Serena knew the face. He was the dealer who captured her, still in the business of trafficking women and children, still working with Viremont, still a specialist in horrid things done to women.
She could never forget his face. She had heard women scream in camps from this man and was powerless to do anything at the time. She knew his voice because she had heard it giving instructions to handlers whose instructions involved methods she would carry in her memory until the day she died.
Her hands pressed flat against the iron armrests. The pressing was the only visible response she permitted. Everything else, the cold, the recognition, the inventory of every crime this man had committed against women whose names she knew and women whose names had been taken from them before she could learn them, all of it went behind the composure and stayed there.
