree.

He works hard, Mrs. Krause continued, and he is a great listener. He’s helped me solve many problems, so if you ever need a listening ear besides mine…

But that’s just instinct, isn’t it?

Sometimes I can hear his thoughts, Mrs. Krause defended.

Professor Truman’s back began to itch, and as he scratched it with his hind leg, he wondered why this awful stranger was in their house.

Well, Mrs. Krause said, as if any issues had been solved, and continued her tour.

Sole said nothing.

Professor Truman observed a dark brown energy around the stranger’s heart. It was frightening. Ghastly.

Let me show you the kitchen, Mrs. Krause said, all white and sparkling clean, that’s how Ralf liked it. Well, I do, too. Professor Truman has his dish here, and treats are in the cabinet. He may twist your arm for some of those. And over here, on the other side of the living room, is my study, full of books, as you may have already imagined. There’s a small bathroom. Let’s go upstairs and bring your bag.

The light wooden staircase, made of bamboo, wound slightly to the left. The wood on each side of the red center runner was polished and clean. The Professor ran after the Mrs.

Sole stood in the hallway like a glacier, clutching her bag with both arms, looking at the front door. There was no key. The door was unlocked.

Come along, Mrs. Krause beckoned, and bring your bag.

Hesitantly, Sole turned and followed Mrs. Krause up the stairs.

To the right is the master bedroom, where I sleep, Mrs. Krause explained. Come on in. It has an attached bathroom, which is very convenient. The bed of course is too big for me now but Professor Truman usually snuggles up to me during the night. Sometimes, she said with a giggle, I sleep on the edge because he spreads out in the middle of the bed and takes up most of the room.

This one here, Mrs. Krause said as Sole followed her closely, was my son, Jake’s, room. Jake moved out about five years ago, but he still has some stuff here.

Mrs. Krause walked to the next room and opened the door wide. I thought you might enjoy this room here. It was always our guest room, but I don’t have many guests coming anymore and if they do, they can have Jake’s room. Do you like it?

Sole hesitated, then slowly walked across the doorstep.

It’s beautiful. She ran her hand over the white, queen-size canopy bed with its white ruffled bedspread and light-blue pillows leaning on the headboard, and a blue blanket, gently draped across the bedspread at the end of the bed.

For a moment, Sole flashed back to sleeping in the city park in Comayagüela, wrapped in a blue blanket next to Don Francisco, with whom she had felt safe.

But the blue blanket meant nothing. Surely this could not be meant to be a bed for only one person. She turned in a circle, taking in every detail—the round table, painted in a soft light blue with its matching shelf against the wall, and the colorful round carpet with swirls of red, white, and blue, giving the room a cheerful atmosphere.

It’s so, so, so…plush! she gasped. And big.

She sucked up her nose, blinking her eyes slowly, consciously, several times, and then one tear slowly escaped from each eye.

What an actor, Professor Truman thought, watching her closely. He looked at the Mrs.

Oh, my dear girl. Mrs. Krause stepped toward Sole, and her arms gently embraced her. I’m so pleased that you like it. We’ll have a good time together here, and if I ever talk too much, which I sometimes do, just tell me to shut up.

Thank you, Mrs. Krause, Sole whispered.

Professor Truman tucked at the Mrs.’ pants, but she did not react.

My pleasure, Sole. Why don’t you get settled in, unpack, take a shower, and make yourself at home. In the meantime, I’ll fix us some dinner. Come over here. This is your bathroom, and fresh towels are right here in the cabinet. Take what you need.

Mrs. Krause opened the hallway cabinet and handed Sole two large, bright yellow towels, a small hand towel and a wash cloth.

Let me make sure soap and shampoo are in here. Yes, you’re all good to go. Do you need anything else?

No. Nothing.

Mrs. Krause turned and went downstairs, but Professor Truman stayed, watching Sole’s every move.

Sole closed the bedroom door, shutting Professor Truman out, and sat on the bed. No doubt, the bedroom was beautiful. It was the kind of room Sole would have pictured in her dreams. The first item one saw when entering was the big queen-size canopy bed with white curtains, tied in each corner of the frame with a light blue cord.

She lay down and looked up at the canopy, which had small golden stars imprinted in the material. She looked at each one, wondering if one of them might symbolize her lucky star, the one she had looked up to for years at night, high up in the sky, the one that sparkled so beautifully. She remembered Don Francisco’s words, And remember, Maria Elena, my angel, you have a star watching over you, and a light inside you that will always, always show you the way. You must remember that.

But as hard as she stared at the canopy stars, none sparkled, and none stood out.

There was no earthen dirt floor, no thin, woven mattress lying on the floor, as there had been in the barrio home where she had grown up. Curiously she lifted the side of the comforter. It revealed the softest, thickest mattress, covered with a thick pad, a light blue sheet, and a fluffy, white comforter. On top of the bed were two big, rectangular pillows and some smaller throw pillows, all in white and blue. It was the kind of bed one would imagine in paradise. Blue was her favorite color.

There was a six-foot space between the bed and a mirrored closet, covering the entire wall opposite the end of the bed. Opposite the entrance door, was a big three-pane window with transparent white curtains on each side, speckled with blue and red dots, and a modern desk with chrome legs and a glass top. An old-fashioned, antique ink pot with a feather pen stood on the top right-hand corner of the desk,