The horses are being brought out when I arrive. I’m assigned the same chestnut mare with a white blaze down her nose.
We mount up in a loose group, all of us so-called wives paired with guides who look more like soldiers than trail leaders.
I breathe deeply as we ride out beneath the trees. Usually the outdoors soothes me, but today feels different. It’s like there’s an undercurrent of something waiting to happen around the corner. The energy is off and everyone seems to be feeling it.
My thoughts keep wandering back to Augusto, to the incredible night we just had, the truths he told me, the decision I silently made to stay here.
I wonder what he’s doing now. I picture those large, skilful hands firing a gun like it was a part of his body, toying with a pen too small for his fingers, thick arms folded across his chest as he sizes up everyone around him.
Now that I know who he is, hescreamsmafia.
Yet, despite his hardened exterior, his gentlemanly act had me completely fooled.
Conversation between the ‘wives’ begins, but cautiously.
“I don’t know,” the woman with overzealous Botox says ahead of me. “It just feels… off today.”
“I heard someone didn’t come back to the retreat last night,” another says.
“Who?”
“I don’t know for sure. Parker, maybe?”
My grip tightens on the reins.
They don’t know anything yet, which makes me feel slightly less anxious. The less people know about the fate of the Russian, the less chance we have of being scrutinized. Because I am not big on scrutiny. In much the same way I hate constant shocks to the nervous system, I also hate lying. I can’t promise I won’t throw up on someone’s shoes.
The woman riding beside me laughs. She’s the one with the immaculate blowout, the careful makeup, the wedding ring sitting conspicuously on her right hand instead of her left.
That detail has nagged at me since the first night.
“My husband’s probably thrilled to have a morning without me,” she says brightly. “He’s been so busy lately. Always stepping out for calls. Business never sleeps, right?”
Her smile is brittle and she keeps talking. Is it to fill the silence?
Before I knew what this place was really about, I might’ve chalked up her chattiness to nerves or vanity. But now, I hear it differently. There are too many tells in her words and her ignorance feels too rehearsed.
I glance at my guide who is watching her, closely.
A chill snakes down my spine.
As the trail curves deeper into the forest, the canopy thickens overhead. We pass a clearing and I catch sight of temporary fencing in the distance—it looks almost industrial.
This isn’t just a retreat, but I knew that already.
And what I’m slowly catching on to is the fact that some of these women know too.
The woman with the ring on the wrong finger finally notices my silence.
“You’re quiet,” she says. “You okay?”
I smile back, pleasantly. “I’m just enjoying the ride. I tend to tune everything out when I’m horseback riding. I hope I don’t seem rude.”
There’s a small look of relief in her face. “Not at all.”
It’s not a total lie. Horseback riding gives me the space to think, so I do. I think about where Augusto is now, and if he’s thinking about me. I think about Gerard and where the fuck he is, about his aunt and whether she’s being looked after. About my beautiful daughter and her safety.
My horse trots happily, unbothered by the tension thickening the air.
