25. Chapter 25
Chapter twenty-five
Remington
I was released from the hospital several days before Ricochet.
It’s clear he’s going to struggle to accept my help. He already hates that I have to do things he can’t. I discovered that when I tried to get him to help me make a grocery list the day before I was discharged.
To counter his complaints, I played my feminist card, telling him things like, “Because I’m a woman you think I can’t do it?”
I know it’s the alpha male in him. It’s killing him that something as simple as grocery shopping is beyond his physical abilities right now.
We—meaning me—also decided it would be best if I went to his apartment to collect his things, so he didn’t have to try to climb stairs.
It took a fair amount of cajoling, but I finally got him to surrender his apartment key.
Once I was released, I had the hospital call me a taxi.
After all these months, I couldn’t believe I was on my way home at last. It was a strange feeling to be out in the world again.
I rolled down the window and spent the ride watching the familiar surroundings go by.
I closed my eyes and breathed in the salty sea air—the first free air I’ve breathed in a long time.
My hand shook as I slipped my hidden emergency key into the lock. I didn’t expect to survive my ordeal in Venezuela. I was so sure I’d never walk through my front door again. It made me emotional, and I was glad no one was there to witness it.
The air inside was musty and stale, but I didn’t care. I was home at long last.
I spent the next few days making phone calls from my landline to have my credit cards replaced, changed the locks on my door, and had new keys made for both me and Ricochet. I went to the grocery store, did laundry, and swung by Ricochet’s apartment to pick up clothes and toiletries.
I made the mistake of going to the DMV to get my license reissued.
It was a necessary evil that turned into an arduous task.
In the end, it took a copy of my birth certificate, my social security card, two proofs of residency, and way too much time, but I managed to accomplish the task and walked out with a temporary license.
Learning to drive one-handed has been an adjustment.
I’m thankful I have an automatic transmission.
And whoever invented power steering deserves a medal, or at least a thank you note.
It’s the only reason navigating one-handed turns is possible.
Everything is slower and more difficult, but I’ve been managing the best I can.
Six days ago, I picked Ricochet up from the hospital and helped him get settled in.
Between our time together at the hospital and living together this past week, we’ve become fast friends.
We get along well and laugh a lot, considering we’re both miserable with our injuries after learning even simple activities are difficult or impossible to perform.
Although, I still have to stay on his ass when he tries to get around without his crutches. The doctor said it was important that he keep weight off his leg. My guess? Being an alpha male and a badass SEAL, he thinks he can just “walk it off.”
Not on my watch.
One interesting thing I’ve learned is that Ricochet, whose real name is Wyatt, has an endearing habit of humming after he eats. While I’m curious, I haven’t asked why because I don’t want to embarrass him. Maybe it’s a soothing gesture. Usually, I end up humming or singing along with him.
This morning, when I come out of my room, he’s at the kitchen table, leg propped up on a chair, and his crutches leaning next to him. At least he’s starting to take his restrictions seriously.
“How’s the leg today?”
“It hurts like a motherfucker,” he grimaces. “Which is weird because it’s numb and I can’t feel it.”
“I hear that,” I admit, pouring myself some coffee and sitting across from him. “It’s amazing how much numbness hurts. I know I have fingers, because they tingle and ache, but I can’t feel any of them. Seems like they should find another word for it.”
He nods, watching me intently over the rim of his cup. “Your nightmares are getting worse,” he casually mentions.
“How did you…” I think about it for a moment. “I’m waking you up, aren’t I? I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. You’ve been through something traumatic. You know, I’m a decent listener. You can talk to me.”
I consider that. It might be time to open up to someone. But I hardly know him. I don’t want to burden him, and I can’t imagine he wants to hear my problems. Plus, while my gut says I can trust him, I don’t know that for sure. Since my experience in Venezuela, I’m much more paranoid.
He reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. “RJ, I’m serious. Talk to me.”
“I guess telling myself I’m fine isn’t working, huh?”
I get up to refill his coffee, needing to put some distance between us.
I won’t tell him much, but decide it can’t hurt to share something with him.
“Every night I’m haunted by what they did to me.
One of them nearly choked me to death, and I keep reliving that.
The feeling of not being able to breathe.
Clawing, scratching, and fighting for air. ”
I set his coffee in front of him and retake my seat. “I jerk awake, heart hammering, gasping for air. Then I can’t go back to sleep. I end up turning on all the lights and wandering the house, checking the doors and windows, jumping at every little noise until the sun comes up.”
“I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”
“Me too. I can’t help thinking if you guys hadn’t rescued me, you wouldn’t have been hurt.”
“Hey, don’t go there. What happened wasn’t your fault. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”
I appreciate the sentiment, but I do feel responsible.
I’m relieved when my landline rings, saving me from having to talk about this anymore. I’m reliving it enough at night, the last thing I want is to talk about it in the light of day.
Ricochet must see my anxiety after I hang up. “RJ? What is it?” Concern ripples through his voice. “Are you alright?”
I’m preoccupied when I respond, “That was the FBI. They want to interview me tomorrow.”
I’m so distracted and amped up that I barely sleep. By the time I’m ready to leave for the FBI office, I’m nothing but nerves and apprehension.
“I have no idea how long this will take,” I tell Ricochet. “I left you a sandwich and some snacks in the fridge.”
It gave me something to do during my long, sleepless night.
“Thanks, RJ. You didn’t have to do that.”
I give him a stern look. “While I’m gone, stay off that leg.”
He grins at me. “Yes, Mom.” His expression transforms to one of concern. Guess I’m not concealing my anxiety very well. Or maybe Ricochet is just too perceptive. “Hey, you know it’s going to be alright, don’t you? You didn’t do anything wrong. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
I nod and try for a reassuring smile I don’t quite pull off.
My mind spins like an out-of-control tornado for the entire drive. The Consortium is everywhere. Worldwide. It’d be foolish to think they don’t have corrupt police, judges, and politicians among their ranks. Or a couple of FBI agents on the take, sent to interview me.
I spent the majority of the night thinking about it. What I should and shouldn’t tell them. What details to disclose and which to leave out. Especially about the murderous man in the suit and his Zoom meetings.
As much as I don’t want to, I have to do this interview. Refusing would be suspicious, but that doesn’t mean I have to tell them everything.
So, I decide to give them the same story I told the man in the suit.
If they ask about the pictures, I’ll repeat the same lie—the pictures were in the apartment.
If they haven’t been found, then the men who stormed in, kidnapped me, and killed Danny must’ve taken them.
Whatever it takes to make them think everything was left in Venezuela.
Because no matter what happens, I’m not giving up my pictures. I’ve been through too much for that.