“I hate it here. He prays and asks for help doing good things, but he hurt you and Philippe’s mom and he tried to kill Nomar and—”
“Shhh. I know. Put on your pants. Quickly.”
Tears shimmer in my son’s eyes. How much longer do we have? One minute? Two? Three?
“Are all Muslims bad?” he asks.
I sink to my knees, too exhausted to stand, and wrap my arms around him. “No, Mateen. Most Muslims are peaceful, wonderful people. Like Madame Garnier. She is one of your favorite teachers, yes?”
He nods, his cheek resting on my bruised shoulder.
“Raziqdoes terrible things in the name of Islam. But that is because heis a bad man. If he were Catholic or Episcopalian or even Buddhist, he would still be evil.”
“So praying will not make me do bad things?”
He is so insightful sometimes. So very smart. But also kind. Gentle. Curious. My heart swells with pride, even as I fear for his future.
“No, it will not.” Rising, I blink back tears. “I do not know when your uncle will send for me, Mateen. I hope we will be able to have breakfast together. But if I am gone when you return, do not worry.”
“But…”
Someone pounds on the door. Mateen’s eyes widen, and he shrinks against me. “Go. I have not covered my head, so I cannot be seen. I love you.”
He offers me a watery smile. A single tear tumbles down his cheek. “I love you too.”
“Follow me,” a man says to him, then slams the door and locks me in.
My knees go weak, and I stumble into the bathroom. I am safe for now. Through the bars on the small window, the sky is only starting to lighten.
“Your punishment will occur every day after sunrise prayers.”
Will he chain me again? Leave me out in the sun to burn?
I run the cold water in the sink. My eyes and lips are still so dry. I need to drink as much as I can.
My blistered hands shake. I bring them to my lips again and again until the very idea of another drop is too much.
Last night, I was too exhausted—and afraid—to remove the burka’s long under-dress and the rough pantssomeoneput on me. But my skin is scratchy and I smell. With the men praying, I should have fifteen or twenty minutes to shower without worrying someone will come for me.
I strip out of my clothes, then look at my reflection. Angry purple bruises curl over my shoulders. When I turn, craning my neck to see my back, I cry out.
There is not a single inch of unmarked skin. Yellow, blue, and a black so deep, I fear the damage may be permanent. Only the burka stopped him from breaking the skin. But how will I survive another day of this?
The shower is both blessed relief and agony. The pressure of the spray is too much, but it feels so good to wash the salt from my skin and hair.
Drying myself off sends darkness flooding my vision. I stumble to the bed and collapse onto my stomach until I can see again.
Get up. Get dressed. Be strong for Mateen.
I pray Nomar is alive. That he will come for us soon. Before there is nothing of me left to be saved.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Nomar
Shapur and Dariusco-opt one of the bed rolls for a prayer rug. Griff takes the other and is out in seconds. Austin and Leo pull up satellite scans of Raziq’s home and debate which roads are best for approach. But I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see Lisette afraid and in pain. I can’t remember her smile. Her laugh. Only her tears.
“You’re not doing her any favors,” Leo mutters when they break for more coffee. “Get some rest.”
