Chapter Eighty-One

Safiya

I was aiming for escape when the grip of his profuse strength locked around my upper arm, and he fed me the full weight of his unreserved dominance. "If you run now, I'm letting you go."

It was not a threat.

I knew him.

I saw him turn away from all of those women.

Yes, he had touched them. Yes, he had given them his undivided attention when he had looked at them. Yes, he had picked up that one in the corner and carried her and gave her a drink and praised her.

But then he had turned away from all of them.

He had turned away from them how he had turned away from me every single time he had left that house.

He would show up—day, night, just before the sun rose, well after midnight—there had never been a pattern in the timing, but the consistency of the visit was always the same. He would stare at me. He would scan around the house. He would walk the grounds. He would test the security system. He would check the cupboards and the refrigerator. Then he would ask me something simple, almost benign, like how had I liked the pool that day. Later, once I was enrolled in online classes, he would ask if I was enjoying a particular subject. But no matter the question, no matter when he came to visit, every time I spoke, he would give me that attention of his—undivided, unwavering, and completely and utterly addictive.

Then he would leave.

In the beginning, the first couple of visits, I would stand at attention like a soldier lined up for inspection.

Except he did not inspect back then. He taught.

He gave me a new name, had me sign paperwork, said to say we were married if asked, and he taught me how to avoid people, even in a crowd. No eye contact, do not linger, do not run, do not act unusual, do not dress provocatively.

That was the beginning of the protocols.

The second visit, two days after the first, he taught me to drive. He spoke of the rules of the road as he showed me the parts of the vehicle, then had me drive. He said I was a quick study, but I did not think I had a choice. That afternoon, after bestowing me with papers and plastic and money and instructions for all of it, he drove in a circuitous route. Overwhelmed, my head spinning with all of the detritus I was supposed to use and carry, I tried to pay close attention as he showed me where the grocery store, the bank, a library, a shopping center, and a gas station were. Then he told me to drop him off at a private airport, drive myself home, and set the alarm.

The third visit, four days later, I was still in the house, with the alarm set, afraid of my own shadow. But I had discovered the television. He gave me more protocols. He told me to use the money and the car to go to the grocery store. Right before he turned to leave, he told me my English had improved.

I watched more television.

Two days later, I gathered the courage to drive myself to the grocery store.

I wandered the aisles for three hours in shock.

By the third visit, I tried to make him tea. One kettle, one pot for boiling water, the wrong amount of tea leaves, too many cubes of sugar, and the awkwardness of my inexperience in a new house, new kitchen and different kind of kettle had made it nerve-racking. But him watching me in silence had made me fraught with anxiety. When I had finally put the glass in front of him, he had thanked me and left—without touching his tea.

The fourth visit, he brought me a Turkish kettle.

The fifth visit, I made the tea and did not put sugar in it. He drank it. Then left without comment.

By the sixth visit, I had started cooking. When he had shown up, it was almost as if he had known I was preparing dinner. I had made a vegetable dish with eggplant, potatoes, and zucchini. I had lamb stew and rice pilaf. I had roasted chickpeas and pumpkin seeds. And I had found fresh figs and pistachios with no shells. All of it from the bountiful shelves at the wondrous grocery store that I had driven myself to and learned to pay for my purchases with a small piece of plastic.

That visit, he had come through the front door at dinnertime and said it smelled good.

I had blushed and put a plate in front of him.

He did not give me protocols, and he did not ask me questions. But he ate all his food, thanked me, and left. Later that night, after cleaning up, I found the wrapped package he had left on his chair with a pretty, new sundress in golden yellow.

I wore the dress every day until he showed up for the next visit.

By then I had learned to make new kinds of foods using new recipes and different combinations of ingredients. After the seventh visit, when he left another wrapped package for me to find, I would always have something ready in case he stayed to eat. It was also after that seventh visit that he had sent me my first text.

How is the weather?

It was one of his protocols.

If he asked how the weather was, he was asking how I was. More specifically, he was asking if I had seen anyone suspicious around the property, if anyone had approached me, if a car had followed me, if anything at all unusual had taken place.

Beautiful weather meant everything was fine. Stormy weather meant it was not.

I had carefully typed out my reply, proud of my newly improved English.

It is a lovely day.

I had hit Send with a smile and a breath I did not know I was holding. Then I had waited. I had waited all night, clutching the cell phone as I lay in bed until my eyes could not stay open any longer.

When I woke to streaming sunshine, I was still holding the phone.

No new texts came that week or the next, but I had learned to wait for them. Because sometimes, sometimes , those texts would come right before a visit.

And while I waited, I cooked.

I also kept my hair brushed.

I wore the pretty clothes that he would leave for me to find.

I kept the house perfectly clean.

And I waited.

And waited.

And now I was here, his grip on my arm resolute, his threat a promise—move one leg out the door of the expensive SUV and he would let me go. Maybe here on the spot. Maybe he would drive me back to the house first, but either way, if I let my foot drop, that would be it.

I would never see him again.

A ghost.

A man who knew how to disappear.

A man who had disappeared, time and time again, and now he was giving me an ultimatum?

I looked down at his hand.

I want us.

I took those vows to heart.

I'm letting you go.

A surge of fervor more encompassing than my first sighting of the Mediterranean swelled into a cataclysmic fury, and I spun on him. "You took those women. You touched them. You held them. You kissed them. You slept with them! And you are telling me that I cannot have this anger? That I cannot have choice? That I cannot get out of this vehicle and have my anger in solace, with dignity ?" I was outraged.

"That's correct." Calm, composed, not so much as a blink of his eyes, he did not deliver the judgment and punishment robbing me of my volition—he stole it.

"You are a thief," I accused with every molecule of my being.

"Yes, I am." So infuriatingly collected and dominantly confident, he spoke the damning truth as if it were nothing more than the minimalist of things taken for granted, like breathing or air.

Except breathing was life.

And what was happening in this very moment was as enormous and as infinitesimal as the air that moved in and out of your lungs without thought.

Without effort.

The breaths came.

The breaths left.

Grayson came.

Grayson left.

My body controlled my breaths, but he controlled my heart, and neither were going to be my choice if I did not leave this vehicle this very moment.

Ghost, thief, breath stealer.

I hated this.

But I loved him.

I pulled my door shut.

He pulled back onto the road.