Glancing toward the closed bedroom door, I run a hand over the back of my neck. “Listen, Joey’s spooked, and I need to go talk to her. She’s going to want to know what’s going on.”
Trevor rubs the back of his neck. “We’re staying here for another twenty-four hours. If Nomar doesn’t show by then…we’ll go back to Kabul and take the first plane out of here.”
Joey
Cracking the door, I listen to the sounds of the two men in the living room. I can’t make out the words, though. I want to go out there. Find out why only Trevor came back. If Nomar didn’t make it, that’s one more death that’s my fault.
I don’t know how to do this. How to live with what I’ve done. All the terrible things that happened because of me. Because of my choices. If I’d never left Ford’s apartment that morning… If I’d suggested a different bar for the bachelorette party… If I’d taken any of Ford’s calls, read any of his letters…
A sob sticks in my throat, and I close the bathroom door, then lean against the sink and stare at myself in the mirror. I don’t recognize the woman looking back at me. Too thin. Too tired. Gently, I probe my swollen cheek. The dark purple bruises are starting to fade, bits of yellow seeping in around the edges.
The sound of the slap echoes in my memories. It was louder than I expected. And then…quieter as the stars obscured my vision and I fell. Duller. And the pain went on…forever. My eyes burn, and I turn my back on the broken, hollow woman in front of me.
A stack of towels rests under the sink, and I use one to cover the mirror as I turn on the shower. I hope Ford’s right and there are no cameras here. But…I can’t help my paranoia. I just want to be safe.
Piece by piece, I strip and shove the clothes in the trash. Maybe Ford can find a way to burn them. The headscarf too. Stepping into the spray, I sigh. The water feels like heaven, but as I sink my hands into my hair to wash away the grime, the bruises all along my back flare, and I suck in a sharp breath, choke on the water running down my face, and double over coughing.
The position—hands on my knees—makes me want to throw up. All I can see are the dozens of tiny scars curving outward from my inner thighs. Years of cutting myself to try to feel…something…anything…and even though I’d stopped—before Faruk’s men stole me away—the scars will never fade.
Panic tightens my chest, a hard ball of ice squeezing my heart. My raw throat protests the air I force through it, and I sink down onto my ass, wrapping my arms around my legs, and let the water wash away my tears. I’ll never be normal. Never be able to love him. To let him love me. We live in the same city. How can I even go back there knowing I could run into him anytime?
The water starts to cool, and I push myself up, rush through washing my hair and body, and step out onto the mat, shivering, as I wrap myself in a towel.
“Joey?” Ford knocks on the door, and I clap my hand over my mouth to stifle my yelp. “Are you okay, buttercup?”
Buttercup.
He’s treating me like…we’re together again. Like no time has passed. Like…I’m still whole. Except, I’m not, and I never will be again. Sinking down with my back to the tub, I rest my forehead on my knees. “I need…to be alone, Ford.” He’ll hear the tears in my voice. He always could.
“Please, talk to me.”
“There’s…nothing…to say.” My stupidity did this. My pride. My fear. If I’d just let him keep his secrets. Or if I’d been willing to share mine. If I hadn’t managed to convince myself—despite my sister and mother’s assurances to the contrary—that the reason Ford didn’t contact me for a month was because he didn’t want a woman who’d been broken. Who’d been used and violated in the worst ways.
I tug on the chain around my neck, palming the engagement ring he gave me so many years ago. Just a simple band, studded with tiny diamonds and sapphires. Three of each.
The FBI agent with the kind eyes and shaggy black hair knocks as he peeks into my hospital room. “Miss Taylor? Do you mind if I come in?”
I hear him, but when I try to answer, I can’t force the words out. My sister takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Joey, honey? It’s Agent Beckham. You remember him.”
Of course I do. I remember everything. But I don’t want to.
Agent Beckham approaches the bed slowly. His was the first face I saw after they killed Jefe. He wrapped me in a blanket—one of those weird insulating ones that almost crinkle—and carried me out of that railcar. God. Was that only yesterday?
“Miss Taylor, we finished processing the warehouse next to…” He shakes his head. “The warehouse the traffickers operated out of. Most of everyone’s personal effects were gone. But we recovered a few things.”
I draw in a sharp breath as he holds out his hand. My engagement ring. Sparkling clean. Ford. I wish he were here. I need him. But…I’m so…broken. Will he even want me? Tears cascade down my cheeks, and I stare at my broken finger. I can’t wear it. Not now. And I want to. So much.
“Thank you, Agent Beckham,” Gerry says as she takes the ring from him. “Joey’s…tired. But I know she’s happy to have this back.”
The agent quickly darts back out of the room, and the door closes with a quiet click.
“Joey? Honey? Look at me.” Gerry reaches behind her neck and unclasps her necklace. It’s a simple silver chain with a pearl pendant on it—something she got for her college graduation, I think. As I blink up at her, trying to will my body to stop crying, she removes the pendant and threads the chain through the ring. “Here you go. You’ll feel better having this on.”
As she secures the chain around my neck, I reach for the ring. And for a moment, all the pain, all the fear, all the terrible memories fade away, and I can pretend I’m not broken.
The memory leaves me gasping for air and gripping the ring so tightly, I’m afraid I’m going to crush it.
Heavy footsteps recede, and I blow out a breath. Until, a minute or two later, they’re back, and an envelope slides under the door.
