I think of the betrayal on Alexis’s face when I went with Special Agent Hernandez, when I’d naively believed I was saving her.
I know he isn’t a good man, but he’s my dad. I love him.
And even though I don’t want to, I remember Liam telling me that he witnessed Alexis ordering an execution. That he saw her stand by while a man lost his life.
There’s still a twisted part of me that hopes it’s not true. Liam certainly lied to me before, many times. Perhaps he lied again.
Not knowing the difference between lies and truth is a particular type of pain. It scratches at the edges of you. Over time, it digs into the foundation of how you think about the world. It paints everything in watercolors.
“Eden? Are you okay?”
I snort. “Peachy.” I glance at her profile, pinched in worry. “Where are we going?”
“I have friends in Mexico.”
My eyes narrow. “I don’t have a passport, remember?”
“It won’t be a problem.”
More questions. Too many questions.
I close my eyes and hear a voice.
His.
I will always find you.
And for the first time in nearly six years, I feel the deepest, darkest essence of me stir and stretch. It blooms, obliterating my carefully maintained discipline. Wiping away all traces of denial. My false life. My false self.
What’s revealed is me. The woman Liam awakened, crafted into existence as surely as a master artist shapes misinformed clay into beauty. Not his little dove—not soft or yielding.
His little monster.
I am awake.
54
If Elizabeth notices a change in me, she doesn’t comment on it. My sudden calm, my lack of fear. We drive. And drive. Cross several state lines, change cars twice within two days.
She knows every trick in the book and has four different IDs. When she gives me my own fake ID, I don’t even blink. She tells me that she hoped this day would never come, but that hope didn’t stop her from preparing for it.
We don’t talk about Alexis again. Nor do we talk much at all, at least not about the past, which dwindles rapidly in our rearview. Instead we talk about where we’re going in Mexico, how we’ll stay for a week with her so-called friends. Just enough time to get new passports and identification. They’ll be fake, but mine will bear my real name—the name on the Cooks Island account.
Once the papers come through, we’ll go for the money. And then we’ll disappear.
I nod. I offer suggestions. Strategies. And when she lists off remote locations for our eventual life, I nod again. Sounds good. She sweetens the deal by telling me doctors are always needed. That I can practice medicine—discreetly—wherever we land.
I don’t tell her I already know where I’m going, and it’s not Morocco, Mongolia, or Papua New Guinea. I plan on flying straight into the sun.
Even if it kills me.
We drive eight to twelve hours a day, sometimes all night. We stop occasionally to grab food and quick showers at a truck stop or to get some sleep at a seedy motel. When we do sleep, it’s in shifts, one of us posted by the window to monitor the parking lot. We request ground level, corner units each time.
On our fourth day of driving, we reach Las Cruces, New Mexico, an hour outside the Mexican border and the city of Juarez. We’re going to avoid the major crossing, however, and leave the U.S. through the smaller outpost of Santa Teresa. When I ask again about passports, Elizabeth maintains that we won’t have any problems. As she clearly has more experience with border crossings than I do, I let the matter drop.
We find a motel for the night. Shower and eat crappy takeout and watch the news on a tiny television with bad static. Neither of us mention the news clip of the death of twelve men in a Seattle hospital last week or the disappearance of a doctor. Or the search for three shooters, speculated to be members of an extremist terrorist group.
Twelve dead.
Neither of us sleep.
At four thirty in the morning, we get in the car and make the hour-long drive to the border. The sky is still dark, though bleeding to navy as the sun readies its ascent. The line isn’t long, maybe ten cars ahead of us.
“Calm down,” murmurs Elizabeth. “Unclench your hands.”
I take several deep breaths and relax my fingers. We move forward little by little. Before long, we’re under the canopy and the kiosk is beside us. A Border Patrol officer peers into the car, his gaze cursory yet piercing. Just as Elizabeth coached me, I don’t smile, instead affecting boredom. It works. The officer nods, stepping back, and the light above us turns green.
We drive into Mexico as the sun rises.
A mere four hours later, we enter Chihuahua City. As we near the city’s downtown, our surroundings become older and more beautiful. Buildings with incredible colonial architecture sit on nearly every block, and massive cathedrals rise toward the placid blue sky.
It’s obvious Elizabeth has been here before; she navigates easily through hectic traffic and thick pedestrian flow. Parking the car in an alley off a busy street, she pulls the keys from the ignition and tosses them down by her feet.
“Don’t leave anything behind. We won’t be back.”
Our duffels slung over our shoulders, we walk to the street and into the light. The air itself is cool, but the sun feels less filtered, searing my eyes and making them water.
We walk three blocks, take a detour through a narrow alley clogged by drying laundry, and finally stop outside an unmarked door, it’s cracked wooden surface stained a mottled blue.
Elizabeth knocks.
A tense minute later, the door opens.
A woman’s face appears, dark eyes widened with horror. “Corre! Run!” she hisses. She’s yanked backward. There’s a muffled pop, then a thud as her body hits the floor. Somewhere inside, a child wails.
“No,” whispers Elizabeth.
She grabs my arm, nails biting into my skin, and pulls me back. My limbs are leaden with fear. I stumble, tripping over a loose brick. Her grip slips as I fall, my knees biting into the rough ground.
For a second—one eternal second—our eyes lock. I nod. She turns and runs. Time resumes its normal pace, and in moments she’s gone, lost in the sun and crowds at the end of the alley.
The man leaning against the doorway watches her go, then turns to me. When I look at him, he smiles slightly. Sunlight shines dully against the dark metal of the gun in his hand.
“How did you know I was going to kill her but not you?” he asks mildly.
I push to my feet, wiping errant gravel from my knees. “I didn’t. Not until you just told me.”
His sandy eyebrows lift. “You always were a smart one, weren’t you, lass? How bout we make this easy—tell me what I want to know, and I’ll let you follow your mother.”
“What is it you want to know?” I ask carefully.
“Where are they?”
“Who?”
He shakes his head. “Don’t play dumb, Eden. Where are the diamonds?”
My blood runs cold. My voice stutters. “W-what? I don’t know anything about diamonds.”
He steps out of the doorway. Behind him, I see a child—eleven or twelve—crouched over the fallen woman and sobbing quietly. Without even checking her vitals, I know she’s dead.
Resolve tightens my shoulders. I look into Chris’s eyes. “If I do tell you where these alleged diamonds are, you’ll kill me.”
He winces. “You’re right about that. See, when you turn on the family, you’re not liable to be forgiven. And your betrayal was rather extreme, wasn’t it? But as you’ve found, the family isn’t without mercy. We let you have a life these six years. I hope you enjoyed them.”
“Not particularly, no.”
Chris laughs. “I can hardly believe it, but I think I’ve missed your mouth.” He takes another step toward me. “Remember what I told you before? This goes one of two ways. Easy. Or hard.”
I take a breat
h. Swallow past a dry throat.
“I’ll take hard.”
I don’t see his hand with the gun move. There’s an explosion of light and sound.
Then nothing.
55
Squeak. Squeak.
“Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“That sound? Was that a rat?”
The other man grunts. “Who cares?”
“Rat’s carry disease.”
“Really? You’re worried about one stupid rat in the middle of the desert?”
“Fuck you.”
“I prefer fecking your mother, ya maggot.”
There’s a brief scuffle, ending with the hissed words, “You’d better get the bitch to talk, otherwise we’ll see how much you don’t care about rats when Maddoc puts you in a hole with a hungry one.”
Footsteps pound up the stairs. The door slams, taking light with it. The second set of feet shuffle around the wall near the stairs.
Squeak.
“Jaysus,” he mutters, and finally finds the light switch.
The little hanging bulb in the center of the room flickers on. I watch him approach. He doesn’t look happy to be here. Squatting before me, he wrinkles his nose at my stench.
“Lass, time’s running out.”
“For both of us,” I croak.
Chris nods, lips thinned. “Aye. I erred when I let Elizabeth run, thinking you were the greater asset. But I still think you know where the diamonds are. You know why?”
I roll my eyes, pretty much the only protest I’m capable of at this point.
“I think you know exactly where they are, but you’ve been misled into thinking you’re protecting someone. And I don’t think that someone is your mother.”
His eyes narrow, penetrating and dangerously perceptive. I’m afraid if he keeps digging, he’ll hit the mark.
I suck air into my tired lungs. “I’ve told you a million times, I don’t know where these diamonds you keep talking about are. Elizabeth left me the USB stick and some cash. That’s it.” My voice is barely recognizable, my vocal chords damaged by too much screaming and not enough water.
“You’ve got to give me something else.”
I drop my head to the wall behind me. The shift makes the chains around my ankles clank. My hands are still free, but it doesn’t mean anything. Not anymore.
Six of my fingers are broken. I’d had to reset them myself, splinting them as best I could with strips of my ratty t-shirt. Thankfully, no bones broke through the skin, lowering my risk of infection, and the swelling seems to be going down. I have to hand it to him—he definitely knows his way around torture techniques.
I consider his face. The tired eyes, pinched mouth. “Hard working for a psychopath, isn’t it?” I rasp.
He closes his eyes briefly. “I don’t like hurting you, Eden,” he murmurs, a rare note of appeal in his voice. “Please, don’t make me.”
“Because I look like her,” I whisper. “I look just like her. Is she okay? Tell me, please. Is she safe?”
I’ve asked the question a thousand times, and he’s never given me an answer. Now, though, there’s a softening in his eyes I haven’t seen before. I wonder if it’s because he knows I’m going to die soon. Or whether some part of him—willing or not—has come to respect me.
I haven’t broken.
Not when he held a flame to the bottom of my feet and inner thighs. Not when my head was forced repeatedly into a bucket of water until I nearly drowned. Not when he didn’t let me sleep for four days. When he starved me. Blinded me with a spotlight. When he strung me upside down from the pipes, or used a cattle prod, or broke a few of my ribs and nearly dislocated my shoulder during a particularly memorable beating.
Not when he threatened to rape me.
Not when he actually did.
I don’t have Stockholm syndrome. Not even close. If I could watch him being burned alive I’d laugh the entire time and roast marshmallows.
But I can’t deny that we have an affinity for each other. A closeness I can’t describe or understand. Just as he knows I have the information he wants, I know he hasn’t enjoyed what he’s done to me. There’s a reason I don’t have any lasting damage—not externally, at least. Why my hands and feet are still attached. Why I haven’t bled or been disfigured. Why he hasn’t let anyone else touch me.
We are each doing what we have to do. Neither of us have a choice.
Chris bows his head momentarily. When he looks up, at long last I see my death in his eyes. Here is where the real pain begins. I’ll break—I have no doubt—but first, I want the truth.
“Why did you wait six years?” I whisper hoarsely.
“You were protected by the Rourke name.”
The news confirms a suspicion I’ve harbored for years, but it also means something changed, something that dissolved the Rourke shield. I don’t have the courage to ask what happened, but Chris answers anyway.
“There was an internal coup in the organization in Dublin. The Rourkes are no more—the lot of them executed.” He shrugs. “They had a good run. Better to go out that way than rotting in cells.”
I whisper, “Liam?”
Chris sighs. “He’s dead, lass. He’s not coming. He never was. If you just tell me where the diamonds are, I swear to you I’ll make it swift.”
I only stare at him, too tired. Too weak. Too empty. If the sun has set, I want to follow it into the dark.
“Don’t, Eden,” he says tightly. “She isn’t worth this.”
Alexis.
I close my eyes.
Chris touches my face gently, a stroke of fingertips. “For whatever it’s worth, you’ve done him proud, dove.”
The word doesn’t mean what it used to. It’s stained now. As broken as I will be soon.
But I know he’s right.
Liam would be proud.
Who needs perfect skin, anyway? Not me, because my back is missing some and I’m still alive. A fact that will hopefully be remedied as soon as Chris ends his phone call. Apparently the person calling wasn’t someone he could ignore—even though we were sort of in the middle of something.
“Pretty rude, if you ask me,” I tell Squeaker.
My little friend is perched on a pipe above me, near where my hands are bound in thick rope. Above a twitching nose, beady black eyes are fixed on me. Well, on where the scent of blood is originating. I might find out what it feels like to be nibbled on, after all.
The pain is a burning poison in my mind. A poison with waves. Peaks and troughs. My poor endorphins can’t keep up with the shifting tide. For the moment, at least, I feel little beyond the slide of blood down my naked skin.
Brief detours into unconsciousness are a relief. I float between a red haze and searing light. Was there a time when pain was pleasure? I don’t remember anymore. There is only pain. Thoughts dance in my mind, their routines truncated.
Rope on my wrists. Liam’s voice... Do you serve? Hot hands on my hips, sliding down my legs… A promise. I will keep you safe. What is the truth? She isn’t worth it. Yes, she is. Isn’t she? Or is this the price of my blood?
Ripples in the sea of pain. A rising wave. I groan, and a voice says, “Hold still.” The tone is low, icy with fury. All I feel is relief—he’s back. He’ll put an end to my suffering.
The pressure in my shoulders and arms releases. Gravity claims me, but when I expect cement floor instead there are hard arms. My back flares in agony. My whimper is a pitiful extension of my inner scream.
I pass out, awaken to movement. Pass out again. Awaken. Open my eyes. Try to. I see nothing. I’m not awake. There’s nothing.
Is this death?
56
It’s the beeping that finally wakes me. The intensely familiar sound painted a false reality in my dreams of scrubs and weeping faces and grateful smiles and children. Strong, brave children in hospital beds. But I’m not waking up from a quick nap during a break at work. There are no patients or parents waiting.
That life is gone, just like me.
Beep. Beep.
My return to consciousness is long. One step at a time taken on shifting ground. Pain, distant. Heartbeat, fast. Breathing, labored. The sole of my right foot itches. My neck is so stiff I’m afraid if I move it will break. Fabric under my cheek. A mattress, too hard against the front of my body. Sterile smells, bleach and antiseptic.
Hospital. I’m in a hospital.
“She’s waking up.” The voice is feminine and softly accented. Curt but not unkind. A nurse. I hear footsteps, smell light perfume.
Where’s the doctor?
“Put her back under,” says a low voice.
What? No! I try to say it aloud, but can’t find my tongue. Where’s my tongue?
Movement. Familiar sounds—pop of a syringe, rattle of an IV stand.
Wait—
Gone.
When I hear the man singing, I decide I’m finally dead. Only in death would an angel sing me “Galway Girl.”
“‘We were halfway there when the rain came down—of a day-I-ay-I-ay—And she asked me up to her flat downtown—of a fine soft day-I-ay-I-ay.’”
Liam?
The singing stops.
“I’m here. Can you open your eyes for me?”
Dead.
“You’re not dead.” A pause; pressure on my bare forearm. “Can you feel that?”
I nod, or think I do.
“Good, now open your eyes.”
Blinding brightness. Shapes and shadows. Sunlight on white sheets. My eyes water as I blink rapidly. Blobs resolve into objects. A bed. Small room. Not a hospital—someone’s home. There’s a pitcher of water on the nightstand, condensation spreading in a circle beneath it. The air is warm, a breeze soft on my back.
My back itches.
“I know it’s uncomfortable, but the itch is a good sign. You’re healing.”
With effort, I lower my chin. My cheek slides on sheets, my eyes following down the line of the mattress. I blink.
My first thought is that it’s not Liam who sits in a chair with his fingers wrapped around my emaciated arm. This man’s hair is buzzed nearly to his scalp, his face clean-shaven and pale. Beneath the sleeves of a black t-shirt, intricate tattoos line both muscular arms. And this man is visibly scarred—a thin white line interrupts his throat, another one bisects his left eyebrow. Both are long healed.
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