My eyes stray between the two of them, back and forth, and at one point the woman turns to her left to see what I’m looking at, but Victor stays hidden in the shadows.

I know why he’s not moving. I know why his gun is in his hand rather than hidden away in the back of his slacks. Whether this woman lives or dies is entirely up to me.

“Miss?” she asks again, appearing concerned, but wary of me just the same. “Do I need to call the police?”

I try to catch my breath, pressing my hand to my chest, but I realize that it’s no longer the running that’s stealing it away. The thought of Victor shooting this woman because of me—

She reaches inside her purse and pulls out a cell phone.

Victor raises the gun just a little.

“No!” I shout and the woman stops cold with the phone clutched in her ring-decorated hand.

I gesture wildly at her. “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

She doesn’t look convinced. She narrows her eyes at me.

I fake a small laugh. “Really, I am so sorry. My friends and I were…never mind. I’ve got to go.” I turn and start to jog lightly back in the direction I came, leaving her standing there dumbfounded.

Minutes later, I stand against the side of the truck, my arms crossed as I wait. Two more people walk by, one even nods and smiles at me, but I can’t ask them for help, either. I don’t want to risk it.

Victor walks up as casual as if he had just come back from an early morning stroll. He opens the driver’s side door again and shoulders his duffle bags. With my back turned to him, I feel his eyes on me from the other side of the truck.

“You’re a murderous bastard,” I say calmly, nervously pressing my fingertips around my biceps.

“Let’s get inside,” he says, but then adds as an afterthought, “And if you try to run again or pull anything else, I’ll make sure word gets back about how that friend of yours—Lydia was it?—did help you escape.”

The truck door shuts with a bang while I stand here paralyzed.

I willingly follow him into the hotel.

The lobby is a vast space decorated by skylights and beautiful paintings. A stained glass mural stretches many feet across the mezzanine at the top of the marble staircase. The massive ceilings are held up by tall marble columns. On the inside, this building seems unfitting of the small dusty town that surrounds it. Victor leads me up the stairs after checking in and my interest in the surroundings diminishes with his voice.

“You can shower if you’d like.”

He drops one duffle bag on the floor between the beds, the other on the table near the window overlooking the town. His shiny suitcase with what I’m assuming are his guns inside, he sets on the foot of the queen-sized bed closest to the door.

He reaches up with both arms and opens the curtains wide on the window. It’s getting darker out. I see the faint glow from the few streetlights outside.

“Victor,” I say, but he stops me.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me by my name.”

“Why not? It’s your name. What else am I supposed to call you?” I surprise myself every time I defy him in the slightest way. Because on the inside, I’m utterly terrified of what he might do to me.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, sitting down at the table and unzipping his bag. “Just get your shower.”

“Look,” I say, walking around the beds toward him, “I’m scared. You scare the hell out of me. I’m not going to pretend otherwise. I’m terrified of what’s happening to me—”

“You have a strange way of showing it,” he says, not even offering me the luxury of his eyes. He pulls out a digital device of sorts, smaller than a laptop. “I would say you’ve been too numbed by trauma to let it affect you the way that it should.” He sets the device on the tabletop and then the duffle bag on the floor beside his feet. I think the device is one of those digital tablets.

I swallow, rounding my chin. “Maybe I have. Somewhat. But what does that have to do with me calling you by your name?” What he accuses me of is spot on, but what I’ve been through is none of his business. Not unless he intends to help me, which we’ve already established as being nothing more than wishful thinking. “And why do you care?”

“I never said I did.”

“Then don’t probe,” I snap.

The mere fact that he won’t even look at me half the time when he’s speaking to me, makes me angry. And the more he does it, acts as if I’m not worth looking in the eye, the more it infuriates me. And when I get mad, I always cry. It’s how I’ve been for as long as I can remember. And I hate it. I never shout or curse or hit things or people. I cry. Every damn time.

As the tears start to well up in my eyes, I turn my back to him and march quickly toward the restroom. But I stop and turn around to face him once more, my fingernails digging into the palms of my hands down at my sides. “Go to hell!” is all I can say, my poor attempt at lashing out with words instead of tears.

CHAPTER SEVEN

It seems like forever since I’ve had a hot shower like this. I had showers on occasion at the compound—I was the only girl given that luxury—but never one like this. They were always lukewarm at best, but never so hot the water could burn the skin off my back. I don’t even turn the cold on at first, allowing myself to bask in the heat until it becomes too much and I’m forced to. I want to stay in here forever and not think about what is waiting for me on the other side of that door, but the reality of it all wins out and it’s all I think about. I sit down on the floor of the tub and draw my knees toward my chest, wrapping my arms loosely around them and let the water stream down on me from above.

I think a lot about Lydia, wondering if she’s OK or if Izel beat her for a much longer time than usual, all because of me. I know she did. And although there was nothing I could do to stop it, I made a promise to Lydia that I fully intend to fulfill. I won’t let it go on forever.

But if they find out that she knew I was leaving….

After what seems like an hour, the hot water starts to run cold and I get out, wrapping my hair in a towel folded neatly on the back of the toilet. I wish I had a clean set of clothes, panties at least—lost my pillowcase of clothes in Victor’s car when we left it behind. I slip my filthy running shorts on over my panties and then pull the light blue tank top down over my breasts. Javier forbade me ever to wear a bra.

When I step out of the restroom, Victor is still sitting in the same spot he was in as before. But the suitcase is no longer on the foot of the bed.

As I walk toward the bed where the suitcase had been and start to sit down, Victor looks up and catches my eyes. He doesn’t say a word, but I can sense that something is different about him. For a moment, I’m unsettled by his unusual demeanor, but that quiet look in his eyes which I somehow doubt he knows I can see right away, completely catches my interest. It feels almost…tragic.

“Tell me about your mother,” he says.

He turns on the chair to face me, giving me his full attention, resting his arms over the length of the chair arms and letting his fingers dangle casually over the ends. His white dress sleeves have been pushed up just below his elbows.

Completely taken aback by his question, I just stare across the room at him blankly.

“Why?” I ask simply, unsure of his intentions with the information. I go ahead and sit down on the foot of the bed, working the towel in my hair with both hands to dry it. But it’s all just for show; every fiber of my consciousness is focused on Victor and every move he makes.

He doesn’t elaborate. And in case he decides to change his mind and go back to not giving a damn, I speak up before it’s too late:

“What do you want to know?”