Chapter 26

Jennie

The evening of my arrival home is a nonstop stream of crying, hugs, and questions about what happened and how I managed to come back.

I tell my parents as much of the truth as I can, explaining about the plane crash in Uzbekistan and Lisa's subsequent capture by the terrorist group she's been fighting. As I speak, I can see them battling shock and disbelief. Terrorists and planes downed by missiles are so far outside of the normal paradigm of their lives that I know it's hard for them to process. It was difficult for me once, too.

"Oh, Jennie, honey . . ." My mom's voice is soft and sympathetic. "I'm so sorry—I know you loved her, despite everything. Do you know what's going to happen now?"

I shake my head, trying to avoid looking at my dad. He thinks this is a good development; I can see it on his face. He's relieved that I'm most likely rid of the person he considers to be my abuser. I'm certain both of my parents think Lisa deserves this, but my mom is at least attempting to be sensitive to my feelings. My dad, though, can hardly hide his satisfaction at this turn of events.

"Well, whatever happens, I'm glad you came home." My mom reaches out to take my hand. Her dark eyes are swimming with fresh tears as she gazes at me. "We're here for you, honey, you know that, right?"

"I do, Mom," I whisper, my throat tight with emotion. "That's why I came back. Because I missed you . . . and because I couldn't be alone on that estate."

That much is true, but that's not the real reason I'm here. I can't tell my parents the real reason.

If they knew I came home to get kidnapped by Al-Quadar, they would never forgive me for that.

Despite my exhaustion, I barely sleep that night. I know it'll take some time for Al-Quadar to respond to my presence in town, but I'm still consumed by dread and nervous anticipation. Every time I drift off, I have nightmares, only in these dreams it's not Sorn who's being cut into pieces—it's Lisa. The bloody images are so vivid that I wake up nauseated and shaking, my bedsheets drenched with sweat. Finally, I give up on sleep altogether and pull out the art supplies I brought with me in my suitcase. I'm hoping that painting will prevent me from dwelling on the fact that my nightmares may be playing out at this very moment in some Al-Quadar hideout thousands of miles away.

As the light of the rising sun filters into the room, I stop to examine what I painted. It looks abstract at first—just swirls of red, black, and brown—but a closer inspection reveals something different. All the swirls are faces and bodies, people tangled together in a paroxysm of violent ecstasy. The faces reveal both agony and pleasure, lust and torment.

It's probably my best work to date, and I hate it.

I hate it because it shows me how much I've changed. How little of the old me remains.

"Wow, honey, this is amazing . . ." My mom's voice startles me out of my musings, and I turn around to see her standing in the doorway, gazing at the painting with genuine admiration. "That French instructor of yours must be really good."

"Yes, Monsieur Bernard is excellent," I agree, trying to keep the weariness out of my voice. I'm so tired that I just want to collapse, but that's not an option at the moment.

"You didn't sleep well, did you?" My mom furrows her forehead, looking worried, and I know I didn't succeed in hiding my tiredness from her. "Were you thinking about her?"

"Of course I was." A sudden swell of anger sharpens my voice. "She's my wife, you know."

She blinks, clearly taken aback, and I immediately regret my harsh tone. This situation is not my mom's fault; if anyone is blameless in all this, it's my parents. My temper is the last thing they deserve . . . particularly since my desperate plan will likely cause them even more anguish.

"I'm sorry, Mom," I say, going over to give her a hug. "I didn't mean it like that."

"It's okay, honey." She strokes my hair, her touch so gentle and comforting that I want to weep. "I understand."

I nod, even though I know she can't possibly comprehend the extent of my stress. She can't—because she doesn't know that I'm waiting.

Waiting to be taken by the same monsters who have Lisa.

Waiting for Al-Quadar to snap at the bait.

The morning drags by. It's a Saturday, so both of my parents are home. They're happy about that, but I'm not. I wish they were at work today. I want to be alone if—no, when—Majid's goons come for me. It had been relatively safe to spend the night, since Al-Quadar would need time to put whatever plan they have into action, but now that it's morning, I don't want my parents near me. The security detail Lisa put in place around my family would ensure their safety, but those same bodyguards may also interfere with my abduction—and that's the last thing I want.

"Shopping?" My dad gives me a strange look when I announce my intention to hit the stores after breakfast. "Are you sure, honey? You just got home, and with everything going on—"

"Dad, I've been in the middle of nowhere for months." I give him my best men-just-don't-get-it look. "You have no idea what that's like for a girl." Seeing that he's unconvinced, I add, "Seriously, Dad, I could use the distraction."

"She's got a point," my mom chimes in. Turning toward me, she gives me a conspiratorial wink and tells my dad, "There's nothing like shopping to take a woman's mind off things. I'll go with Jennie—it'll be just like the old times."

My heart sinks. I can't have my mom coming along if the point is to have my parents away from potential danger. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mom," I say regretfully, "but I already promised Chahee I'd meet her. It's spring break, you know, and she's home." I had seen an update to that effect on Facebook earlier this morning, so I'm only partially lying. My friend is indeed in town—I just hadn't made any plans to see her today.

"Oh, okay." My mom looks hurt for a moment, but then she shakes it off and gives me a bright smile. "No worries, honey. We'll see you after you catch up with your friends. I'm glad you're distracting yourself like that. It's for the best, really . . ."

My dad still looks suspicious, but there is nothing he can do. I'm an adult, and I'm not exactly asking for their permission.

As soon as breakfast is over, I give them each a kiss and a hug and walk over to the bus stop on 95th street to get on the bus going to the Chicago Ridge Mall.

Come on, take me already. Fucking take me already.

I have been wandering through the mall for hours, and to my frustration, there is still no sign of Al-Quadar. They either don't know that I'm here, or they don't care about me now that they have Lisa.

I refuse to entertain the latter possibility because if it's true, Lisa is as good as dead.

The plan has to work. There is no other alternative. Majid simply needs more time. Time to sniff out that I'm here alone and unprotected—a convenient tool that they can use to force Lisa to give them what they want.

"Jennie? Holy shit, Jennie, is that you?" A familiar voice yanks me out of my thoughts, and I turn around to see my friend Chahee gaping at me with astonishment.

"Chahee!" For a second, I forget all about the danger and rush forward to embrace the girl who had been my best friend for ages. "I had no idea you would be here!" And it's true—despite my lie to my parents this morning, I had not expected to run into Chahee like that. In hindsight, though, I probably should have, since we used to hang out at this mall nearly every weekend when we were younger.

"What are you doing here?" she asks when we get the hug out of the way. "I thought you were in Colombia!"

"I was—I mean, I am." Now that the initial excitement is over, I'm realizing that running into Chahee could be problematic. The last thing I want is for my friend to suffer because of me. "I'm just here for a brief visit," I explain hurriedly, casting a worried look around. All seems to be normal, so I continue, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was home, but things were kind of hectic and, well, you know how it is . . ."

"Right, you must be busy with your new wife and stuff," she says slowly, and I can feel the distance between us growing even though we haven't moved an inch. We haven't spoken since I told her about my marriage—just exchanged a few brief emails—and I see now that she still questions my sanity . . . that she no longer understands the person I've become.

I don't blame her for that. Sometimes I don't understand that person either.

"Chahee, babe, there you are!" A man's voice interrupts our conversation, and my heart jumps as a familiar male figure approaches Chahee from behind me.

It's Hanbin—the boy I once had a crush on.

The boy Lisa stole me from that fateful night in the park.

Only he's not a boy anymore. His shoulders are heavier now; his face is leaner and harder. At some point in the past few months, he's become a man—a man who only has eyes for Chahee. Stopping next to her, he bends down to give her a kiss and says in a low, teasing voice, "Babe, I got you that present . . ."

Chahee's pale cheeks turn beet-red. "Um, Hanbin," she mumbles, tugging on his arm to draw his attention to my presence, "look who I just ran into."

He turns toward me, and his brown eyes go round with shock. "Jennie? What—what are you doing here?"

"Oh, you know . . . just—just some shopping . . ." I hope I don't sound as dumbfounded as I feel. Chahee and Hanbin? My best friend Chahee and my former crush Hanbin? It's as if my world just tilted on its axis. I had no idea they were dating. I knew Chahee broke up with her boyfriend a couple of months ago because she mentioned it in an email, but she never told me she'd hooked up with Hanbin.

As I look at them, standing next to each other with identical uncomfortable expressions on their faces, I realize it's not altogether illogical. They both go to the University of Michigan, and they have an overlapping circle of friends and acquaintances from our high school. They even have a traumatic experience in common—having their friend/date abducted—that could've brought them closer together.

I also realize in that moment that all I feel when I look at them is relief.

Relief that they seem happy together, that the darkness from my life didn't leave a permanent stain on Hanbin's. There's no regret for what might have been, no jealousy—only an anxiety that grows with every minute Lisa spends in Al-Quadar's hands.

"I'm sorry, Jennie," Chahee says, giving me a wary look. "I should've told you about us earlier. It's just that—"

"Chahee, please." Pushing aside my stress and exhaustion, I manage to give her a reassuring smile. "You don't have to explain. Really. I'm married, and Hanbin and I only had one date. You don't owe me any explanations . . . I was just surprised, that's all."

"Do you want to, um, grab some coffee with us?" Hanbin offers, sliding his arm around Chahee's waist in a gesture that strikes me as unusually protective. I wonder if it's me he's protecting her from. If so, he's even smarter than I thought.

"We could catch up since you're in town and all," he continues, and I shake my head in refusal.

"I'd love to, but I can't," I say, and the regret in my voice is genuine. I desperately want to catch up with them, but I can't have them near me in case Al-Quadar chooses this particular moment to strike. I have no idea how the terrorists would get to me in the middle of a crowded mall, but I'm certain they'll find a way. Glancing down at my phone, I pretend to be dismayed at the time and say apologetically, "I'm afraid I'm already running late . . ."

"Is your wife here with you?" Chahee asks, frowning, and I see Hanbin's face turning white. He probably didn't consider the possibility of Lisa being nearby when he extended his invitation to me.

I shake my head, my throat tightening as the horrible reality of the situation threatens to choke me again. "No," I say, hoping I sound halfway normal. "She couldn't make it."

"Oh, okay." Chahee's frown deepens, a puzzled look entering her eyes, but Hanbin regains some of his color. He's obviously relieved that he won't be confronted by the ruthless criminal who's caused him so much grief.

"I really have to run," I say, and Hanbin nods, his grip on Chahee's waist tightening to keep her close.

"Good luck," he says to me, and I can tell he's glad I'm leaving. He's been raised to be polite, however, so he adds, "It was good seeing you," though his eyes say something different.

I give him an understanding smile. "You too," I say and, waving goodbye to Chahee, I head for the mall exit.

I forget about Hanbin and Chahee as soon as I step out into the parking lot. Painfully alert, I scan the area before reluctantly pulling out my phone and calling for a cab. I would hang out at the mall longer, but I don't want to chance running into my friends again. My next stop will be Michigan Avenue in Chicago, where I can browse some high-end stores while praying that I get taken before I completely lose my mind.

The cold wind bites through my clothes as I stand there waiting, my thigh-length peacoat and thin cashmere sweater offering little protection from the chilly temperature outside. It takes a solid half hour before the cab finally pulls up to the curb. By that time, I'm half-frozen, and my nerves are stretched so tightly I'm ready to scream.

Yanking the door open, I climb into the back of the car. It's a clean-looking cab, with a thick glass partition separating the front seat from the back and the windows in the back lightly tinted. "The city, please." My voice is sharper than it needs to be. "The stores on Michigan Avenue."

"Sure thing, miss," the driver says softly, and my head snaps up at the hint of accent in his voice. My eyes lock with his in the front mirror, and I freeze as a bolt of pure terror shoots down my spine.

He could've been one of a thousand immigrants driving a cab for a living, but he's not.

He's Al-Quadar. I can see it in the cold malevolence of his gaze.

They have finally come for me.

It's what I have been waiting for, but now that the moment is here, I find myself paralyzed by a fear so intense, it chokes me from within. My mind flashes into the past, and the memories are so vivid, it's almost as if I'm there again. I feel the pain of barely healed stitches in my side, see the dead bodies of the guards at the clinic, hear Sorn's screams . . . and then I taste vomit at the back of my throat as Majid touches my face with a blood-covered finger.

I must've gone as pale as a sheet because the driver's gaze hardens, and I hear the faint click of car door locks being activated.

The sound galvanizes me into action. Adrenaline pumping in my veins, I dive for the door and jerk at the handle while screaming at the top of my lungs. I know it's useless, but I need to try—and, more importantly, I need to give the appearance of trying. I can't sit calmly while they take me back to hell.

I can't let them find out that this time I want to go back there.

As the car begins moving, I continue wrestling with the door and banging on the window. The driver ignores me as he peels out of the parking lot at top speed, and none of the mall visitors seem to notice anything wrong, the tinted windows of the car hiding me from their gaze.

We don't go far. Instead of getting out onto the highway, the car swings around to the back of the building. I see a beige van waiting for us, and I struggle harder, my nails breaking as I claw at the door with a desperation that's only partially feigned. In my rush to rescue Lisa, I hadn't fully considered what it would mean to be taken by the monsters of my nightmares—to go through something so horrific again—and the terror that swamps me is only slightly lessened by the fact that this situation is of my own doing.

The driver pulls up next to the van, and the locks click open. Pushing open the door, I scramble out on all fours, scraping my palms on rough asphalt, but before I can get to my feet, a hard arm clamps around my waist and a gloved hand slaps over my mouth, muffling my screams.

I hear orders being barked out in Arabic as I'm carried to the van, kicking and struggling, and then I see a fist flying toward my face.

There's an explosion of pain in my skull, and then there's nothing else.