golden liquid

Only the expressionless glass eyes could not hide the viewer that the girl was no longer alive.

Almost reverently, Laila ran a finger over the bronze-coloured skin of his forearm.

The skin was cold and unnaturally smooth.

Laila knelt and wrapped her arms around the girl.

She raised the body.

The girl was unexpectedly heavy, heavier than a 6-year-old child of his height and physique.

Her face touched the shiny hair.

She smelled hairspray.

Probably Summersby had used gloss paint to give the dull, dead hair more naturalness.

Shuffling, Laila carried her load into the room with the tub.

In the middle of the room she threw her body to the ground.

She heard the soft 'klong' of the metal plate.

A glass eye was released from the eye socket by the impact.

Laila saw ivory-coloured bones and a firm, pink mass on the edges.

She could not stand the sight and turned back to the curtain to get the next body.

The broken glass eye lay in front of the curtain and seemed to stare accusingly at Laila.

Laila quickly kicked it aside and hurried into the room.

One body after another, she carried her to the tub and piled her up and down in front of it. Seventeen bodies lay in a messy heap on the floor.

Laila was always in pain as she threw the remains of each child on the ground.

Breathing heavily, Laila lifted the IV pole.

She closed her eyes and slammed the stand at the jumble of arms, legs, and heads.

Her feet seemed barely touching the lawn as she ran back to the portal of the house.

She barely slowed down as the gravel stones drilled painfully into her bare soles.

Tripping, she reached the smooth surface of the front terrace.

Hastily she pushed down the door handle and slipped into the huge entrance hall.

She rushed right into the kitchen - no Anita.

Behind her came a cheerful voice.

"Here, my dear, into the drawing-room."

Laila walked slowly through the lobby, trying to control her quick breath.

Anita was sitting in a bulky leather chair.

In front of her, on the dark teak table, stood a champagne bucket with a bottle and two glasses in which golden liquid paired.

A bright red file lay on Anita's lap.

Laila sat down on the huge, cognac-coloured couch.

She only had eyes for the red piece of cardboard.

It seemed to her as if the red was radiating above-ground.

"A sign," she thought awed.

Anita held out a champagne glass.

"This is champagne from our own vineyards, we produce only a few bottles for our own consumption, it is delicious and it is only opened on special occasions."

She winked conspiratorially at Laila.

Laila clamped the narrow handle of the glass between her fingers.

"Is this a special opportunity?"

"Of course, did you talk to Miguel?" Anita had noticed that her eyes flickered again and again to the red folder.

"He does not want to bring the kids here, he thinks you're crazy, I think."

"Miguel does not understand anything." Anita barked violently.

"He sees no connections, does not recognise the signs." Laila looked questioningly at Anita.

"Have you ever wondered why our paths crossed each other?" Anita wanted to know.

Laila shrugged. "Coincidence, fate, ... no idea."

"No coincidence, purpose - I can very well sympathise with your grief over Jessica's loss, you can certainly understand how grateful I am for saving my children."

"I did not save your children."

"Do you seriously believe that Manuel would have stopped attacking my children if you had not killed him? "Anita snorted contemptuously.

"You can not be serious." Laila did not reply, but secretly agreed.

"Someone seems to think we can do a lot of good together, and with my financial resources and connections, I can offer you unimagined opportunities to fulfil your oath."

Laila kept her eyes down.

"You do not know what you're getting into." Anita put her glass down on the table and shoved the red file at Laila.

"Maybe, but I do not care, as long as we have a common goal." Anita opened the file.

Laila looked at the photograph of a teenager.

The girl looked pale and serious.

The dark hair she wore in a fashionable, half-length fringe hairstyle.

"This is Tamara". Anita delicately stroked the photo.

"She is 12. Her father is one of the most successful plastic surgeons in Beverly Hills, her mother is ... was a lost soul, we suspect she was killed in Tamara's kidnapping, blood was found in her house - her blood - lots from that."

Laila flipped through the file.

Police photos from the crime scene, reports from investigating officials, newspaper articles.

Laila read in an article that Tamara's alcoholic mother, probably out of loneliness, boredom or sexual frustration had joined a well-known sect.

When she was unable to cope with her urge for money - the mother had no account authority - her new friends considered it legitimate to get another valuable cause - Tamara.