Asya
I wake up to the feeling of fingers combing through my hair. Pasha is lying on the bed next to me, still wearing the same clothes he had on the previous evening.
“When did you get back?” I ask.
“Five minutes ago,” he says and continues stroking my hair. “I need to show you a photo of someone.”
“Okay.” I nod. He’d already shown me photos of more than a dozen men the other day, asking if I recognize anyone, but none of them seemed familiar.
Pasha releases my hair and reaches behind him to take his phone off the nightstand. I take the phone when he holds it out to me and look down at the screen. The image is of a man suspended upside-down from a ceiling. I can’t make out his face too much, so I zoom in. The phone nearly slips from my hand.
“Is this him? The one who took you?”
