by J. L. Drake
“I’ll take it you recognize Jose?”
I nod again, fighting the urge to scream. Yes, the bastard made me beg for my meals, whipped my back until it was raw, and took every shred of human dignity away from me!
Logan hands me a clean napkin—I didn’t even notice I had started crying. “What I was going to tell you is both of them managed to elude capture.”
My gaze shoots up in horror.
He leans forward, resting his arms on his thighs. “I know, and I’m sorry, but until we know where they are and take them into custody, you need to stay here. Your family, friends, nobody knows you’re safe yet. That’s the way we have to keep it for now, for their sake as much as yours. It will only be a matter of time before Los Sirvientes Del Diablos and the rest of the Cartels find out who rescued you, and when they do, the hunt will resume in earnest. You’re worth a lot to them, and I’m sure they’re pretty pissed that you’re gone.”
I stand, shaking my head, not sure what to do with myself. A knock sounds at the door, and York, the ass from last night, comes in, holding up his hands.
“Sorry, sorry, been a busy day—” He catches sight of me. “Hello again, pretty girl.” His voice is like velvet.
Screw you, asshole.
“York,” Logan spits out, “take this and deal with it.”
York grabs the file from Logan’s hand and leaves, but not before giving me a wink.
Logan stands in front of me. He is much taller; I only come up to his chin. “You don’t have to stay. It’s your right to leave, but if you do, we cannot protect you. I give it one week before you’re snatched up again and disappear into thin air. It took us five months to locate you the last time, and we’re the best there is.” He glances at his watch again, and his jaw tenses. “I have a video conference shortly, but tomorrow you have a meeting at oh-eight-hundred with Dr. Roberts. He’s our resident therapist, and it’s mandatory that you attend.”
Oh, hell, no! I will not be seeing a shrink!
He crosses his arms, sensing my change in mood. “Mandatory,” he repeats. “Abigail will see you make it there on time. For now, if you need anything, go to her. She’ll be your aide. Feel free to use anything in the house, and know that the house is under constant watch for everyone’s safety. Of course, the bedrooms and bathrooms are not under video surveillance, but the windows and doors all have sensors so we can keep track of who is coming and going. Please understand that the use of phones to call outside of this area is strictly prohibited, as is the use of the internet for communication. We’ve worked extremely hard to keep this place secret. Only a select few know its location, and they know the consequences if they should ever reveal it. I’ll give you a week to decide if you want to stay, and if so, we’ll talk more about the rules.” He moves to sit behind his desk. “Any questions?”
Yes, about a billion. I shake my head and walk back out the door, closing it behind me. Jesus, there is so much to take in, my mind is reeling. I need to get back to my room and think. Am I really ready to live like this? Trade one prison for another, however posh? Or do I go home and take a chance and risk it all?
Dr. Roberts is a tall, skinny man with blond hair, in his mid-fifties. His hazel eyes look warm against his crisp navy suit, the thin tie resting over his belt buckle. He repeatedly taps his right heel against the floor while he thinks.
We are in a small room next to Logan’s office. The color scheme is yellow and shades of green. It is quite pretty.
“Not much of a talker?” Dr. Roberts asks, trying to lighten the mood.
We’ve been staring at one another for the past forty-five minutes. When I first arrived, he asked a few questions, but when I didn’t respond, he just watched my behavior, as I did his. I know he is going to go with a shock question to get a response out of me. Oh, here it comes. I can practically smell the smoke from his brain gears turning.
“What’s your feeling on Jose Jorge?”
I don’t flinch.
He nods and continues scribbling on his tablet. “Savannah, would you like to go home?”
Ah, the follow-up shocker question. Nice one, Doc. I’ve got to hand it to you. Using family would have cracked me at one time, but not now.
He leans forward, setting his tablet on the table. “Well, I guess we’re not going to accomplish anything here today.” He removes his thick framed glasses and rubs his eyes, sighing. “If you don’t let people in, Savannah, how can we help you? Aren’t you tired of being alone?”
Okay, that hit a nerve, almost broke my mask. I am terribly lonely, but when you live with no one to talk to and no one to trust for as long as I have, you almost forget how. People are sneaky creatures.
“Can you at least tell me your favorite color?”
I silently watch him shake his head.
“Okay, fine. I’ll see you tomorrow, same time.” The door opens, and in walks Abigail.
“Hello, Dr. Roberts. Will you be joining us for lunch?” She smiles at him.
“No, I’m afraid not. Thank you, though. I do love your chicken pot pie.” She blushes a little.
Huh. This is interesting. Does soft-spoken Abigail have a crush on the snappy-dresser therapist? I think so.
“Ready, Savannah?” she asks, holding the door open.
I wake in a layer of sweat, my heart still wild from my nightmare, and glance at the clock. It’s barely past midnight. I can still smell the foul sheets of my prison room. They had been changed only three times during what I now know was over seven months. I bet they never saw any soap even then—probably only rinsed and dried.
Knowing I’ll never get back to sleep with the memories of my nightmare still fresh in my mind, I toss my blankets off and grab the robe Abigail left out for me. The cool silk feels amazing against my hot skin.
I make my way downstairs to the bottom floor. The entertainment room window overlooks the lake, and the space is filled with the glow of the lovely, soft moonlight. A black grand piano sits in front of one of the windows. My hands twitch as memories flood over me. I slide onto the cold bench and lift the cover to run my fingers over the keys, feeling how smooth and familiar they are as goose bumps prick along my skin. It has been fourteen years since I’ve played, fourteen years since I’ve seen my mother, fourteen years since I promised myself I’d never play again.
“Sweetheart,” my father says, coming to my side, “it would really mean a lot if you played for her one last time. Please, play her favorite.”
“I—I can’t,” I whisper through a sob.
“I really need you to do this, sweetie.” He nods toward the press that is gathering in the church. Of course, the new up-and-coming politician would have press at his wife’s funeral. I look up at him through my tears. It’s always a show with him. He stands, pulling me to my feet. “Now.” He takes my hands in his. “You can do this, Savi.” He gives me a kiss on the cheek and points me toward the front of the room. I shake as I pass by the coffin. My dear mother looks so peaceful. As I sit at the piano, all eyes are on me. I glance at my father, who brushes a tear away and nods at me to start. I feel sick as I look down at the black and white blur. I take a deep breath, not wanting to disappoint. I can’t bear to sing, so I only play. Leonard Cohen’s oft-covered Hallelujah.
“Thank you,” my father whispers.
Still, to this day, I don’t know if he was thanking me for doing it for Mom, for him, or for the media.
I shake off the memory and test a key, pushing down, making the first note. I close my eyes and feel the melody. I quietly sing the familiar opening line, hardly recognizing my voice as the tears drop—feeling my mother beside me, playing her part. This was one of our favorites, and she had taught me how to play this same song I would play at her funeral.
“Only play if you want to, Savi,” she whispers, glancing over at my father on the phone, pacing the kitchen. “If it makes you happy, then play. That’s why I do.” She kisses my cheek. “It helps me escape my disease. It sets me free.” She starts to
sing again, winking at me, her head swathed with a wrap hiding the fact that she’s lost all her pretty dark brown hair that matched my own. Her voice would warm the coldest soul.
I had maybe a quarter of her talent for singing—my skills were in my fingers. I was meant to play the piano.
I open my eyes to the moonlit room, feeling cold. Something catches my eye, and my hands retract off the keys.
“Please, don’t stop.” Abigail steps out of the shadows. “It’s so beautiful.”
I close the lid with a snap and swallow a lump in my throat.
“I haven’t heard that song in a long time. Your voice is lovely.”
I push off the bench, not looking at her, and leave the room. I feel strange hearing Abigail’s compliments. I’m not sure what her angle is.
The next few days are the same. I go see Dr. Roberts, and we stare at one another for the hour-long session. I walk around the property with Abigail, trying to build up my strength. She never mentions the other night, and I am happy she doesn’t. That was a raw moment for me. We have lunch, and I nibble on some fruit and vegetables, but it’s something. A nap, followed by watching the horses run around the stables, then dinner. Abigail tells me old folk stories about the mountains, which are really quite interesting, then I head to bed. Sleep isn’t something I enjoy, but I know my body needs it, no matter how much I protest. Abigail keeps telling me the small amount of food I eat is why I am always so tired. I know I really need to work on that.
The sun beats down on my face, filling me with all kinds of mixed emotions. I struggle with the idea of staying here. Although it is the most beautiful place in the world, it is not my home. If I do go home, is Logan right about me not making it past a week before I would be kidnapped all over again? My head hurts thinking of all the what-ifs. What if they take me? What if next time they kill me? What if they hurt my father or Lynn?
Abigail takes a seat next to me on the patio. She knows it is one of my favorite places to sit and think. “I love how the water reflects the mountains. Such a pretty display of colors.” She’s good with me—never tries to force me to talk. She just fills in the silence when it becomes too much for her.
I notice Logan walking with York around the property line.
“Stepping up security,” she says as if I asked her the question.
I nod and keep watching.
After a few minutes, she sighs. “He’s a good man, Logan. Never married, doesn’t date. Claims he doesn’t have time. Men,” she laughs.
I smile a little too. That does sound like a workaholic male.
“Always an excuse to not let one’s guard down.”
I know she didn’t mean to direct that to me, but I feel a funny sensation in my gut when she says it. Maybe I need to start trusting someone or I’ll be lonely the rest of my life, but trusting people…the thought still really scares me.
After dinner, I sit on the floor in front of the couch in the living room to soak up the heat from the fireplace. Scoot, the house cat, doesn’t seem to mind sharing the warmth with me, I think because he gets a belly scratch from it. He is a fat little thing with an “I don’t give a crap about anyone” attitude, which strikes me as quite funny. A lot of the guys wear black, and I swear Scoot rubs up against them just to hear them groan. Now I know exactly where the patches of white fur come from.
None of the guys pay much attention to me. They are always polite but never speak more than they have to. Right now, that works fine for me.
“You should’ve seen Cole. He flipped his gun around and smoked the guy in the face, breaking his nose, spraying blood all over the place,” I hear one guy say to another behind me. “Then he clocks him under the jaw, sending him down the stairs. The rat tried to grab for his gun, but Cole popped three right between his eyes. He never saw it coming.”
Holy hell! The mental image I have from that almost makes me gag. Who is this Cole guy?
“I can’t believe I missed it,” his buddy whines. “So, that’s what, number thirty-four for him?”
“Thirty-five,” the storyteller corrects. “Not to mention the six he killed with his bare hands. Dude’s friggin’ Rambo.”
A chill runs up my spine. I’ve never heard anyone talk about killing someone so openly and so casually. Does this Cole come around often? I have no interest in meeting such a stone-cold killer. It frightens me to even think about taking someone’s life, let alone…how many times was that?
Scoot paws at my hand. Apparently, I stopped rubbing. “Sorry, kitty.” I immediately make up for it by giving his tummy a good once-over.
“I’m going on a guess here, but I’m thinking a 2004 merlot will make that belly scratch a little more tolerable.” A guy grins down at me and hands me a glass of red wine.
I smile with a small nod and take the glass.
He sits in front of me, leaning against the opposite couch and stretching his legs out in front of him. He runs his hand through his brown hair to remove it from his green eyes. It seems like something he has to do often. Scoot doesn’t like the interruption, so I make even more of an effort to give him attention. Greedy little cat.
The stranger leans forward. “Mark Lopez.” He holds out his hand.
I look at it then move mine into his for a quick shake.
“You’re Savannah Miller,” he states. “We’ve already met, but you were kind of out of it.”
I look at him, trying to recall his face. He is Latino and tall, although everyone seems tall to me, and I’m 5’6”.
“I was sitting in the front passenger seat but never took my mask off, so you’re off the hook for not remembering me.” He grins playfully.
I look down at my wine. I take a sip, letting it swirl around my tongue. Oh my, it tastes divine.
Logan quietly sits across from us on the stone ledge in front of the fire. He looks tired, and it appears he is nursing a glass of something strong. Something strong? Those words bring me back to the restaurant that night with Joe Might. I feel tears coming; my old life seems so far away. Joe probably thought I was a flake for never getting his samples to him.
“Hey,” Logan says softly, “you all right?” His sincerity makes me feel a flicker of warmth deep inside.
I quickly nod, not wanting to draw attention to myself.
“Lopez, could you give us a moment?” he asks.
“Sure thing.” Mark rises to his feet. “Talk to you later, Savannah.” He grins like we are good friends
It makes me feel good. Wow, that’s a strange sensation. I really didn’t think that feeling was inside of me anymore.
Logan shifts to Mark’s spot beside me on the floor. “I see you made friends with the moodiest one in the place.” He leans over and fingers Scoot’s ear.
The cat purrs into his palm, and his smile grows. I know the two of them have probably spent some quality time together. I take another sip of my wine, not sure what to do.
He is almost painful to look at, he is so attractive. His eyes are so dark they match his black hair, and his shirt stretches over his broad chest, showing just how fit he is.
I run my hand through my hair, not wanting to gawk and needing something to do. “So, tomorrow marks one week since we last spoke. I hear you haven’t made any progress with Dr. Roberts. That’s disappointing.”
My eyes shift away from his.
“You really need to talk to someone, Savannah. Dr. Roberts has done wonders for people in the past. I’m sure if you give him a chance, you’ll feel a lot better. That is, if you decide to stay.” He pauses and takes a sip of his drink. “It’s all right to let people in. You’re safe now.”
Safe. That’s what everyone keeps telling me.
He suddenly turns his head, looking over my shoulder. “Please excuse me.” He sighs and hops to his feet.
I sit and think about what Logan said, still keeping up my required efforts with the demanding Scoot. My thoughts are soon interrupted by a conversation between two guys sitting near the window. They are talki
ng about the one named Cole again and how he “popped this rat in the face.” The other guy begins to describe another Cole story with so much detail I actually have to get up and walk out of the room. I’ve decided it’s time for bed anyway, and I have heard quite enough.
Dr. Roberts glances at me over his glasses. We are forty minutes into our potentially last session. I am having an internal battle with myself, and a side finally wins. I breathe in deeply and decide to take a leap of faith. At this point, I have nothing to lose and maybe something to gain.
“Purple,” I whisper. His gaze snaps up from his tablet, his eyes narrowing at me.
“Pardon?”
“My favorite color is purple.” My hands twist together; I am feeling uneasy with my decision.
“Well, that’s a pretty color.” He takes a moment to think. “If you could use three words to describe how you’re feeling today, what would they be?”
Only three? I think about it carefully before choosing the words and clear my throat.
“Scared, confused, overwhelmed.”
“All normal to be feeling after what you’ve been through.” He nods. “How do you like it here so far?”
I shrug. “Fine.”
“What do you like most?”
That’s a hard question to answer; there are surprisingly a lot of things. I mean, who wouldn’t love the view, the horses, the lake, the air?
“Lots.”
He nods again, scribbling on his tablet. “Could you name one thing?”
“Scoot.” This makes him laugh.
“Good old Scoot. I swear, that cat runs this house. What is it you like about him?”
I study the doctor for a moment, trying to figure out where this psychobabble might be going.
“He is what he is.”
“It’s true, animals don’t judge like people do. They’re trustworthy, loyal companions.” He tilts his head. “Were there any animals where you were held?”
