Chapter 35
ALEX
“America and I were never allowed off the yacht,” Noah says. “We were homeschooled by our mother.”
His soft palms slide underneath mine, his fingers threading through my own.
“With books only,” he adds. “No phones. No computers. No cameras. Just books, paper, and pen—the basics. And, of course, we had each other. That’s it. No more, no less.”
His eyes drift, as if watching memories unfold in front of him.
“When you’re given so little in life, you learn to hold tight to what is given. The little things start to matter the most. And that’s exactly what America did—she took advantage… of those little things.”
He exhales softly.
“Our father hadn’t seen it coming—no one did. She was clever. She had a talent—an ability to create what couldn’t be seen.”
He shakes his head, a faint trace of irony curling at the edges of his mouth.
“It’s almost funny.” He laughs softly. “He kept technology out of our hands to protect himself but never thought twice about the danger in something as simple as a pencil.”
His voice lowers.
“America started drawing. And she didn’t stop. Sketch after sketch—she became obsessed. Her hobby turned into passion, her passion became power… and eventually, it became proof.”
He pauses. Drags his plump upper lip into his mouth and releases it slowly.
“The sketches I just showed you? There were hundreds more, Alex. A lifetime of them. My lifetime. She documented everything I endured at our father’s hands. Every moment. Every look. Every horror.”
His grip on my fingers tightens.
“She captured it all—better than any camera could ever. Not just what happened, but what it felt like. The pain. The fear. The silence. She drew what no one else could see.”
He takes a slow, shaky breath, voice breaking. “I only had two friends in this world—America… and the rain.” His eyes shine with something that’s part gratitude, part grief.
“She sent me into the rain… so she could walk into the storm.” His voice cracks, fierce and fragile all at once. “She did that for me, Alex. She did that for me.”
He turns my hand over, revealing that lone puzzle piece inked on my wrist—the one piece that never made any sense. “You don’t see it, do you?” he asks, tracing his forefinger over the black lines as if trying to guide me.
“It’s a puzzle piece,” I say, stating the obvious.
“It’s the rain,” he murmurs, softer this time. “And my tears.” He taps my skin gently. “But if you stare at it long enough, you’ll see what’s behind it.”
He drags a finger over the lighter shade of ink.
“These are my tears,” he says softly.
A teardrop shape emerges as he outlines the ink with the tip of his finger. His eyes shimmer as he traces over the darker shade.
“And this… this is the rain.”
The ink within the puzzle piece blends so seamlessly—so subtly—it’s easy to miss. But now, the longer I stare, holy shit—now I can see it.
“That’s me,” he whispers. “In the rain.” His voice breaks as he meets my eyes. “It’s where I lived my entire life.”
I reach out and let my fingers brush the ink—his story, written in shades most people will never see.
He lets out a quiet breath like he’s been holding it for years.
“It was never meant to be art,” he says. “Only a map. But she was brilliant in that way.”
“A map to where?” I ask, voice catching.
“To me.”
Fucking Meera.
He releases my hand and picks up a sketch from the floor. It’s the one of rain. Or maybe tears?
My eyes lock with his, and I know. I know exactly what he’s showing me. It’s the same artwork that’s on my skin.
“She’s an incredible artist, isn’t she?”
He smiles with a quiet kind of pride, and the chills crawl—arms, spine, soul.
I feel hunted. Haunted. Both.
“America made her escape when she was sixteen,” he says. “She didn’t just find a way off our yacht—she found a way out of the rain.”
He lifts his eyes to the ceiling, as if the memory is still floating there.
“She found her way to you.”
He grazes the edge of the puzzle piece again, and the touch sends a current through my skin.
“It only took her three weeks,” he continues. “Three weeks to get the documents she needed, track down your whereabouts, and board a plane to New York City. You see, Alex… when you live your whole life with a criminal, you learn to think like one too.”
His voice shifts—heavier now. Weighted with memory.
“The moment Erica boarded that plane, her sketches were already in transit to the Paris authorities. Drawings—hundreds of them—detailing the abuse I endured. She captured everything. Every bruise. Every scream. Every silence. He was done. We had him. There was no way he could talk his way out of it. It was all right there—in pencil and paper. Unmistakable. Undeniable. Laid bare for the world to see.”
He swallows. His jaw tightens, as does mine.
“Unfortunately, there were no sketches of her abuse. But it didn’t matter. She was still taking him down—the same man who sexually abused both of us.”
Silence.
“And within twenty-four hours of that plane landing in the United States,” he says quietly, “the French authorities surrounded our yacht.”
“Thank God.” I breathe a heavy sigh of relief. I didn’t think I could take any more grief. “So, they arrested him?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks away—somewhere distant, unreachable—and slowly shakes his head.
“They never found him.”