New Orleans was the first city that came to mind when I pictured this dull existence, and I don’t know how I'll be living now that all of the light Raya brought into my world is gone. It's easy to get lost on Bourbon Street and that's what I plan to do.
I fuel up at the gas station before heading inside and grabbing a bottle of water from the cooler. It brings to mind the memory of when I approached Raya in South Padre, but I can’t linger.
I throw out all thoughts of going back to find her when I lift my eyes to the television playing near the cash register. Her reappearance has halted all normal broadcasting. I stand to the side, allowing several customers to go ahead of me as I watch cell phone footage of her being shuffled into the back of a dark SUV.
I take comfort in knowing that she's safe. That she didn't walk away from me only to be snatched up by some other devious son of a bitch. There are no tears in her eyes in the video that captured her leaving the hospital. If anything, she looks a little stunned, and it's very possible they medicated her while she was there.
There are no flashes of my name or picture in connection with her disappearance, but I know that's also only a matter of time. They would have done a rape kit on her. They won't find my DNA in any type of database, but they wouldn't need it to know my name. I have no doubt that Raya will give that to them.
That's why Liam Stone can no longer exist. It's a relief, actually. That man died with every step she took away from the hotel room. He wouldn't have survived, anyway.
I listen as the news anchor speculates about where she is, the trauma she may have endured, but they aren't stating any real facts. Neither El Paso nor the house I kept her in for over a month are mentioned. That also is only a matter of time.
New Orleans may be my first stop but that's definitely not where I can land. Staying in the United States isn't an option. But putting more than the width of Texas between us makes me want to claw at my own skin.
Part of me thinks that she will tell her family the truth about what happened and that scares me more than her demonizing me. Angel said she would become her father's prisoner, and I have no doubt about that. She wouldn't be the first person in a political family to be silenced. Hell, the Kennedys performed a lobotomy on one of their own in order to keep her under control.
Raya may be the number one story on the news reel right now, but I imagine that's only temporary. Before long, she'll go into seclusion. The story of her abduction and the resulting trauma would cause almost anyone to understand why she no longer wants to be in the spotlight.
Knowing that I may never see her face again, not even on television, adds to the misery I feel. Unable to watch any longer without being suspicious, I pay for my bottle of water and leave the gas station.
I pray she doesn't end up a shell of herself, but at the same time, I also hope that her time spent with me changes her. I hope that she voices her opinions and fights back against anyone trying to turn her back into the “yes woman” she was when we first met.
I know she's gonna tell them who I am. It's only a matter of time. I can't even be mad at her. I even understand. I know what it's like. People do a lot of things to protect themselves.
I've done countless, horrific things at the expense of someone else because it benefited me. Raya should be no different.
I can only hope that one day, when she thinks of me and the time we shared, that she does it with a smile on her face, instead of the tears that were in her eyes when she walked out of that motel room.
Chapter 36
Raya
I'm not asleep when my bedroom door opens, but unlike before, I don't immediately look in that direction. I want to be here even less I realize, when a clearing throat tells me I can no longer hide out in my room. I push the covers away from my face, taking my time before sitting up and looking toward the door.
My mother looks less than impressed with having to wait. She looks tired but I'm sure that has more to do with my father's extensive schedule than actually worrying that her only child has been missing for a month. Her face doesn't light up, seeing me for the first time in many weeks. She doesn't run across the room and wrap her arms around me in a bear hug. She doesn't tell me that she missed me or that she's glad that I'm home safe.
I don't know why I let myself even imagine she would feel that way. Maybe it's being cared for so thoroughly for the last month that allowed those ridiculous thoughts to infiltrate my head. But her just standing there staring at me expectantly is all I'm offered.
I knew my parents’ reaction to me has always been sort of cold and businesslike, but it’s blatantly obvious in this moment. Roxanne showed more enthusiasm from our arrival than my own mother is. I'd laugh if it didn't almost make me cry.
“Your father is waiting for you in his office,” she says.
When she lingers in the doorway, a moment longer than usual, I think that maybe I was wrong to judge her. That maybe she does have all of those emotions for me, but they're just as familiar as the emotions I usually have. I let myself fantasize that she finally breaks that stoic composure of hers and acts out of character. But she simply nods at me before leaving the room and closing my bedroom door.
Things would have been different if they were home when I arrived last night. Our reunion would have been staged for sound bites. There would have been fake tears and joyous hugs. They would have blamed incompetent house staff for the leaked video footage when it really would have come from Christine, my father's media specialist.
I got online last night long enough to get a feel of the atmosphere. It’s about a fifty-fifty split between those with a million questions, demanding answers, and those who have expressed their joyous gratitude that I’ve been returned home safe and sound.
Once again, I'm slow to climb off the bed, unconcerned if my father is waiting, uncaring of how irritated he will be when I finally make my way downstairs to his office.
Although I showered last night, I feel the need to shower again. Being back in this house makes my skin crawl. My shower here is nothing like the shower back at Liam's house. The old, fully remodeled Victorian takes a while before the water is warm enough to get in.
I douche for a second time, because although the hospital staff allowed me to refuse a sexual assault exam, I don't see my father being as willing to accept my demand for privacy.
I try to get out as many tears as I possibly can before turning off the shower and drying off. I don't care that my parents will see me with red eyes and a puffy face. I imagine it's to be expected after the trauma I'm sure they assume I've encountered.
I cringe when I dress despite only pulling on underclothes, a t-shirt and lounge pants. They won't be pleased with my choice of attire either, despite being in my own home.