Girl from Nowhere

by Tiffany Rosenhan

  Minutes later, Aksel steers onto a dark road, approaches a giant silver bus sparkling under a string of lights, and parks between a rickety SUV on our left and a gleaming F-150 on our right.

  Draping his arm over my shoulder, Aksel whispers in my ear, “You, Sophia, are about to eat the best cheeseburger in Montana.” With me cradled in the crook of his arm, we cross the icy pavement to the metal steps leading into the snug diner.

  At first, I’m concerned I’ll look ridiculous wearing my chiffon evening gown, but inside two beefy men in tuxedos dig into a platter of fries at the counter.

  Once we are seated, Aksel loosens the collar of his shirt and takes off his tie. I order a cheeseburger, french fries, and onion rings.

  “Save room for milkshakes,” Aksel remarks, ordering two.

  When the waitress brings out our cheeseburgers, I stare, confounded, at my plate. “How am I supposed to eat this?”

  “Like this.” Aksel takes his enormous cheeseburger in both hands, brings it to his mouth, and eats half of it in one bite.

  “Not okay.” I burst out laughing. “Definitely not okay wearing corseted couture. I need a knife and a fork.” The waitress must overhear—she passes me a set on her way to another table.

  “So why is this cheeseburger the best?” I say, cutting off a piece, which keeps falling apart. Forgoing the fork, I lean over my plate and use my hands, moaning, “My mother will kill me.”

  “Bacon,” Aksel answers. “Good cheeseburgers always have bacon.”

  The waitress sets down two milkshakes in the middle of the table, each with whipped cream piled above the rim. Pulling a shake toward me, I put my lips around the straw and suck. None comes out. “It’s too thick,” I mutter.

  “No, no, no,” Aksel says. Reaching across the table, he takes a fry from the platter, scoops it into his chocolate shake, then eats it.

  I throw my head back, laughing. “Americans are so bizarre.”

  “I’m not sure what to make of that comment,” he responds, “coming from the girl who kills grasshoppers with her teeth.”

  Holding my hands far away from my dress, I scoop a salty fry into my shake and then shove it into my mouth.

  Within ten minutes, my fingers are adequately covered in grease, salt, and cream. “Excuse me,” I giggle, standing to go wash my hands. Aksel politely stands.

  The diner is crowded, especially in the narrow aisle separating the rowdy booths from the long counter.

  Beyond the booth, near the single bathroom, is a second entrance. As I reach the bathroom door, a man steps inside the diner, a few feet away from me.

  He is wearing glasses and a baseball cap. Dark tufts of hair curl up from under his hat. I can’t see his eyes; they are focused on a phone in his hand. But I sense him watching the movement of my dress.

  My hex sense hits like a jolt of electricity.

  The effect is instant—my hands clench, my limbs stiffen.

  My eyes snap to his boots. Same size.

  His skin. Same shade.

  Same man.

  I check my surroundings—an elderly man is standing at the counter to my right: pulling the soda fountain nozzles while joking with the men in tuxedos.

  The waitress walks up to the man with the curly hair. “I’ll get you seated. Which do you prefer, booth or counter?”

  “Neither,” he answers in a smooth voice. Lifting his head, his eyes meet mine. “I actually won’t be staying.”

  A bolt of fear fires down my spine.

  My throat tightens. Hazy memories wash over me: voices inside a van … hot sweaty skin on mine … fingers at my throat …

  The door to the bathroom clicks open. I spin around and hurl myself inside. I shove the latch, locking it into place. I slump back against the door, panting.

  My chest thuds. I shut my eyes. I can still feel it—the taste of dried blood on my cut lips, the scratchy cloth against my eyelids, the burning on my wrists.

  I stare ahead into the mirror. My face has lost all color; my pale eyes are wide; my hands are trembling.

  I am Sophia again—the Sophia before Waterford.

  Inside the tiny stall, my vision blurs. I sit down on the toilet seat lid and press my hands together until the tips of my fingers turn purple.

  Memories assault me—my mother’s tears on my forehead … the taste of metal, and sweat, and blood …

  No!

  I won’t let this happen. My life is different now.

  I no longer need to be afraid.

  I am with Aksel. In Waterford.

  No one is following me.

  I turn on the faucet.

  It’s a coincidence.

  Cold water trickles out in sporadic bursts into the metal sink before turning into a steady stream. I rinse my fingers, scrubbing vigorously beneath my fingernail tips, scouring until my fingers are raw and red.

  Bang! Bang! Bang! “Sophia, are you okay?” Aksel’s voice is low. Urgent. He knocks again.

  I flip the lock, open the door, and collapse into Aksel’s broad chest.

  He wraps both his arms around my waist, drawing me into him so quickly he nearly lifts me off the ground.

  I scan the restaurant over his shoulder.

  “You’re okay?” he says—not quite a question.

  “Fine.” My voice trembles. My whole body trembles.

  Aksel takes my cold, damp hands in his. I see in his eyes that fierce desire to protect me.

  “You saw him?” I murmur.

  “He walked right past me,” Aksel snarls.

  Keeping me behind him, Aksel surveys the restaurant. I slide my fingers around Aksel’s upper arm.

  My head is spinning. My senses are exploding inside my skull.

  … It’s impossible …

  Aksel’s eyes are dark and accusatory, sweeping over every patron.

  But the man is no longer in the diner.

  Aksel’s grip tightens. “We’re leaving.”

  Outside, we hurry toward the Range Rover. The rickety SUV has been replaced by a sleek sports car, but the F-150 is still parked on the passenger side.

  Standing between this truck and Aksel’s Range Rover is the man in the baseball hat.

  He is leaning casually against the truck, smoking a Ziganov cigarette, with his arms folded, his head tilted to the side, watching us. Waiting.

  Aksel steps forward, shielding me. His face is livid.

  “Excuse me,” Aksel says with cold politeness. He nods toward the passenger’s side of the Range Rover, a half meter from the man. “You’re blocking our way.”

  The man looks between the door and me. “Am I?”

  His voice. His eyes. His buffed and polished fingernails.

  Aksel’s breath comes out in a thin silver vapor. “You can move, or I can move you, but either way, in five seconds, she’s going to get into the car and we’re going to leave.” Standing beside me like a Spartan warrior, Aksel’s eyes blaze.

  Abruptly, the man takes a step toward Aksel, like a tiny squirrel provoking a chained dog. Glinting in the man’s hand is the shining, polished edge of a blade.

  “Get out of my way, boy,” the man says.

  I slide my hand toward my clutch, my Ladybug.

  Aksel steps closer to the man. He towers over him menacingly. “Five.”

  Aksel’s knuckles are white; his right hand is clenched so tightly I worry he’ll break his own fingers; his left hand inches toward his side—his SIG. “Four.”

  The man watches Aksel, still not moving.

  “Three,” Aksel growls. His eyes are daggers. His body reminds me of the grizzly, about to charge.

  I take a breath, preparing my motion.

  The man’s face breaks into an impish grin.

  Sneering, he mutters to me in a raspy, repulsive voice, “A scar for a scar.”

  Then he ducks around the truck and disappears.

  Seconds of stunned silence follow his departure.

  Aksel unlocks the door, ushers me in, and walks brusquely
to his side. It isn’t until Aksel is seated beside me and reversing onto the street that he grimly asks, “What did he say?”

  As the shock recedes, fading to a dull hum in my ear, I realize why Aksel asks me this.

  The man hadn’t threatened me in English.

  He threatened me in Chechen.

  CHAPTER 33

  “Aksel, take me home.”

  “Home?” he says, like I’ve suggested the moon. “I’m not taking you home.”

  Between staring at me and checking the rearview mirror, I’m not sure how Aksel can watch the road. I reach into my satin minaudière and fumble for my phone. I call my father. One. Two. Four. Seven times. No answer. I call my mother. Nothing. I clutch my phone—what use is this anyway?

  “I need to go home, Aksel,” I insist. “I have to talk to my parents.”

  “Damn it, Sophia! That guy will know exactly where you live—”

  “He doesn’t … he can’t …”

  … A scar for a scar …

  He does.

  Aksel clenches the steering wheel. “I’m not taking you home,” he grits through his teeth.

  “You’re going a hundred and ten. That truck can’t go over eighty—”

  “Which truck?” says Aksel.

  “His red one. He’s been driving it for months. Rusty Dodge. Mid-eighties. I don’t know American cars well …” I chatter to keep my mind occupied. “But we’re ahead of him—this is the fastest route to Waterford, right?”

  Aksel grimaces. At the ramp crossing Highway 81, Aksel acquiesces. He turns east. Soon we turn onto Edgewood Lane. The tires crunch over the salted pavement as we pull into my driveway.

  Outside, Aksel draws his SIG with his left hand. With his right, he seizes my hand in a ferociously protective grip. Side by side we rush up to the house. The living room is dark. I push open the glass french doors into the den. The six whiteboards have been taken down. A few embers burn in the fireplace, but the Prussian sword … the Dala horses … everything else remains.

  My heels click as I run to the kitchen. No note.

  Aksel walks around the perimeter; he checks the back door, side door.

  “Sophia, we shouldn’t stay here.” He doesn’t sound afraid, but exasperated, like it’s the obvious conclusion and why am I not agreeing? But it is all thundering through me. I don’t know how much longer I can hold it back.

  Breathe … Hold … Count backward from a thousand by thirteens in Dutch …

  “Sophia?”

  This isn’t happening. I bite my lip to stop it quivering.

  “We really should go,” he says.

  Attempting to regain my composure, I nod in agreement.

  In seconds, we are rolling through Waterford’s quiet, dark streets and up into Eagle Pass.

  Inside Aksel’s house, I can’t see straight. My head is fuzzy. I feel delirious.

  Moonlight streaks through the wall of windows facing the deck. The night sky is so clear I can see across the meadow to the steep granite mountains, backlit by the moon.

  Aksel lights some kindling, then disappears. By the time he returns from the ground floor, a fire roars in the hearth. He has his bolt-action Remington rifle in his hand. Unholstering his SIG from his belt, he puts it on the table. “For you.”

  I shake my head. No.

  I can’t shoot. Won’t shoot. Because shooting means accepting this is actually happening.

  Things are different here.

  “I turned on the security system,” Aksel states. “The entire property is fenced—the alarm is synched with my phone. We’ll stay here until you reach your parents.”

  Your parents. He doesn’t say it accusingly, but almost irritably—as if he sees them as the problem, not the solution.

  His movements are methodical. Calm. Trained.

  Aksel was right. I should have told my father everything—told him I was scared, told him I still wake up sweating, thinking it isn’t over. I could have prevented this. Now I’ve put Aksel in danger. I’ve put everyone around me in danger. Because if he’s been watching me, has he been watching Emma and Charlotte too? I feel violated. Guilty.

  Aksel watches me from his perch, standing beside the window like a sentinel between me and the world beyond the glass.

  Except for the fiery glow, the room is dark.

  “Aksel …,” I exhale, “I need to tell you something.” My voice strengthens with each word. “And I understand if you don’t want to see me anymore or—”

  “What are you talking about?” Aksel sounds perplexed. Exasperated. Angry. “Nothing you say could make me not want to spend every moment with you—”

  “It’s not that simple—”

  “Sure, it is!” In several long strides, he crosses the room. He sets the rifle onto the table and stops in front of me. He reaches toward me, firmly resting his palms on the back of my neck, interlocking his fingers above my collar.

  Concern, devotion, anger, and confusion are etched across his face in a twisted map of emotion. “Sophia, I care about you more than I care about anyone. It doesn’t matter what you tell me or what happens from now on, because nothing can change how I feel about you. I will fight for you—”

  “Don’t say that.” I shake my head.

  On the verge of hyperventilating, I pull away from Aksel’s determined face and walk toward the fireplace. Staring into the embers, I push my tongue against my front teeth to stop my tears.

  “Sophia,” he pleads, “nothing you say will change how I feel about you.”

  Let the memories come, my mother says.

  Aksel hasn’t moved; his body remains tense, watching me. Like I really do scare him.

  “Aksel, I need to tell you why I was in Berlin.”

  CHAPTER 34

  I sit down on the couch—my dress spreads out over the seat, draping onto the carpet. I avert my eyes from the shimmering brown fabric.

  Aksel looks unsure of where to be. He compromises by propping his Remington on the side of the sofa and sitting beside me, not touching, but close.

  “We arrived in Istanbul two years ago,” I start. My heart thumps like a drum inside the depths of my body. “One afternoon, as I was leaving school, I couldn’t find my driver. He was a kind man who spoke no English, so we spoke in Turkish. He was from outside Ankara, and had come to Istanbul for a job. He was so impressed that I could understand him. Sinekkuşu, he called me—‘hummingbird’ in Turkish—because he said my limbs never stopped moving. He said he had a granddaughter my age …

  “Our apartment was only a few blocks from Lycée Français Saint Benoît, my international school in Istanbul; I figured he’d forgotten so it would be faster for me to walk home than to wait.

  “I wasn’t supposed to walk alone, but I knew the way and I loved Istanbul. A few blocks south of school, I turned onto a side road to avoid the congested route we usually drove. Two women wearing expensive Chanel kaftans stepped in front of me. Excuse me? one asked me in Turkish. Do you live here? I nodded. I can’t find this café, and I’m late. Can you help me? I answered, Sure. She smiled gratefully, stepping closer to me. I think it’s this way. As she pointed ahead into an alley, I felt movement behind me. Instantly, I knew. I turned in time to see the second woman corner me. Her hand shot out like a viper from the folds of her pleated dress, snatching my wrist in a viselike grip. The first woman threw her shawl over my head, muffling my screams as they dragged me into the alley.”

  Aksel’s body stiffens beside me.

  “It took only seconds to thrust me into a sleek van—only seconds for my life to change forever.

  “I don’t recall much about what happened immediately afterward … the men in the van blindfolded me … shoved me to the floor. They were rough … aggressive … I remember the way their hands smelled. Like garlic and vinegar.

  “Eventually, they stopped beating me. I woke in a dark room. Although I was blindfolded, the cloth was loose enough that if I tilted my head backward, I could see out the tiny slit benea
th the fabric. The room had mold on the walls, a tin basin in the corner, a broken tile floor, and one grimy window. Through it I could see the red rooftop of a taller building … I could hear traffic, bartering from the souk, the adhan five times a day … I was still in Istanbul …”

  Aksel’s fists are wound tightly in his lap. He whispers hoarsely, “Sophia … you don’t have to …”

  I do.

  “I tried to scrape the coagulated blood off my skin. I was tied to a copper pipe jutting out from between the floorboards; I slept on the chipped tile floor, shivering despite the heat, terrified of when someone would open the door …

  “The next day, a man entered my room. He walked with a limp, like his leg had been broken and never fixed properly. He had asthma and wheezed; I heard him breathing from down the hall. He yelled at me in French. He was irate. He said the French government didn’t recognize me as a French national and la Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure—France’s intelligence arm—refused to pay a ransom for my return.

  “Farhad was his name. He wanted to know why the Lycée listed me as a French citizen. It took him days to realize that my American parents used foreign passports for cover. Once Farhad learned I wasn’t French, that he was unlikely to get a ransom, everything changed. He decided he’d get the next highest amount of money if he trafficked me.

  “I was scared. I knew I would be sold to a terror group, or a wealthy buyer. My parents would never find me. But then … another man arrived. His hair was tied back in a ponytail. He wore a gaudy opal ring on his forefinger. He smelled like Yves Saint Laurent cologne and spoke French with a Parisian accent, but he rolled his rs in the top of his throat, so I knew it wasn’t his first language.

  “Bekami untied me from the pipe in the floorboard and took off my blindfold. He asked about me and my family. Where had I lived? Where was I born? When I didn’t answer, he touched my cheek and rubbed his hand against my neck … That was worse than when he hit me. And he did … often … he made me bleed. He came every day, threatening me. He’d slink his slimy hand along the back of my neck and swivel my face toward him, speaking with his hot, smoky breath a millimeter from my mouth …”

  Aksel makes a sudden twitching movement. His green eyes stare into the fireplace—reflections of flames erupt in his irises. I can’t look at him or I’ll stop. I focus on the pattern of the oriental carpet beneath our feet.