Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 46715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
His voice begins to shake.
I can feel the tragedy emanating from him.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, placing my hand on his shoulder as I keep the gun clear.
He turns toward my touch, some of the tension relaxing, but only a little. It’s not enough to stop him from looking like he’s ready to erupt from the chair, attack, or protect someone.
“Evil,” he goes on. “That’s the only word for her. Since we weren’t getting a ransom, the others wanted to take us out into the desert and…well, you can imagine.”
I hate to think of Silas as a kid, standing next to his dad, with black bags over their heads in the desert, waiting for the cartel to…
“But Vanessa wanted to keep us around. She could have some fun with us, she said.”
“Oh, Silas.” I tighten my hand on his shoulder, wishing there was something else I could say, some way I could make this better. “My dad and I were kept in different huts. Vanessa didn’t do much to me, not compared to Dad, poor Dad.”
He shudders.
I wonder if I should hold him, stroke his hair, or if that would be crossing a line and presuming too much.
And anyway, I can’t, not with the door open and anybody being able to see.
They might recognize him, or me, or both.
They’d tell Dad.
“I heard what she did to him—evil things. For me, she just liked to keep me in a cell. A stone cell with no windows, nothing in there except my own thoughts driving me crazy. For years. All I could think about was never wanting to be trapped again. I’d never let that happen if I got out of there.”
His voice is torn as if he’s trying to fight away tears. I can’t imagine my man breaking down, but I’d be here for him if he did.
“Eventually, Vanessa lost her mind. She started treating me like I was her kid. She brought me a small TV and a VCR. It was the only good thing she ever did, even if it came from how insane she was becoming.”
“What did you watch?” I ask.
“Extreme sports,” he says, with warmth in his voice, nestled within the darkness. “They had these old tapes. I lost myself in them—skiing, skydiving, biking. I couldn’t imagine being those people, staring at the horizon instead of the same stone walls. I wondered if I’d ever be brave enough.”
He turns, sits on the table, and stares at the opposite wall. There’s a framed photo of a tattoo on there, but I can tell he’s staring through it with those intense blue eyes.
“You were. You are.”
He glances at me, a light smirk touching his lips, before returning to a frown.
“Vanessa locked dad and me in one of the outhouses one day, then set it on fire.”
He says this coldly, as though he doesn’t want to get too close to the emotion or it will rip him apart.
I step forward, not sure what I’m going to do, thinking maybe I’ll hold him, push myself against him so he can feel the comfort I hope he’ll accept from me…or does he only want the other stuff?
But he’s telling me. He’s talking.
Vanessa wasn’t his lover.
She was a psychopath.
But then someone walks by the room, pausing my movement. Silas catches it, his frown deepening.
“I managed to escape through a small crack in the wall. Dad wasn’t so lucky. Luckily, I ran like hell to the nearest town, and a family there sheltered me. It was a strange journey. I was hardly aware of what was happening, but they passed me along to a US couple, and I found my way home.”
He pauses, then laughs grimly. “Home. Not that it was much of a home without Dad. Later, I learned that Vanessa had been killed in a Cartel bid for power. They told me that like it was supposed to make me feel better.”
He looks at me, taking me in with his gaze, giving me that feeling of complete attention.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him. “I know I keep saying that, but I don’t know what else…it’s just so awful. That doesn’t even come close. I can’t imagine how much it hurt you. I can’t imagine how much it still hurts.”
“That’s why I quit therapy,” he says. “I couldn’t take talking to a stranger about this stuff. I never thought I’d talk about it again. I never would have if it weren’t for that name-writing shit.”
He bows his head. I step closer, glancing at the door, but I can’t let him suffer alone. When I place my hand on his arm, a reverberation moves through his body.
But he keeps his head bowed as though he’s ashamed.
“It sounds like you need to talk about it,” I murmur. “I’m always happy to. If you want. I….”
I’m here for you.