The light’s always promising.
Yet, Kieran disclosed she hadn’t raised him. Had Ewan? My fingers curl into the feather duvet beneath me, and I calculate my next response. “Oh yeah, Kieran’s always mentioning his . . . good Uncle Ewan . . . Who he’s so fond of . . .”
“Good?” Bertha’s hand moves in quick succession, symbolizing the cross. As if catching herself gossiping, she adds a soft laugh. “Aye, the boy was under Ewan’s wing much of his life. On behalf of the two of ‘em, I’ll apologize, miss. Just please give the lad a chance.”
I’ll apologize.
I let my mouth twitch upward, though I’m instantly annoyed. Women pardoning men, excusing them, only help make them worse.
* * *
As I tossed and turned in my sleep last night, an idea began to percolate. The day I fled Adnan for good, I told myself he could fall on his sword. Ages of planning came into play because there was simply noleavingmy husband. The idea of being a hostage to another man is something I cannot accept. Adnan stripped away my dignity, and I’d almost gotten it back half a year ago.
From above, daylight dances through the elevated windows. While tension ripples through me, I meander barefoot about the sunny manor. I wear jeans, which skim my curves, and a simple white tee. I’m searching each room for thekeyto my plan of escape.
Would Bertha have a room here? Or does she come and go as she pleases? Will I incur her wrath if I intend to manipulate her?
Well, fuck it, my life is on the line.
I’ve peeked into the hundredth guest room where even more priceless works of art adorn each wall. With each step, my blood pressure spirals to a new range at the thought of stumbling upon Kieran.
At the top of the landing, there’s a clear panoramic view of the ocean. The trees are snatched back like curtains, so this rich, psychotic bastard’s breath could catch at the sight of it each morning. Farther inland, beyond the thick lining of more billowy trees, the woodsmen Kieran hired hide deep inside. On the opposite side of Kieran’s henchman is the town.
He fucked with the wrong oneandshowed me the lay of the land.
Ten minutes later, I’ve moseyed into a gym large enough to be certified as an LA Fitness. I’ve peeked into an in-home bowling alley and continue my search for the key to my freedom. I end up finding Bertha in a blue and yellow kitchen fit for an upscale country magazine. I’d checked here already, but with so many rooms, it’s a mission to cross paths with one person while attempting to avoid another. While she bustles around the room, I make my case.
“So . . . you’d like to go shopping with me?” Bertha rests a ham hock of a hip on the butcher-block counter. Her lips turn down as if uncertain by my suggestion. “If there’s anything that would bring you comfort . . . Anything at all—”
“Kieran’s uh, out,” I flicker a smile, “he’s busy, you know him. I’d like to dip my toe in the water as an honorary, ahem, McFarland.”
“Yeah, but to do busy work?” She scoffs. “Surely, he’d rather take you shopping himself. I’m not young nor what you callhipany longer, but in the pictures, the men quite enjoy taking their lassies . . .”
I freeze the disappointment on my face, transforming it into an eager smile. “But I want to cook for him.”Preferably poison.
She slaps a dishrag onto the counter. “That settles it, Miss Ava. Brilliant plan.”
“And this should stay between us.” I massage my throat, attempting to knead out the urgency. “A surprise.”
* * *
By late noon, we’ve arrived at an independent grocer. Patient as ever, Bertha hasn’t complained while we drive and takes each of my claims as fact. The truth is, after sightseeing in the town, I’m as lost as ever. I’m in a different country, on a different continent, with no personal identification. I’ve bitten my tongue from requesting an adventure to the American Consulate. If ever I were amnesic enough to praise Adnan, it’d be for his assistance in becoming a citizen.
When we get out of the tan sedan, I temper a glance in her direction.Should I ask for help?
She asks if I’ve taken ill, and I wave a hand. “I’m alright.”
I glance across the street where there’s yet another pub, and to my surprise, a Citibank. Hmmm . . . Could I enter there and request amnesty? Dropping my last name might get me somewhere. Although, Adnan’s investment portfolio never had my name on it.
For another hour, I slink about the tiny family-owned market with a hand basket hoisted over my forearm. The large area is painted white with dark green trim. Faint elevator music plays in the background. My eyes flicker past a pyramid of ruby-red apples toward the rear entrance. Men with deep Irish accents bring in loads of even fresher produce than the plump juicy tomatoes on display.
From Bertha’s vantage point of any given aisle, I’m visible. “I’m gonna look at the . . . noodles,” I call out to her as she strolls, pushing a cart. She nods.
I start down an aisle. When Bertha reaches for a can of beans, I dart in the other direction toward the rear exit and into the light, toward freedom.
One man stops whistling and calls after me. I press the basket into his arms.
“I need to use the lady’s room,” I grit, eyes on the sliver of loading dock that’s visible from the open door.