They all think I’m crazy for letting this go on so long. They don’t get what I’m trying to accomplish. They don’t understand the importance of my mission.
If it were up to them, Sawyer’s freedom would’ve been stripped the moment he went looking for our fortune, proving we couldn’t trust him—as if there was any question. From their point of view, we have all the facts. We even havetapesshowing us what to replicate. We have pages and pages of notes detailing every last strategic move Sawyer provided. To them, all this makes up a how-to guide. To me, it’s merely a blurry pamphlet.
I studied him for months before he came here. I learned everything I could about his victims. I highlighted every word they said about him, every detail of his island. I’ve seen what he can do here, and though his conditioning tactics are useful, they would never be enough to acclimate a woman to our lifestyle. It isn’t enough for her to be a whore, she has towantit—our people couldn’t tolerate her presence otherwise. She must be in love with us the way Sawyer’s victims fell in love with him. Only he can get us there.
I consider repeating all of this to Raven, of stressing the importance yet again, but I would be wasting my breath.
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m sick of waiting… Arrange it for tomorrow.”
My stomach sinks with what I tell myself is nerves. I promise myself I won’t overthink this decision, but I know for the next twenty-four hours I’ll be in a panic to uncover as much as I can.
After tomorrow, it’ll be too late. Sawyer’s guard will go up for good.
But it’s done now. It’s finished.
It’s time for this experiment to end.
CHAPTER 21
LUNA
Alone in the dilapidated training house—knees callusing on the bedroom floor, hands raw and blistered—theonesolace is this: I don’t have a watch.
Bent over the edge of my newest ‘masterpiece’, I puff a breath at the hair hanging in my face. I sit up; rub my eye on my shoulder. Dip my finger into the chunky bucket of paint that was once white, now a dull gray.
Then it’s back to work on the polar bear’s fur, my finger skimming in fast, shallow passes, rubbing gray into hardwood with the care and concentration of an artist, not a woman who’s taken up the hobby out of madness.
My hands cramp, this morning’s baseboard-scrubbing blisters cracking open as I work. Fruitless but effortful. Useless to the body, essential for the brain.
Routines make the mind carry what the soul can’t. And for the last several days, routine is all I’ve had.
Wake up to an empty bed.
Pick up Sawyer’s clothes off the floor, make the bed, scrub the walls until my hands refuse to go on.
Stare out the window.
Practice dancing—like a silly little girl.
Tell myself I don’t love it.
Lie on the bed, stare at the ceiling, ignore the rumble of my stomach.
Paint over the imperfections on the walls—stains, scratches, warps.
Graffiti the floor. Pretend Sawyer will care.
Wait for Sawyer.
Wait for Sawyer.
Wait for Sawyer.
Always waiting for Sawyer, until the moon shines bright in the sky and my pride withers away with hunger. When he finally returns, it’s with food from outside the compound—foil wrappers cloaking stuffed tortillas, bags of chips, sticks of ‘meat’ encased in plastic. Mockery dressed up as kindness.
I eat while he shucks off his clothes and collapses into bed, gracing me with an hour or so of his attention before drifting off to sleep. An hour of attention that isneverenough.
It isn’t failure—yet. There’s still time to win him over, convince him to show me the exit, extract the information I need.
