Trafficked Read Online Free PDF Page A

inside the house and closed the door, her heart beating faster now. She felt awkward in this woman’s house with her husband upstairs before she’d even met her. It was a backward way of doing things and felt wrong somehow.
    One of the car’s doors opened and then another, and Hannah heard a shout and little-person shoes running up the outside steps. A curly-haired blond boy, around two years old, burst through the door and stopped just before he slammed into Hannah. He looked up, feet planted together, and stared into her face, his large blue eyes widening.
    â€œ
Privyet
,” Hannah said, “hello” in Russian.
    He let out a loud, terrified scream.
    She stepped back. “Ah!” she cried. The little boy ran out.
    â€œ
Ah-yai-yai, zaitchik
,” the mother said in Russian at the bottom of the steps outside, softly, calling him a little rabbit. Hannah smiled. Her own mother used to call her that too. The woman strode into the house, holding the boy, whose face was buried in her bouncing honey-blonde hair. The woman’s nose was one of those perfect noses, not too long like Hannah’s. It had no bumps or curves, and the nostrils were evenly shaped. Hannah chose not to see this as a bad sign, because the woman was smiling and she had the most beautiful hazel eyes with specks of amber in them, and laugh wrinkles in the corners. She looked American, not Russian at all, Hannah thought. She wore little makeup, just some mascara and pale pink lipstick. Her yellow blouse was tucked into jeans with a shiny black belt cinched in tightly; black heels matched the belt, and she had a short yellow silk scarf tied around her neck like a movie star.
    The mother ran her hand over the little boy’s curly hair. “I see you have met Michael. He’ll warm up, don’t worry,” she said in Russian. Then she held out her hand to shake Hannah’s. “I’m Lillian.” Even though she spoke in Russian, she used the American version of Liliya.
    Hannah reached out her hand and tried to squeeze tightly, as Sergey had shaken her hand earlier, but Lillian’s handshake was like squeezing bread dough.
    â€œYou must be tired from your trip,” Lillian said, examining her with the kind of sharp eyes that were perfect for a doctor. “Would you like to have a shower?”
    Hannah knew her body was casting off waves of sour odor—she could barely stand herself. “Yes, please, if it’s all right with you, ma’am, I would like that,” she said, using the polite form of “you” in Russian.
    â€œDon’t be so formal,” Lillian said, meaning she should use the familiar form. They were so much friendlier than she’d thought they’d be. It was a tremendous relief after all the warnings from people back home.
    A girl of around eight or nine marched through the front door. She had hazel eyes just like her mother, and her dark hair was pulled back with two matching fabric barrettes. “Do you like rap music?” the girl demanded in English.
    â€œUh,” Hannah stammered, “y-yes.” This girl was so American. It was hard to say why Hannah thought this; maybe it was the relaxed but emphatic way the girl moved her body, or maybe it was her casual yet expensive-looking clothing: jeans and a green shirt with a large ragged purple flower sewn on the front. Hannah hoped this girl was less spoiled and more disciplined than the American children she’d seen on television.
    â€œThis is our daughter, Maggie,” Lillian said in Russian, and then chastised Maggie. “No English. Elena doesn’t speak English.” Hannah wanted to correct her about the name, but it wouldn’t be polite in front of her children.
    Hannah switched to English. “It is nice to meeting you, Maggie.”
    â€œI’m eight—how old are you?”
    â€œSeventeen.”
    Lillian rested a soft hand on Hannah’s arm. “Russian