“Are you relaxed?” I ask.
Jeffrey Epstein looks up at me. His eyes are hungry.
I’m going to let them starve.
“Hell yeah,” he says. He spreads his legs and loosens his tie. I feel a pang of panic. What if it doesn’t work? What will he do?
“I’m ready for you, sweet cheeks,” he says, and I put on my fakest smile. I reach into the pocket of my dress, searching for the one object that will save me from him.
I find it, and it rolls into my fingers on its own.
“Close your eyes,” I say. He does.
“Now imagine me naked,” I say. He shudders with pleasure. “Easier done than said,” he says. I want to slap him, hurt him, but I need him to be relaxed. Otherwise, the hypnotism won’t work.
“Can you see me?” I ask. Epstein nods his head, his eyes still closed. “Ohh yeah.”
“One.” I snap my fingers. Epstein’s face becomes as blank as paper. He has an erection; I shudder, disgusted.
“You will stop. And think,” I say. I hold up the object from my pocket: a little ball of amethyst crystals. With most hypnotisms, you cannot make a person do anything they don’t want to do. With these enchanted crystals, however, I can make them do anything I want.
“You will think about all of the girls you violated. Every. Single. One.”
For a second, Epstein has that hungry look again. But that’s about to change.
I squeeze the ball of amethyst, and I see his expression darken. He flails in his seat, but he doesn’t leave it. I won’t let him leave it. He’s caught like a fly.
“Do you see them?” I growl. “Do you see what you’ve done to them?”
“M-make it stop,” says Epstein. “I don’t want to be—no, stop—”
“Do you understand what you did?”
“Please, make it stop!” he cries. He flails again, jolting left and right from a phantom abuser.
I drop the ball back into my pocket. Epstein slumps as if nothing had happened.
I say one more thing before I loosen my hold on him.
“Die,” I say, tracing the shape of a noose on his arm with my fingernail. He nods, as if in agreement.
The private jet comes to a stop.
I let go of my grip on him. He snaps out of it, his legs again splayed, and he looks at me like a cheetah would look at a helpless gazelle.
“So are we doing this or not?” he says impatiently. I smile that phony smile again. “We’ve landed,” I say. Epstein peeks out of the window, then sighs in disappointment. “Maybe we’ll do this later, then,” he purrs.
But I know about the police outside. I know where he’s going next. And I know that Epstein’s going to hell, regardless of who he pays off.