His face reddened on impact, eyes widening as he keeled over, groaning.
She shoved open the door. Her heart raced wildly. She stumbled onto the wooden walkway. Darkness churned beneath the slats.
Panic filled her body. Now what?
She took in the gentle sway of the trees. The woods. They were only a few feet away. If she could make it there…if she could hide out…
Too late. Her body hit the ground.
She heard footsteps. The outline of his boot by her head.
“Well,” Haris said, breathing heavily. “I guess I’ll have to hurt you after all.”
She heard the blow before she felt it.
The world went dark.
26
•
When she came to, she was tied to a chair.
Her shoulders screamed in pain from being tied for so long—who knew for how long? It was hard to tell at first. There was only darkness and more darkness outside the windows.
She forced herself to sit up straighter. The zip ties around her wrists were tight. So tight they cut into her flesh.
The cabin was silent except for the sound of the ticking clock. Four in the morning. Only now did she notice Haris across from her, half in shadow.
“I’m sorry, Hena.”
He said it so sincerely, she wanted to laugh. Except, of course, there was nothing remotely humorous about this situation.
A wave of nausea passed over her. Her head felt woozy—from the impact of his blow, or from the drugs he’d laced her water with, she couldn’t be sure. She pushed back a sob. The guests might or might not believe Haris’s planted whispers, but her mother certainly wouldn’t. Neither would Khala. Would it matter, though? When enough people said a thing was true, it became true, didn’t it?
“You don’t have to do this,” she said. “You can let me go. I won’t say anything. We could pretend this never happened. I swear.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
He walked closer. Sat down on the chair near her. Resting his elbows on his knees, he gave her an admiring look.
“The way you fought, I can’t deny you have your father’s fire,” he said. “I think he was right about us. We could have been an unstoppable team.”
She looked at his self-pitying expression. As though, despite the facts of the matter—Hena tied up as she was, awaiting her own death—she should be the one comforting him.
It sparked a memory.
Her mother cowering before her father after he’d beaten her. It was a common enough occurrence. Ammi half crumpled on the floor, and that particular moment when he was in the crossroads between remorse and rage. Where the direction of what he chose to do was open. She remembered how her mother spoke to him. As though he were a wounded beast. She soothed him. Made it seem as though his violence was understandable. Inevitable. She promised to not push him to anger again. She said what she needed to say so that she—they—could survive another day.
An idea formed. It might not work. But what did she have to lose? She took a deep breath and channeled her mother. In those perilous moments, Ammi focused on the truth. Because it was hard to call bullshit on what was real. So Hena focused on that. The real.
She surveyed the cabin. The worn kitchen cabinets. She thought of her parents’ photo tucked away in the drawer. Her father had been dead for thirteen years, but Haris still held on to that picture.
“You must have come here often with my father,” she said.
He was silent for a moment, his attention fixed on the view outside the window.
“The first time, I was fourteen,” he said.
