The Director

by Lily White

  "Who's that?" I asked.

  "That is the man who will be driving you to the docks. From there, you'll be hidden on a cargo ship and returned to the States. You'll be free, Emma. Free and alive."

  Warmth spread through me that I hadn't felt since the day I was stolen. Starting in my center it rippled out as small waves, expanding and strengthening into naked and raw hope. "We're really leaving?"

  His pace slowed, the idling white van finally coming fully into view. "No," he answered, his voice regretful. "We're not leaving."

  Stopping finally, he turned to me. "You're leaving, Emma. You're going home where you belong and I'm staying to make sure they don't know you're still alive."

  The warmth of hope inside me chilled to an icy stillness. Disbelief flavoring my thoughts, agony threatening to stroll in and take the throne hope had once held.

  "What?" Tears broke free as the question burst from my mouth. Slapping them away, I shook my head refusing to believe that he was staying. It would be so easy for us both to leave. All he had to do was get in the van with me. We could both leave and never look back. If he would just get in the van.

  "No," I insisted, my voice trembling and hoarse, "no, Ethan, you're coming with me." I wrapped my hand over his arm, gripped down with the refusal to let go. "We're leaving together."

  His eyes met mine and behind them I saw remorse and pain, but also a fierce determination to follow through with whatever insane idea he'd devised to help me leave.

  "Please," I begged, the pain in my chest making it impossible to speak the word with any strength. I had to convince him to leave with me, had to do something, say something.

  Stepping close, Ethan wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling my body to his. Tilting my chin so that he could stare down into my eyes, the expression on his face said everything he was thinking before he had the chance to voice the thoughts in his head. "I can't leave. Not if I want them to believe you died in that fire."

  "Who cares if I died in that fire? Just get in the van. We'll go back to Boston together and figure it out. But I'm not leaving you here!" Lips trembling, my eyes searched his looking for the faintest sign that he would change his mind. "You're a prisoner to this place as much as me. You don't have to stay here."

  Leaning down, his kiss was gentle, just a brush of his mouth against mine. It stilled me, allowed to believe that I could convince him to come with me, to escape a nightmare that both of us had lived for far too long. Pulling back, he brushed his thumb across my lip, his eyes focused on my face as he dedicated this moment between us to memory.

  "They will find a woman's body on that stage and believe you died in the fire. They'll find the mask in the back hall and believe the male lead fled. But if they don't find their director, they'll start asking questions. And those questions could lead to you. I won't allow that, Emma. You need to go home, you need to get back where you can be safe and you need to hide."

  Body? What body? I'm standing right here. "What body?"

  "I used one of the other women to make it look like it could have been you. They won't be performing an autopsy-"

  "Who? Who did you kill so I can escape?" I knew it didn't matter, that women would continue dying in this place regardless of whether I was here or not. But still, to think somebody died so that I could live? I couldn't live with that, I couldn't accept that my life had been more important that somebody else's.

  "I used Melanie's body, Emma. I didn't kill anybody." Honesty poured from his gaze. Honesty and the resolute truth that he wasn't getting in the van. He had no intention of leaving.

  My body crumbled, my legs too weak to hold me up, Ethan's arm tightening around my waist to keep me from falling to the ground. Violent sobs wracked my chest, furious tears bursting from my eyes with so much heat they burned my cheeks where they slid down the skin.

  Tilting my face up again, he locked his gaze to mine and I tried to memorize his eyes, his face, every last detail I could because although my mind refused to accept that this was goodbye, my breaking heart knew it was true.

  "You have to go," he said, his voice soft, apologetic. "I have to get back before the alarms stop if I have a chance of sneaking back in without anybody noticing. The men helping me will get you home, Emma."

  "Why?" I asked, tossing out stupid questions because I didn't want this to end. I didn't want to let him go.

  A wry smile tilted his sad lips. "It appears you impressed more people in the studio than you realized. They're loyal to me, and they saw the happiness you gave me while you were here. For that, they will make sure you get home safely. But they can't do that if you don't leave immediately."

  I could barely speak around the sobs, the trembling and the tears. I could barely think around the pain of my heart, the desolation of my soul. This man had carved his name into every part of me and I couldn't just let that go.

  "Goodbye, Emma. Don't ever stop fighting for your life. Don't ever give up. Don't let the fire I saw the first day I laid eyes on you die."

  His hand gripped the back of my head and he kissed me again, deeply, slowly, as if he knew it would be the last time he had the chance. I died during that kiss, not physically but spiritually. I came apart and shattered in his hold. And when he pulled away, when he looked down at me one last time, I died again knowing that I would never again be the same.

  "Go," he said, his hand landing on my shoulder as he led me to the van. Reluctantly, I climbed in and he smiled one last time before slamming the door closed and tapping on the outside. The van lurched forward, tires grinding over the pebbles and rock, taking me far from a nightmare that would forever imprison my heart.

  EMMA

  "I may have escaped that place, that fucking hellhole where I was surrounded by death and pure evil. Physically, at least. But there are days where I feel like I haven't escaped at all. Like I'm still stuck there praying that it will end."

  Shoulders withered with defeat, I blotted my cheeks with a tissue, tried to stop the tears that angered me more than anything else. I shouldn't have still been crying, still been screaming inside and wishing that everything could have been different. However, over the years since I'd left the studio and returned home to my life, I understood that, in truth, I'd never left the studio, not whole. Ever since the night I was carted off in that van, blindfolded so that I could never return or report where the studio was located, I'd remained fractured despite everything I'd done to rebuild my life.

  There would always be a part of me that remained trapped. My sanity, maybe. Or my dignity. At least, that's what I told the people who still picked at the story, hoping to find that one small thread they could pull to make it all unravel. They knew I held one secret to heart. One secret that, for as long as I lived, I would never admit.

  "It's normal to feel the way you're feeling, Emma. Many women who have gone through experiences like yours struggle to regain footing in their lives."

  Adrienne Eglan stared over at me from behind the thin wire frames of her glasses, her legs crossed demurely, her prim and proper skirt suit unwrinkled and perfectly accessorized. Hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, she scribbled down notes in her attempt to dissect me, but she wouldn't succeed. Only one person had been able to see past the mask I wore, the side of me I allow people to see, and that person was gone.

  After returning to the States, and after going through the horrible weeks that followed where I'd been forced to repeat my story to every federal agent who demanded to hear the same details over and over again, I'd moved home with my parents and had spent several months coming to terms with the horrors I'd witnessed at the studio.

  At first, I'd hoped the agents would find the studio, would free the women still trapped, would free...him. But as the months wore on and they couldn't find the place where those horrible films were made and distributed, I'd given up hope of ever finding Ethan again.

  Depression overtook me in those months. My body changed, my heart broke, but eventually I discovered a new r
eason to live, a bright shining star that had come in to my life to remind me that I had the strength to go on.

  My mother convinced me that going to therapy would help me come to terms with the events in my life, but now, as I stared across the room at a woman who had no fucking clue what it felt like to have your heart ripped from your chest only to be returned as a mere sliver of what it had been, I was beginning to believe that nothing would help me forget a man who had been the only person to ever really understand who I am.

  I needed to stop my sessions with Adrienne. I'm sure she meant well, but after spending two hours a week listening to her infuriating psychobabble, I was afraid I would snap and tear off her pretty little head.

  She must have noticed the way my teeth were clenched, or the fisting of my hands, because she did the reasonable thing of shooing me away as quickly as possible. With a professional smile stretching her glossed lips, she darted a glance at the wall clock and said, "It looks as if we're out of time for today. I'll see you again next week."

  Relief flooded me. Yes, I was the one who'd willingly signed up for these sessions, but I still felt like a lab rat every time I walked in to tell a stranger my innermost thoughts.

  It was odd how leaving my shrink's office felt like more of an escape than the night I left the studio. Walking from the building, I milled over that thought in my head, the whisper of truth that echoed until I could feel the weight of it. Pain still clenched at my heart each time I thought of the final night I saw Ethan Cole. I wondered where he was. What he was doing. If he'd ever found a way to leave the studio behind and rebuild his life away from the depravity and death that had surrounded us when we fell in love.

  Over the two years since I'd returned, I'd given the police, FBI agents and the members of human trafficking task forces who'd interviewed me every detail I could about my abduction and the studio where I'd been held. It had surprised me to learn that I was missing for close to a year before being freed to go home. But, of all the details I gave them over the grueling hours of those interviews, there was one detail I never revealed.

  I never told them about Ethan. About the director who had been the artistic mind behind all of those awful films.

  As it turned out, the authorities were familiar with the films, had been tracking them for years to discover the fates of other abducted women, had withheld the details of those women's deaths from the families they left behind.

  There hadn't been a film showing how Melanie died, but I'd given them the details, had cried while explaining where her family could be found and the name of her son. By now, that information must have been delivered, and they'd most likely had a funeral despite no body being recovered for a burial. I promised myself that one day I would visit her empty grave, would apologize that I couldn't save her, and thank her for being the reason I could slip away unnoticed.

  The police had done well to keep my return and my identity out of the press. Using witness protection protocols, I was identified simply as Jane Doe and it was reported I'd escaped a trafficking ring without details of the studio or films. I'd demanded those terms before ever speaking a word of what I knew. What would have been the point of Ethan's plan if I'd returned for my name and photo to be blasted all over the news?

  Breathing out, I walked at a clipped pace down the breezy sidewalk toward my car. Unlike the careless woman I'd been before being ripped from the streets and delivered to Hell, I was now cautious, constantly looking over my shoulder and peering into alleys while walking by myself. My experience had born in me the paranoia of my mother, but instead of laughing at her now, I apologized for not having listened to her when she’d explained to me how to stay safe.

  My electric car started with a few beeps and soft whir, barely made a sound as I pushed the pedal and drove down the street. Tears leaked freely down my cheeks, my heart pounding as sorrow pulsed through my veins. It was always like this after a session, after a hour spent hiding the fact that while trapped, I'd fallen in love. I didn't need to see the sympathetic stare, the eyes that told me I was weak for having fallen for the man who held me. I didn't need the judgment for admitting that even two years later, finding him was all I wanted to do.

  Ethan was still a part of my life, in more ways than he knew. And for that, he would never be a stranger to my thoughts, would never fall into the backdrop of the past to be lost among the women who never had the chance to escape.

  Pulling into my driveway, I quickly wiped away the tears and stared into the rearview mirror to check that my eyes weren't swollen. I hated it when I walked inside and saw my pain reflected in the eyes of my family. Thankfully, my parents were both out running errands, eating lunch, living their routine. Only one car was outside the house, and it would be leaving now that I'd arrived.

  I stepped into the house and heard the television sounding softly from the living room. Rounding the corner, I smiled at Ashlynn Cates where she sat working on homework. "Hey. I'm home. Where's Kane?"

  Smiling brightly, Ashlynn swept her long blond hair from her shoulder. "He's sleeping. Just went down about an hour ago. It should give you a few hours of peace before he's up and running around again."

  Relieved to hear it, I dropped my purse and keys on a side table and said, "I'll take over from here. Thank you for babysitting."

  Ashlynn gathered her things and took the money from my hand as she passed by in route for the front door. Turning to watch her go, I was startled when she spun back suddenly. "Oh! I forgot to tell you. A package came for you. I put it on the kitchen counter."

  Brows drawing together, I asked, "For me? Are you sure? I haven't ordered anything."

  Shrugging, she shifted the strap of her backpack up her shoulder. "It was for you. I didn't see the return address. Some strange man delivered it. Have a good night."

  As soon as the door slammed closed, I was walking to the kitchen. On the counter sat a large manila envelope. Picking it up, I found that it was addressed to me, but there was no return information, no clue as to who had sent it. My heart rate picked up as I ripped it open. Was it possible?

  Pulling the contents free, I found a letter scrawled in masculine script and a plastic encased DVD. My body stilled, my heart pounding so hard that I could feel the pulse of it in my cheeks. Unable to force myself to open the letter, I hurried up the stairs to my bedroom, sat down on my bed and brought the paper to my nose to see if I could smell him.

  I knew the instant I saw the writing on the package that Ethan had been the one to send it.

  More tears fell and I half laughed at how sick I was of crying. It took several minutes to settle my heart and rate of breath, and after counting to ten, I blinked my eyes one more time before opening the letter...

  To My Muse,

  I hope this letter finds you well. In fact, I hope it finds you better than that. I hope it finds you healthy and whole, happy and living a life deserving of the light and fire you carry inside. It would break my heart to learn that you retreated inside yourself again after returning home.

  By now you know that the studio was never discovered after your escape, and I'm sure you know that the films have continued being dispersed. What you don't know is that I'm no longer the man directing them. I'm not sure that it matters to you, or if you still feel for me now as you did when we last spoke, but it was important to me that you know I left the studio behind and have moved on after completing my life's most important work.

  I guess I should make some confessions before going further in this letter, confessions that will most likely anger you or hurt. But I hope you can understand why I did what I did, why it was important to me to get the details just right.

  You're a hard woman to miss, Emma, and it doesn't surprise me that the men who stole you had chosen you specifically to take. Despite your belief that you're simply an average person with nothing special that sets you apart, you're so much more than that. Your humility alone is astonishing, but when combined with the beauty of your face and the force of your i
nner strength, you stand out among the crowd without even realizing it. It's what drew me to you the instant we met. It's what inspired me to direct my greatest film, to fulfill my life's dream.

  You inspired me. Like no other person has or will ever do again. It's a shame that the accomplishment will be one that only a few people will see. How many depends on you, and your decision is your own. If you take it to the police, I'll understand, but something tells me you won't.

  Why have you never given the police my name? And thank you for giving, at least part of it, to our son…

  My heart stopped beating as I read those lines, my lips parted on expelled breath, my eyes rounded to discover that Ethan knew about Kane. Both fear and elation flooded me, the mixture toxic within my veins.

  Within a month of returning home, I'd discovered that I was pregnant. My family had left it up to me whether to have a child they believed had been conceived in rape, or whether to terminate the pregnancy. There had never been a question of what I would do. But I never admitted to them that Ethan's child growing inside me had been one of the only reasons I'd been able to continue living after losing his father. After discovering I was pregnant, I'd researched Ethan online. Too afraid to name our son with his first name, I'd used his middle name instead. Ethan Kane Cole had become the unknown father of Kane Christopher Hart.

  Swiping at the tears, I continued reading.

  My first confession is the hard one, so I'll just get it over with and hope you read the rest. I was never a prisoner to the studio like I led you to believe. I could have left at any time, could have taken you with me, could have lost you far too soon and never completed your story. I won't apologize for that lie, won't feel sorry that I made a decision to finish the project you inspired just by being alive. When you see what I saw, I hope you'll understand why I did what I did. I hope you'll see the beauty in it, and the truth I finally found in film. I wasn't lying when I told you that I'd planned to move on before you arrived. What I failed to mention was that after finding you, I chose to stay to complete one last project.