Chapter 3
CODY - NOW
Ariel, of course, came through with Alice’s phone number. She’s the best hacker we know, and she could probably take over the world if she had a malicious bone in her body.
As soon as we got the phone number last night, Landon texted Alice. She didn’t respond. I don’t expect her to. Why would she? She’s home, returned to her “loving” husband. She cut us out of her life three years ago. I don’t see why anything would be different now.
The sun blazes in through my curtains, a harsh reminder of my sleepless night. This is going to be an unreasonably warm day for early May. I lie in bed, ears straining toward Landon’s room, hoping to hear a sound, any sound, from his phone.
You don’t fucking care, I tell myself. Because of course I don’t. I wouldn’t. I can’t.
When we met, we were thirty-two. She was twenty-one.
Far, far too young. As our friendship grew, Landon said, more than once, that he wished she were older.
He admired her, I could tell. Not in that lustful, kinky way that usually caused us to pursue women.
It was a restrained longing. Strange thing is, I’m the one who talked to her first.
I might have been the one to fall for her first.
CODY - THEN
Two minutes late, a young woman stumbled into the church rec hall, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. Her dark blond hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and it looked like she hadn’t washed it in several days. Her eyes were blue, but they looked dull. “Sorry, I can go—”
“No, sit, please.” The counselor, Inderjit, gave her a welcoming nod. “We are only now starting.”
When it was the young woman’s turn to speak, she took a deep breath. “Hi, I’m Alice. I lost my parents last week. Car accident. Both of them just…gone.”
“Thank you for sharing,” Inderjit said as the rest of us made soft sounds of consolation.
I went up to her after the meeting ended. “Hey, Alice. I’m Cody. I just wanted to say, I lost my parents when I was a teenager. I know how it wrecks you. It’s good that you’re coming to counseling—I’ve found it very helpful.”
“Thanks, but I’m not sure I’ll come back.” She dunked a tea bag into her cup, over and over, fixating on that instead of meeting my eyes.
“Why not?” I asked. “I thought it went well. You fit in here.”
She gave a bitter, short laugh. “I’m a mess.”
“We’re all struggling.” Even saying the word “struggling” had a lump forming in my throat. It had been two months since Nessa died. Sometimes I thought we’d be struggling forever. There was no way out of this ocean of mourning. No rope. No lifeboats. No buoys.
“Anyway,” she said, “I like it here, but my church wants me to do therapy on their campus. Except their grief counselor gives me the creeps.”
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Twenty-one.”
“Okay, listen to advice from an old man—”
“You aren’t old,” she snorted.
“I’m thirty-two.” I raised my eyebrows, waiting for her to argue with me.
When she didn’t, I said, “So listen to an old man’s advice.
Your gut is telling you something for a reason.
You should pay attention. If something feels off, with a person or a place, don’t ignore it, okay?
If a grief counselor gives you the creeps?
It’s because your body is telling you to avoid him. ”
Landon caught my eye from the other end of the hall, his signal that he was ready to go.
Alice stared thoughtfully at her tea. “I was late to the meeting because I sat in my car, scared of disappointing the elders.”
“I hope to see you next week,” I told her. “Inderjit runs a good meeting. You’ll find it helpful, I think.”
“Thanks.”
ALICE - NOW
Returning to the campus of Seven Blessed Days is jarring.
Because as much as my home has changed, this place looks exactly the same.
White-washed buildings, so bright in the sunlight that my sunglasses don’t even help.
No trees, only carefully manicured shrubs lining the white cement walkways.
It’s harsh like a desert, and eerily silent.
“I’ll walk you in.” Brayden starts to get out of his truck.
“No need. I know where it is.”
We’ve barely spoken since last night. He seemed surprised when I didn’t jump up this morning to fix him breakfast, but he didn’t say a word.
He also didn’t make breakfast for himself.
I wonder if he even knows how. It’s amazing he survived my absence.
Did Jericha move in the day after I was kidnapped?
“I’ll wait here,” Brayden says as I slam the door closed behind me.
The sun beats down, harsh on the crown of my head.
It reflects back up to my face from the bright cement.
I’m sweating in the dark yellow sweatpants and sweatshirt Brayden gave me yesterday.
We’re supposed to buy some new clothes after therapy, at least. I wish we’d gone shopping before, but since I’m not driving—my license lapsed while I was in captivity—I don’t get to make the itinerary.
Walking to Elder Wattle’s office makes me feel like a confused teenager all over again. When my parents moved us to San Esteban, I was fourteen. I was also a sulky little shit, angry at my already-large breasts and angry at leaving my best friend behind in Oregon.
We joined the church, and my parents immediately enrolled me in the free therapy offered by Elder Wattle.
Here I am again, over a decade later, to talk about my feelings. I knock on the office door, which is white like the walls of the building, white like the cement. Timothy Wattle, Elder, Level Five is listed on a small plaque in the center of the door.
“Come in,” a voice calls from inside.
I open the door and face Elder Wattle. He looks the same as I last saw him—a gray and white Santa beard, with round, red cheeks above it. His glasses are square-framed and make his small eyes look squintier. He smiles at me like I’m his own, long-lost child, returned at last.
I have never liked him.
“Alice.” His voice is warm and he stands to greet me, hand held out.
I touch my fingertips to his in the usual church greeting. Keeping my gaze on the floor, I say, “Elder Wattle, hello.”
“Have a seat, please.” He gestures at the chair across from his desk.
“Thanks.” I perch on the edge. It’s an uncomfortable chair, I know from experience. The padding is a joke. This hour will feel longer because of it.
“So,” he says. “Obviously you know why you are here.”
“Yes. I was kidnapped.”
“Let’s talk about that.” He leans back in his ergonomic desk chair. “You said a man took you?”
“A man did take me. I was on a run. I didn’t hear him approach. I’ve told all of this to the police, several times.”
“Do you know what this man looks like?”
“I should hope so—I spent the last year living with him.”
He looks up sharply. “Living with him how?”
Ah, the question. This is what everyone wants to know. “We never had…relations of any kind. I was more like a live-in servant.”
“Did you sleep together?”
I purse my lips.
Elder Wattle raises his eyebrows at me. “Alice, it is important we have all the details straight, so we know what you have been through.”
And so they can decide whether I’m still pure enough for Brayden, I suspect. I can already guess their reasoning. I must be flawless. Brayden doesn’t have to be flawless, though. Despite the fact he didn’t remain true to his vows, it’s okay because he thought I was dead.
Also because he’s a man.
Sighing, I say, “We slept in two separate cots in the cabin.”
“I see.”
He sees nothing. For all his high “Level Five” standing, he isn’t above me.
He thinks he is, but I’ve had an entire year to reflect on the church and its teachings.
When I sought comfort in what I’d been told as a teenager, about how suffering could bring me to a Level Two from my Level One, I decided I didn’t want it. I didn’t want to suffer.
I don’t even want a level. Throw me back to Zero, where I was when my parents and I joined.
“When a man has a woman in his house,” Elder Wattle begins, “he is bringing temptation not only unto himself, but unto her.”
“Are you saying I wanted to have sex with my kidnapper?” I stand up. “He stole me from my perfect house and my perfect husband. He stole me from my life.”
“Sit down, Alice.”
No. No, I will not sit down. I want to rage at this guy, to take out all of my confusion and uncertainty on his smug Santa face.
The world kept spinning over the past year, but I stayed still.
Now I’m here, struggling to catch up again, and he has the audacity to imply I was tempted by my kidnapper? I could spit.
But years of training force me to say, “I’m sorry, I’m developing a headache. Please excuse me for today.”
His eyes squint harder before softening. “Of course, Alice. I’ll see you on Thursday.”
“Yes. Thank you for understanding, Elder Wattle.” I touch my fingers to his outstretched ones, struggling not to recoil.
I walk back to Brayden’s truck. My legs are shaking—either from anger, or from disuse. When I was chained in Abe’s cabin, I never walked farther than fifteen feet at a time.
Brayden is on his phone, but he quickly sets it down and leans out his window. “You’re done early. Is everything okay?”
“It’s fine. I’m just not feeling well.”
“You didn’t offend Elder Wattle, did you?” He knows I have never liked the man.
“Thanks for your concern about my well-being. My headache is mild, but it’s getting worse.”
“You don’t need to talk back to me like that, Alice.” He frowns. “Of course I’m concerned about your well-being. That’s why I’ll be taking you to and from therapy twice a week.”
“Right. Sorry.” I take a deep breath and massage my forehead. That fake headache is quickly becoming real.
We have a long, tense ride home. Brayden doesn’t ask if I want to stop at the store for clothes.
When we get to the house, there’s a brunette standing on our doorstep. My old friend. My old, pregnant friend.
“Wait here, please.” Brayden’s tone of voice doesn’t invite argument.
I wait until he’s all the way to the front step before striding forward. This is my house. My husband.
The magnolia tree by the front door provides enough cover that I can eavesdrop.
Jericha sounds annoyed. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m just getting a few things.”
“Jericha, I told you not to come here,” he says in a low voice.
“This isn’t fair. I belong with you—we talked about this—”
“And I said we need to be patient.”
Patient, I think. Patient for what? I step forward from behind the magnolia.
Jericha sneers in disgust, like I’m a cockroach curtseying on her kitchen counters. “This is a private conversation.”
I always knew she had the capacity for cruelty. I’ve seen her unleash it on countless other women at church. I never agreed with it, but I should have spoken up, told her how wrong it was.
Then again, a part of me always knew that if I intervened, she’d unleash that cruelty and vitriol on me.
I’m tired of being treated like shit. “Maybe you could have your private conversation somewhere that isn’t my front doorstep? This is my house, last time I checked.”
“Alice,” Brayden says sharply, before turning back to Jericha. “We’ll talk later.”
She rolls her green eyes, huffs, and walks away.
She’s still wearing her engagement ring.