It’s no villa in the desert, but it’s also not exactly what I expected from a man like him.
It’s nice, don’t get me wrong. But as we pull up into the driveway, I’m struck by how normal this place seems. The outside walls are a mottled pattern of stone bricks, an adobe archway over the front door, and long panels of glass where windows hint at vaulted ceilings inside.
No signs of slaves, guards, or anything that would suggest a human trafficker lives here.
Again, The Bearded Man—“Master”—opens the passenger door for me, and even holds his hand out for me to take and steady myself on my heels. When we walk to the front door, he wraps his arm around my waist and acts like this is totally normal for us. Like there’s an “us.”
Which I guess is smart. No telling who might be watching, even th
