He took a moment to go over the list in his head, attempting to commit names and directions to memory. She was speaking to fast for him to get it all, but the first stuck with him. He supposed that would be the best and easiest of the options either way.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">"You're a prostitute, right?"  </span><br/><br/>He reluctantly nodded and answered, "Yes...I am." Not pleasant work, but not totally unpleasant. The pay was alright and he had a roof over his head and a bed to sleep in. He couldn't complain. He could've ended up in a mine, or in the army, possibly even just dead. No, he wouldn't complain.<br/><br/>There was something about the place that worried, like something sinister lurked behind the walls. Driscoll wouldn't doubt it for a moment if he was feeling his own death creeping up on him like a strangle hold. He very well could die in this place if he made a single wrong move. He promised himself the only places he would be, is in his rooms or the kitchen peeling potatoes. He would no where else unless called. There was no reason to risk his head.