Untying the strings that keep the mosquito net together, I brush the ends away and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My ankle throbs. It’s going to take a while before I’ll be able to put my full weight on it.
My eyes have adjusted enough to the semi-darkness to make out a huge armoire with animal carvings in the wood against the wall. The handles are copper hands. I sweep my gaze to the left and still.
Ian sits in an armchair, his arms resting casually on the armrests and his legs spread wide. He’s wearing a pair of jeans. No shirt or shoes. His hair falls over the side of his face, partially obscuring his features. His expression is emotionless, but his eyes are assessing. They miss nothing. The muscles of his abdomen make deep shadows in the dim light. The soft glow of the lamp plays over his chest, making more contours that highlight the strength under all that hardness. The words that commemorate his values are dark scribblings on his skin, unintelligible from this distance in the somberness of the room, but they’re engraved in my heart. Ian is a memory I can’t efface.
His deep voice carries softly through the room. “How are you feeling?”
My throat is scratchy. “Where am I?”
Getting up, he crosses the floor with easy but purposeful strides. Everything he does has a reason. He doesn’t waste energy on mundane tasks or emotions. “Vic Falls.”
“Zimbabwe?” I cry out.
He pours a glass of water and hands it to me.
I accept the drink mechanically. “So this is where you hide out.”
The corner of his mouth tilts. “Among other places.”
Thirsty, I down the water. He pours me another glass. I drink that too.
“Do you need to use the bathroom?” he asks.
I shake my head.
He walks toward the chair and deeper into the room until the shadows swallow him. The clink of cutlery sounds. A moment later, he’s back with a bowl and a fork.
“Here.” He places the items in my hand. “You need to eat something.”
I stare at the contents of the bowl. Fruit salad.
“You need some sugar,” he says, motioning at the salad with an encouraging nod.
Spearing a piece of mango, I bring it to my lips. I’m not hungry, especially not when my stomach is tied in knots, but he’s right. I need my strength. I chew and swallow. The fruit is sweet and velvety on my tongue.
Instead of giving me space, he towers over me with his arms crossed, watching me fork a cube of kiwi and put it in my mouth.
“What now?” I ask after chewing. “How long are you planning on keeping me here?”
“Eat,” he says, jutting his chin toward the bowl.
He lets me eat in silence. When the bowl is empty, I leave it on the nightstand and look up at him.
He runs his gaze over my face. “What happened with the cops?”
At the unpleasant memory, I blow out a shaky breath. “They accused me of being an accomplice and said they wouldn’t arrest me if I spied for them.”
He gives a wry smile. “Spy on me.” After considering me for another moment, he asks, “Is that why you ran? You didn’t want to spy on me?”
“Yes, and I didn’t want to be arrested either.”
“I wouldn’t have let that happen.” His tone is patient, but his brown eyes are ablaze. “I told you I was coming for you.”
My temper rises. “What option did that leave me? Being your prisoner?”
He continues in his infuriatingly calm tone. “How was this supposed to work? Were you going to wear a wire? Plant bugs?”
He’s not going to let the questions go. I sigh. “They wanted to know how and where you launder the money and who the other gang members are. The detective who questioned me said I was clever enough to figure out a way of finding evidence.”
“Motherfucker.” He narrows his eyes. “How were you going to get the information to him?”
The interrogation is making me nervous. Ian makes me feel like I’ve collaborated with the cops when I’ve done nothing of the kind.
“I haven’t betrayed you,” I say.
“How, Cas?” he asks in a sterner tone.
“I was supposed to find a way to contact him when I had information.”
The muscles in his biceps flex. “What did you tell them?”
“I didn’t tell them anything, but like I told you on the phone, they had photos of us in the pool. They dusted the cabin for fingerprints. That’s how they figured out your identity.”
He drops his arms to his sides and clenches his hands. “I’ll fucking kill them just for those photos. Who saw them?”
I wipe my sweaty palms over my thighs. “I don’t know. I suppose whoever took them and the detective.”
The intent that sparks in his eyes is the deadly kind. “Who is he?”