Many minutes pass, and all I can hear coming from the speaker are noises from Victor, but no voices: him shuffling around inside the cell; grunting and growling and yelling indecipherable words under his breath; the squeaking of the skin on his palms rubbing against the fixed bars of his cage; his pants legs brushing as he paces. And all the while I listen, wishing I could reach out to him to say something to console us both, this woman is, of all things, fixing my makeup and hair.

“What’s the point of this?” I ask her.

“You’ll see,” she tells me, and then places the tip of an eyebrow liner pencil to my left eyebrow.

“It’s a shame about your hair,” she adds.

I don’t say anything in response, and she continues with her work. I continue to listen, like she told me she wanted me to do, but for a long time all I hear is more of the same from Victor. Secretly I glimpse the knife on the vanity, out of my reach but easy enough to get to if I wanted. But ‘easy’ is what worries me; these people were smart enough to put Victor, of all people, where he is now, so I’m confident that ‘easy’, in this case, is just an illusion.

After another five minutes or so, and still nothing has changed, I try to get the woman to talk.

“What’s your name?” I ask her.

“Do you really care what my name is?” she says, and I feel the heat from the curling iron getting a little too close to my ear. “Are you wanting to bond, Izabel?” Her question is laced with sarcasm.

“No,” I answer honestly. “I don’t play that bullshit game. I’m just tired of the silence.”

I see her smile slimly in the reflection of the mirror; steam rises from my hair as she releases it from the curling iron.

“I can see why Victor loves you,” she says.

“Thought you didn’t believe he loves me?”

Her smile spreads. “Oh, I never said that,” she answers. “I believe he loves you, sure, but in what way he loves you is the big mystery. There are many different kinds of love.”

“Victor loves me in the way you think he doesn’t,” I point out, icily. And I know that he does—I don’t question it at all. It just infuriates me that this woman, whatever the hell her name is, thinks she knows Victor better than I do.

“My name is Hestia,” she finally answers, ignoring my rant as if it’s not worth her time refuting. “Apollo is my brother. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“Do you really care?” I come back.

She purses her lips, rolling another section of my hair into the hot metal. “Not really,” she answers. “But for the sake of conversation.”

“I might have half brothers and sisters,” I say with a shrug. “Couldn’t really tell you; my real mother had a weak spot for men, and she wasn’t exactly a safe sex kind of woman.”

“Ah, well, most of us wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for women like her—I sure as hell wouldn’t be.” Then she says suddenly, “Why haven’t you asked why you’re here? I’m curious. Not once have you begged me to tell you what this is all about, or tried to reason or bargain with me. Surely you care about that.”

“I’m not gonna beg anybody for anything,” I tell her straightaway. “And it doesn’t take a genius to know the basics of why we’re here. Aside from that whole revenge thing your brother wants, most of it is pretty self-explanatory. It’s the same old story, a typical scenario of vengeance”—I shrug again—“I could ask you for specifics, but I already know you’re not gonna tell me anything you haven’t already told me, so why waste my breath?”

Hestia picks up a bottle of hairspray and presses her finger down on the pump; I shut my eyes to keep out the tiny beads sprinkling my face.

“Well, just so you know,” she says, setting the bottle down, “there’s little typical about this scenario—that I can assure you.”

Her words leave my brain buzzing with questions and worry, but I don’t give her the satisfaction of knowing that she got to me.

The door to Victor’s room creaks open again and closes with an echo. Then I hear the sound of Apollo’s—assuming, anyway—footsteps going over the floor. I come to attention quickly, eager to hear Victor’s voice again. I don’t care what he might say that I won’t like; he can say he never loved me at all and I’d be happy just to hear him, to know that he’s alive—I was beginning to wonder.

But the first voice I hear is Hestia’s, speaking into the mic affixed to the laptop.

“The story of what happened fifteen years ago”—Hestia glances briefly at me—“to our beloved sister, Artemis; I want him to tell it now.” She steps away from the mic and comes back over to me, sits on the seat next to mine; she goes back to curling my hair. “Now listen closely,” she tells me, wrapping another section of hair around the scorching metal. “I want you to have a good understanding of everything before you go back in there.”

I nod, but all I can think about now is knowing I’m going to get to see Victor again, even if it’s the last time…I’m going to see him again.

And that gives me hope.

Apollo walks past my cage and disappears within the shadows again; I make note of his footsteps as they get farther away. Then he stops, and I hear the sound of metal pulling away from metal, followed by several clicking sounds. The fluorescent lights high in the ceiling hum to life as he flips the switches in the breaker box one by one.

The space that houses my cell is much larger than I anticipated. I knew it was expansive and mostly empty, but the darkness, and my head still dizzied earlier by the drug, kept me blind to the truth. But my sense of smell was spot on. This place was—maybe still is—some kind menagerie, most likely owned by a private collector or distributor of exotic animals. I count twelve other cages set in the walls to my right and left, six on each side, and three more just like mine, situated down the center of the vast room in a perfect row, spaced at least ten-feet apart. Primates have been kept here, evidence of that in three cages equipped with hanging rope, a swinging tire, and wooden platforms mounted high on the back wall. I am certain other exotic animals have been housed here at some point. But today I am the only one.

Apollo makes his way back up, taking his time, walking toward me in slow strides, his hands folded together behind him. He raises one of them in gesture as if showcasing the place, and says to me, “It’s fitting, don’t you think?”

“I do not care much for the pointless dialogue, Apollo. Let us get to it, shall we?”

He smiles, folding his hands together on his backside again.

“Eager to die, aren’t you?” he asks.

“Eager to get on with this,” I answer.

Eager to see Izabel is more like it; it is killing me not knowing what is happening to her right now.

Apollo takes the chair Izabel had been sitting on earlier and drags it back a few feet from my cage. With the sweep of his hand, he pretends to dust off the seat before sitting down; he brings his right foot up and rests it atop his left knee; he folds his hands loosely across his stomach. And then he just looks at me, waiting, for what exactly he will have to tell me, but of course he knows this already.

“That night,” Apollo begins, “fifteen years ago, what did you do before Osiris burst into the house?”

“Before as in when?” I inquire. “Minutes before? An hour? You could be more specific.”

He smirks.

“Begin with earlier that evening,” he says. “Didn’t you take my sister out for your one-year anniversary?”

“Yes,” I say. “Though it was two days late.”

“Why was it late? Was my sister not worth remembering?”

“No, Apollo, that is not why I took her out late; I did not forget. We both had to work, so we decided to spend our anniversary the following Sunday.”

He nods. “I see.” Then he switches legs, propping the left foot on the right knee. “So tell me about that night. Before Osiris. Tell me everything, even the little things.”