8. Elira

8

ELIRA

T he woman sitting across from me on the bus keeps singing.

It's the same song—or maybe poem—over and over, the same eight lines over and over, and although I want to scream at her, I stay quiet.

The woman doesn't deserve my anger, she deserves pity or help if I had it to give. Her hair is matted with dirt and grease like it hasn't been washed or combed in weeks, and her eyes stay open a little too wide, hinting at intoxication.

It's only the two of us plus a couple up front on this 6 AM ride to Bakersfield, California. It's my third bus out of four that I have to take to get to the address on the back of the photo Maksim gave me.

I'm sure Maksim only wrote it as further proof to validate the man's identity, but it felt like a taunt. Like he wanted me to go to this address. Like he wanted me to get myself killed.

I am not a stupid girl, so before seeing this photo, I was prepared to make this my life. To allow Maksim to control me, just as he's doing now with this cruel piece of information. But now…

Now I have something to die for.

"If I were an apple and grew on a tree, I think I'd drop down on a nice girl like me," the intoxicated woman sings.

I turn toward the window and tuck the photo in a metal groove so I can use my hands to cover my ears. I stare at the photographed man dressed in a tux, smiling back at me, filling me with rage I never knew possible.

Daniel Storm.

That's the name written on the back of this photo. The name of the man who stole my life. Not James Anderson. Not my fiancé, my could-be love, my tourist who swept me off my feet. That man doesn't exist and never did.

I'm not convinced Maksim is telling the truth merely because he found a photo of James/Daniel. He could have written a bogus name and address on the back of the picture. But he didn't. This is real. This is truth. I know it because James/Daniel isn't the only person in the photo taken on his wedding day.

His wife is too.

I take in her wedding dress, more elegant than anything I could've hoped to afford, and I channel so much hatred that I wonder if she can feel it.

I hate her.

I hate him.

I hate Maksim.

I hate America.

I hate myself .

My eyes nearly close on that thought, but I keep them open as punishment for my stupidity. I'll look at this photo every day until I'm dead, just to remind myself why my younger sisters will no longer have me to provide for them.

Rage spills from my flared nostrils in the form of hot gusts of air, and finally, I'm forced to peel my gaze from the photo when the bus stops. The people at the bus station were very kind, helping me figure out the way "back home," but it's still very confusing even having memorized all the numbered buses.

The bus stops three more times before I get off and wait a half hour for the last one in peaceful silence, no more talk of apples to distract me from my mission.

I just have to see him. I have to see the man who took my virginity before taking my future. I need to have closure. Without it, I'll never sleep again.

My hand absently pats my waist where the kitchen knife is discreetly tucked, then I rest my palms in my lap as someone comes to sit down next to me.

Closure . If that means one of us has to die for me to get it, so be it.

"Where ya headed?" a young man asks me.

I catch his stare out of my periphery and resist the urge to scoot away. "Bakersfield."

He chuckles like I just told a joke, so I look over at his boyish face. Judging by the backpack that sits between his feet, I'd say he actually is a boy. A nice one, I think. There's kindness in his eyes.

But then again, I'm a horrible judge of character.

"You're in Bakersfield," he tells me.

Oh. Right.

When I flip the photo over to study the address, the boy peeks at it.

"Damn, nice neighborhood."

My grip on the photo tightens. "Is it?"

"You've never been?"

I shake my head and put the photo away. I think we're going to leave it at that, but when a bus comes, the boy stops me from getting on the wrong one. He offers his assistance and chatters so much during the ride that I long for the apple lady.

But at 7:43 AM, according to the watch the woman at the bus station gave me, I finish the half-mile walk to stand in front of a cobblestone path and look up at a three-story house too big for two people.

Biting my cheek, I drop the photo on the cobblestone and start toward a bright red door. When I make it, I test the knob to find it locked, then I go to the garage. There's a small gap in the bottom that I climb under to find only one car.

What if he isn't even here?

My muscles stiffen at that thought, but I continue on to the door that is, again, locked. It takes me several tries before I finally find a back window unlocked, and I climb through as quietly as I can.

My eyes dart around the home as my heart picks up speed, adrenaline pouring into my blood.

I'm not afraid of being caught. Not even a little. This is too important to allow fear to blind me, so I save the consequences of my actions for a future concern. The only thing I fear now is James/Daniel being away, probably conning a new girl.

He has to die for that. He has to be stopped not only for me, but for the others who would've come after me.

I go to pull out the knife but think twice and take one from the kitchen instead. It couldn't hurt to have two weapons.

I creep through the home, stopping at every doorway to scan the rooms.

My head whips toward noise coming from an open set of double doors just up the hall, and I tiptoe that way with the knife firmly in my grasp.

I peek my head in the doorway to see him.

Him .

Sitting at a desktop computer typing away on the same chat site he used to communicate with me. Typing to someone just as insignificant as I am.

Pain, so much worse than anger, hits me like a gut punch, and I have to cover a hand over my mouth to hold in a cry.

I'm wearing the dress I picked out just for him. The dress. The one I decided I'd wear when I met my fiancé in America and the same one I planned to wear on our wedding day.

That dress. I wore it for him then, and I'm wearing it for him now.

When I suck in through my nose, he startles and jerks to face me.

"What the fuck?" His eyes widen as he finds the knife in my hand. "Who the fuck are you?"

My lips part. "Who am I?" I sound too broken to be dangerous, and it shows when he allows his eyes to find my face instead of zeroing in on the knife.

His eyes narrow. "Elira?" With a shake of his head, he holds out his hands and sighs. "Elira, baby, how did you get here? I've been worried sick."

I don't respond. He looks nervous but keeps up with the bullshit.

"The guy we paid at the border said you never showed. I thought you chose not to come, I… I must've called you a hundred times."

"Please stop," I whisper, my lip trembling. It's pathetic. I'm pathetic. "I didn't come here to hear your lies. I came here to hear your truth."

"My truth?" He opens and closes his mouth while his eyes keep flicking to the knife. "I don't know what you mean."

My grip on the knife tightens as a wave of anger finally cuts through the sadness, propelling me with bravery. "You know what I mean."

His innocent expression finally fades, and he looks down at the knife. "How the hell did you find where I live?"

"My owner helped me find you." My accent is as thick as the pain in my voice, so I take a breath and try to speak clearly. "He thought it was funny that I believed you were my fiancé. He laughed at me for not realizing what you'd done."

"And is he," Daniel points to the knife, "dead?"

"Yes," I lie. I want him to be afraid of me. I want him to think it's a possibility that this knife will wind up in his neck.

Daniel nods. "Good for you, kid." He backs into his desk then quickly turns to exit out of the chat that's pinging with messages. "I knew you were different, honey, I really did. I don't want you to think you aren't special to me. You didn't deserve any of this. My…" He blows out a breath like this is hard for him, but it's all an act. He fooled me once, but I can see through the lies with ease now. "My boss made me go through with this. I…" He shakes his head. "I am so sorry."

Bullshit.

I hate you.

I hate you.

"I'm so glad you made it here." He sighs and cautiously steps toward me. "Come on, let's go upstairs. I have a drawer full of fake passports you can use to get back home. We'll call your mom too if you haven't already. She must be worried."

"Don't fucking talk about her!" I stab the knife through the air at him, causing him to raise his hands and jump back.

"Daniel?"

I spin toward the feminine voice at my back and lock eyes with a woman who startles when she sees me. She doesn't quite look like the woman in the photo, but my eyes lock onto the ring on her left hand in an instant.

This must be his wife.

She gasps as she backs away.

"It's all right," he quickly says to her. "Darling, it's fine, we're only talking."

"I'm calling the police." She turns to bolt but stops when he screams at her.

"No! No . Do not fucking call the police. Just…" Gritting his teeth, he takes a breath. "Just give me ten minutes, babe, all right? Just wait for me in the sitting room. Elira is just about to go."

The woman looks hesitant, but she nods, seemingly obeying the command when she slinks away. I wonder if she has any idea who he is, what he does.

I don't know. Regardless, she feels far from innocent to me. I can feel my hatred follow her, follow that ring I never got to wear, that I was never going to wear.

When I turn to him, I straighten my neck and clear away the gunk clogging my throat. "I've heard enough of your lies, Daniel. I want the truth. I've earned the truth."

His face sobers as he distances himself from me. Cracking his neck, he seems to be considering it. With a sigh, he meets my eyes. " Fine . What do you want to know?"

I lower the knife and try to keep my face neutral, try not to show the undeserving, out of place gratitude I feel. I need this. I need this so much more than he knows.

"Why me?" I ask, my heart breaking even as my voice steadies.

"Why you?" He looks annoyed, like at any moment his eyes will roll. "You were available. There is an endless supply of girls just like you."

"No." I shake my head. "You came to my village. You?—"

"Okay, let me stop you there. You want honesty, right? You want the truth ," he mocks, mimicking my accent.

I nod without hesitation.

"I picked a random village on a map, went there, and found the dumbest, most na?ve, reasonably attractive girl I could find within the four days I was budgeted to be there. In an hour you were eyeing me up outside that cute little restaurant with the qofte like I was a walking visa."

"No." I shake my head. "That's not true."

His eyebrows raise as he smiles. "Now who's lying?"

My grip on the knife tightens while my throat closes. I'm blinded by so much rage that when I lift the knife and barrel toward him, I can barely aim.

When I swing, I slice nothing but air because Daniel easily evades me. He uses my loss of momentum to kick me in the stomach, sending air rushing from my lungs and bile up my throat.

Before my body can collapse, he takes me by my neck and shoves me against the wall, squeezing my throat in a deathly, two-handed grip while his eyes swirl with the most insidious thing… Pleasure.

The woman appears again, but this time the police don't seem to be on her mind, and she doesn't step in to help me. She stands off to the side and meets my eyes, looking uncertain and cowardly, running her nails over her arms out of nervousness. She'll stand there and let him kill me if I give him the chance.

I scratch at Daniel's hands and try to kick him off me, my brain running on pure survival instincts, and I can tell he thinks that he's won.

He laughs at my attempts just before leaning in to lick along my cheek, like he wants to taste all the tears that I've cried for him.

I hate him. But right now, I feel more sorrow than hatred, and more desperation. I feel like my heart was broken before, but now it's shattered, and he's putting the scraps through a food processor. He wants me destroyed, and I can't say he hasn't accomplished that.

He thinks he's won, but there's a vengeful side of me he never got to know. I lost, but I was never going to let him win. If I must lose, he must lose with me.

He thinks he's going to walk out of this the victor, but I know something he doesn't.

I know about the other knife.