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As kind and sympathetic as Yulia seems, I can’t forget that she’s an arms dealer’s wife and may have a different view of morality than most people.
“He also wants to force a child on me,” I continue, pressing my point while she’s still in shock. “That’s why I need the morning-after pill today. In another couple of hours, I’ll be outside the thirty-six-hour window. Not that the pill would help if I’m still here when Peter returns. He’ll do what he wants with me, and nobody will stop him. Please, Yulia”—I catch her arm again—“you don’t even have to let me go. Just let me make one phone call or send an email. Nobody would even know it was you who helped me. Please.”
She pales more with every word I speak, and I almost feel bad. I understand the impossible position I’m putting her in. Though she seems willing to look the other way when it comes to her husband’s deadly business, Yulia is not like him—or at least she possesses enough empathy to put herself in my shoes. At the same time, she knows how dangerous Peter is and what she would be risking by double-crossing him.
“Are you—” She clears her throat. “Are you ever with him willingly? That first night, at dinner, I could feel the tension between the two of you, but the way he looked at you… And then the way you looked when you were saying good-bye… I was in and out of the kitchen, but I thought I saw— Did I get the wrong impression? Is he hurting you? Forcing you every time?”
My face heats with embarrassment at the private question, and I drop my hand again. “That’s not— I mean, he kidnapped me. What do you think?”
To my surprise, she looks uncomfortable. “I think it’s complicated sometimes,” she says after a moment. “Not every relationship follows the same path, and there are times when—” She stops, as if thinking better of it.
Frowning, I stare at her. There’s a story there, but whatever it is, I can’t afford to focus on it. I have to persuade her to help me before it’s too late.
“Yulia, please,” I say. “This is my only chance. You are my only chance. If he returns and I’m here, I’ll never see my parents again, never have any control over my own life… Please. I know you understand my situation. Peter Sokolov killed my husband and tortured me. He stalked and kidnapped me, and he’s been keeping me captive for almost five months. I have to leave before he returns, and all you need to do is let me have access to a phone. Just for a second. I could contact the FBI and then—”
“And then we’ll have every law enforcement agency targeting our home,” Kent says, pushing the door open without knocking. His square jaw is clenched with fury, his pale eyes narrowed into slits as he crosses the room and grabs Yulia’s hand in a white-knuckled grip. “Let’s go,” he tells his wife through gritted teeth, and I watch in growing despair as he drags her out of the room.
“I’m sorry,” she mouths before he slams the door, locking me in again, and I know it’s over.
My one chance at escape is lost.
I cry for two hours before I finally fall asleep—and promptly sink into a series of nightmares. I don’t know why this is happening to me again, but as I wake up, shaking and sweating from another vivid dream about drowning in my kitchen sink, I know I won’t be able to sleep tonight.
Throwing off the blanket, I swing my legs over the bed to get up when the lock on the door clicks and the door quietly swings open.
Startled, I grab the blanket to cover myself, but no one enters my room.
Wrapping the blanket around myself, I rush to the door, and at the far end of a hallway, I see a tall, slender figure disappearing around the corner, her blond hair glowing like a beacon in the moonlit darkness.
Yulia.
She came through for me.
I have no idea how she managed to sneak away from her husband, but I don’t waste time questioning my good fortune. Quickly throwing on a dress and a pair of flat sandals, I slip into the hallway and head toward the kitchen, being careful not to make any noise.
I need to find a phone or a computer—anything that would let me contact the outside world.
“Here.” A pair of keys are suddenly thrust into my hand, and I suppress a squeak as Yulia appears in front of me, seemingly melting out of the wall to my right. With the moonlight streaming through the big windows, her pale face resembles something otherworldly. “The Mercedes is right outside,” she whispers urgently before I can recover from my shock. “I disabled the perimeter alarms, opened the automatic gates, and directed the drones to the beach. You have ten minutes, do you understand? There’s a gas station seven kilometers to the southwest. Drive straight there, and you’ll find a phone.”
