Mind Lies

by Harlow Stone

I kick my sandal-clad foot behind me into his shin. He grunts and then presses his erection against my hips. I swallow the bile quickly rising into my throat and open my mouth to scream again.

  Forcibly grabbing my jaw and twisting my head to the side, he cuts off my cries.

  “Not someone you want to meet in warehouse at night,” he grunts into my face, his accent thick.

  “Let us go. We won’t tell anyone,” I meekly say, my one-hundred-and-twenty-pound body continuing to struggle against his two-hundred-plus one. He doesn’t answer but roughly twists my arm behind my back instead. “I don’t get paid to let merchandise go. But perhaps I get bonus for extra.”

  My entire body shivers, and I struggle against his firm hold on my arm and scream as loud as I can, kicking and losing my sandals in the process.

  “Help m—”

  “Quiet!” he commands, flashing a knife in front of my face, touching it to my cheek.

  I shake my head lightly. “Please, no. Please.”

  “Nosy bitches not good for business,” he says before licking up the side of my neck.

  Gagging, I try to shift away, but I feel the knife at my waist. “No! Please don’t!” I wail, twisting my body away from the blade. He slams me forward again, my head crying out in pain. He lets my arm go but then grabs the waistband of my shorts.

  I scream when his fingers pull the waistband away from my body. I try to pull away from him, feeling the knife slice through my belt.

  I’d rather die.

  That’s all I can think of as I fight, which only seems to anger him further. I feel the breeze of the night on my lower back; he has succeeded in cutting through my shorts. A pain unlike anything I have ever felt shoots through my body as his knife pierces my hip.

  “Agh!” I cry in agony.

  Suddenly, the man disappears from behind me, and a muted thud follows.

  I spin around, leaning against the container for support. As I try to flee, strong arms surround my shoulders.

  “No!” I push my arms out before a soothing voice says, “Easy, Lass. I’ve got you.”

  Choking out a sob, I look up into stormy-blue eyes. “Lock?”

  His jaw ticks before he bends down and places a forceful but gentle kiss on my lips. “We need to run, Lass. Okay? I’ll keep you safe, but we need to run.”

  I nod. “The women?” I mumble, pointing to the container. I hear a clang behind me, jumping at the noise. A man dressed in black, who had arrived with Locklin, opens the door. To my horror, there are three women huddled into a corner.

  Their faces are dirty, and the stench of human waste is strong. They look from me to the man who opened the door, to the evil man out cold on the floor.

  “We don’t have much time. Come,” the dark man tells the women. They remain in the corner and look at me with wide, scared, yet hopeful, eyes. Locklin steadies me with his arm and says, “Tell them, Lass. They’ll be safe, but they need to go. Now.”

  I nod, ignoring the tears pooling in my eyes; seeing the woman in huddled in the container is a difficult sight. One is no more than a girl. “You’ll be safe, but you need to hurry!” I emphasize, using hand gestures

  Surprisingly, they trust me, perhaps recognizing me as the woman who was screaming a moment ago. Perhaps their trust is based on pity; surely they can see the blood pouring down my face and leg, that I’m hurt.

  Breathing through my mouth to avoid the smell in the container—God knows how long they were kept in there—I watch as they exit the container, taking slow painful steps with the man dressed in black guiding them.

  That could have been me.

  I give each woman a nod and a small smile, telling them with my eyes that I hope to high heaven they remain safe and untouched for the rest of their innocent lives. The young girl, who can’t be much older than sixteen, has tears streaming down her little heart-shaped face as the other two hold her up, like support beams on either side of a weak structure.

  That poor girl.

  All have bruises or welts on their wrists.

  All have pain in their eyes. I’m afraid to know how it got there.

  “Come, Lass,” Locklin softly says as he guides me to the side of the building. The man in black waves the women toward a green van labeled as a seafood delivery van. “They’ll be safe, Lass. I promise.”

  With a wave toward the van, I numbly nod and give a small smile to the women as they pile in.

  “Danke,” the oldest, a blonde woman, whispers before guiding the others to safety. She has true appreciation in her eyes.

  The van speeds off seconds later. Locklin goes still in front of me.

  “We need to run, Lass. Now,” he grumbles, dragging me by the arm. Headlights shine across the front of the building.

  “Run, Jerri!”

  Tripping over the loose gravel of the driveway, I do my best to stay on my feet. There’s blood running down my leg, and my hip is on fire. Locklin’s grasp on my fingers tightens to the point of pain as he pulls me off the driveway and down the hill.

  He’ll keep me safe.

  I know he will.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Jolting awake, I take in my surroundings and ground myself for a moment before swinging my legs over the side of the small twin bed. Light streaming through the porthole in my room tells me it’s late morning as I get up and head to the small ensuite for a shower.

  Travelling on a freight ship across the Atlantic is not glamorous, but it’s not filthy or gross either. Paddy ensured I got my own room down the hall from the captain’s suite. The rooms are simple—white and steel. But they’re clean and relatively quiet, save for the roaring of the ocean and the hum of the ship.

  After my shower, I dress in a simple pair of jeans and black sweater before leaving my room and heading to the mess hall for something to eat.

  Three meals are served every day, and I’ve missed breakfast again, which leads me to the fruit counter. Grabbing a banana and making a piece of toast, I wrap up my breakfast in a paper towel and head to the main deck.

  It’s my fourth day here, and in a couple more days, we’ll dock in Belfast. I can’t say it has been an uneventful journey. It has been quiet, and if I’m not engaged in mind, I’m occupied by sitting in this plastic chair, which is bolted to the deck, watching the men below me move to and fro as they do all the things that require keeping such a large vessel afloat.

  Leaning back with my feet planted on the railing and breakfast in my lap, I think back to the women I saw that night, the innocent women I used to think of constantly before my memory was gone.

  After Locklin rescued me and helped me get settled with Paddy and Nessa, he assured that his friend, the man in black, got them to safety, that no one would hurt them anymore. His details were vague, much like the man in question, but there was no doubt in my mind that he spoke the truth.

  Locklin is not a man who would harm women, or allow harm to come to them.

  To my surprise, it would be almost a month later before he would tell me about his front as an exporter of fish and seafood in Ireland.

  Was it an actual business?

  Yes.

  It was a longtime family business passed down to Paddy from his Scottish grandfather. That’s how I met Locklin. He’d come into our office to set up shipping, but these visits became more frequent; he wanted to initiate contact with me. Soon these interactions became our unconventional relationship.

  Locklin worked for Paddy for many years before the business became more of a front for him to uncover what I now know was human trafficking, which is something Locklin holds close to his heart after what happened to her.

  Siobhan.

  It would be almost a year after my attack before he would finally tell me about her as well.

  “Miss?”

  I turn, seeing a kind man, Flynn, behind me. “Yes?”

  He smiles kindly, his gray hair blowing against the ocean wind. “Phone call for you outside the captain’s deck.”

  I s
mile back and follow him through the maze of portals before taking a seat at the small table in the hallway and putting the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

  “Ye sea sick yet?” Paddy’s voice heartily grumbles down the line. I smile and reply, “Not yet. It has been a smooth cruise.”

  He laughs. “Flynn says the seas are smooth until ye reach the port. Nessa’s nearly dancin’ awaitin’ ye to git ’ere. . . .” He trails off.

  “I can’t wait to see her either, Paddy. It has been too long.”

  “Aye, Lass, it has,” he grumbles. He begins to speak again but hesitates.

  “What is it, Paddy?” I ask.

  He sighs. “Ah, Lass. I don’t like lyin’ to me boy. I know ye said it was important. But I’ll tell ye he called today. I dinnae know if I ever hear him so hurtin’. Says he made a poor choice, but he’s workin’ on fixin’ it. He would nae tell me what it was.”

  Swallowing past the lump in my throat and ignoring the fact that a hurting Locklin still hurts me as well, I say, “I’m very sorry, Paddy, but over the phone is not the way to discuss what happened. Two more days, please?” I say softly.

  Clearly, he hears the sorrow—pain—in my voice as he replies, “Ye know I’d do anythin’ for ye, Lass. Two more days.”

  I sigh. “Thank you, Paddy.”

  Hanging up the phone and settling an internal restlessness I can’t seem to shake, I pace the hall with no destination in mind. Locklin was right when he told Paddy he made a poor choice, but there will be no fixing it.

  How do you fix the heart you broke? How do you take back leaving someone behind? How on earth do you make a hurting woman’s heart whole again when she knows you didn’t want to be the one to hold it together in the first place?

  When she knows she wasn’t important enough to hold onto?

  To keep?

  There’s only one answer: you don’t.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Sloane?”

  I turn and greet the captain’s right-hand man, Colin. He’s in his early forties and has been very kind. His wife Laura works on the ship as well, and although I haven’t quite made friends, I’ve had tea with her.

  “Hey, Colin. How are you today?”

  He smiles. “Good, thank you. I don’t mean to be a burden, and if you would like to say no, that’s entirely fine. However, the chef has come down with the flu, and I was wondering if you’re interested in taking over the kitchen for dinner? There was a small leak in the boiler this morning, so we’re shorthanded.” He fixes his hat before adding, “Feel free to say no, but you seem a little restless, so I thought it was worth a shot since Laura told me you like to cook.”

  He smiles sheepishly at me. I return the smile before asking, “How many people do I have to feed?”

  Standing taller, he says, “Twenty-six, including yourself. Everything you need is in the big fridge and freezers.”

  I nod slowly. “You know what, Colin? I think that sounds like a good way to occupy my afternoon.”

  He nods. “So I got myself a chef for the night?”

  I nod back, feeling a little lighter knowing I have a purpose for the day. “You sure do.”

  * * *

  The men sure like their beef on this ship. The past four dinners have consisted of burgers, spaghetti and meatballs, Swiss steak, and Irish stew, of course. Staying with the curve, I had grabbed three large prime rib roasts from the fridge and paired them with grilled root vegetables, large baked potatoes, homemade Caesar salad, and au jus.

  “Paddy speaks highly of ya, but he hadn’t told us what a fine cook you were,” the Captain tells me from the head of our table as he devours his dinner. Forgoing the regular buffet lineup, I had placed platters of food on every table and had one of the deck hands help me set them.

  “I’m glad you enjoy it, Captain. Thank you. But there’s a catch,” I tell him with a raised brow. He returns a raised brow, signaling for me to continue. “If I cook, I don’t like to clean up. Perhaps some fortunate eaters can help clear the plates and load the dishwashers when we’re finished.”

  Chuckling, the Captain, an older man, hollers, “The lady fed ya. That means you fishy-smellin’ bastards are in charge of cleanin’ the kitchen.”

  There are hollers and “Hear! Hears!” followed by palms landing heavily on the tables. For the first time in days, I laugh. I’m grateful they enjoyed my dinner and am happy I don’t need to be on my feet anymore. My back is killing me; and, lately, my growing baby has been forcing me to have at least one nap a day.

  I know the men on the ship have noticed my bump, though only a few have mentioned it. Regardless, the men have been considerate and respectful, either because they’re fine men or because Paddy gave the ship a tongue-lashing and a warning.

  I’m leaning toward the latter.

  Settling into bed that night, I place my hands on my full stomach and pray for peace. I hope Ireland provides me with much-needed shelter and perspective. I haven’t thought about children in years—having my own that is. After what had happened the first time, of course I am hesitant. Once I began my relationship with Tom, I went in with the hope that one day I would have a child, but it didn’t take me long to know that it would never be with him.

  Or anyone other than Locklin.

  How do you picture having children with anyone else when for the past twelve years you’ve been in love with only one man?

  I think it’s a blessing.

  It’s as if the universe is telling me that even though I don’t get to have all of him, I still get to keep a part of him.

  “Two more days,” I whisper to myself before swiftly falling asleep.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Closing my eyes, I breathe in the crisp, clean Irish air before walking off the ship. Once my home, this place brings back many memories, good and bad. But I focus on the good ones and smile when I spot the lovely couple below.

  “Dear girl!” Nessa beckons, nearly weeping. She rushes forward and crushes me in her arms. “Oh, Dear, how I ’ave missed ya!”

  I blink past the growing, happy tears in my eyes and hug her back, nearly as hard. “I’ve missed you too. So much.”

  She stiffens. I know she has felt the bump at my stomach. Leaning back, she looks into my eyes. Hers are so light and blue and full of hope as she looks to me for an answer. Her perfectly coiffed white hair frames her round face, and I simply give her a small smile and say, “We’ll talk when we get settled, okay?”

  She wipes a few stray tears from her cheeks and nods. “Yes, okay.”

  Paddy picks up on what’s happening and pulls me in for a bear hug. “Been too long.”

  Very few words for a man of so many. It’s been three years since I’ve been back; we have survived only on a few phone calls on holidays here and there to get us by. You would think we would have much more to say, but now that we’re here, together, the moment causes us to hesitate. It’s strange how that works.

  “That it has, old man,” I say cheekily. “Miss me?”

  He laughs. “Aye, now get your smart arse in the car. Nessa’s got a feast waitin’.”

  Looping my arm through hers, I follow the burly man through the port to his waiting vehicle. I enjoy listening to them speak. Nessa and Paddy both have a mishmash of Irish and Scottish accents, depending on their mood. Both were born in Ireland but spent their formative years in Scotland where their parents worked during that time.

  As usual, she asks me a hundred questions on the walk and the drive, from how my shop is doing to how Portia and Cooper are. We talk about everything and anything other than the giant elephant in the car:

  Locklin.

  * * *

  Paddy and Nessa brought me to the cabin on their country property: a small two-bedroom abode resting nearly a mile down the path from their house. It has as much charm and character as the landscape surrounding it and is complete with a large stone fireplace, an open-concept living area, and a small kitchen with a table for four positioned under a window. There’s a sma
ll porch on the back with two rocking chairs that overlook a tiny lake, much like the one in my dream of Locklin and me. I hate that it brings back memories of him before I’ve even settled in.

  Back when I stayed here, recuperating from my attack, I lived with Paddy and Nessa in their large country home. I chose to stay with Nessa since Paddy travelled a lot at the time for work, and at the heart of it, I wasn’t ready to be on my own after the horror I’d witnessed.

  “I made some tea,” Nessa tells me, and we all take a seat around the table.

  I know they’re waiting for me to spill. About Locklin. About why I wanted it to be a secret that I was staying here.

  Everything.

  I nod, thankful for the tea, and bite the bullet, choosing to get it out sooner rather than later. Paddy and Nessa are the closest people to parents I’ve ever had, and they deserve the truth. They helped me at one of my lowest, most terrifying moments in my life. I had only just met them, and they had brought me soup in bed and had provided me with shelter, all to protect me from the evil that is Yakov’s crew of Russian traffickers.

  “I was in a car accident over four months ago.” Nessa gasps, placing her hand over mine. I squeeze her fingers. “I woke up in the hospital twenty-two days later with no idea who I was or where I had come from.”

  Swallowing, I continue, “I had amnesia, but the only thing I could remember was Locklin. Only, I didn’t know who Locklin was or if my mind was playing tricks on me, considering that I couldn’t remember Portia, or Cooper.”

  “Dear girl . . . ,” Nessa whispers.

  “One day, a detective came to see me.” Making eye contact with Paddy, I tell him, “Detective Bryan O’Shaunessey.” Shaking my head, I add, “I didn’t know who he was then, or a month later when I ran into both him and a Detective Cavanaugh.”

  My breath hitches, and Paddy eye’s squint. “Neither said they knew me. Neither told me who I was.”

  “No!” Nessa gasps while Paddy curses, “Sons of bastards.”

  “I was still having dreams of Locklin, and I had a dream about the attack at the shipping warehouse. So when Bryan told me the brake lines had been cut on my vehicle, I was scared, not knowing who I could trust.”