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“We’ll be heading home. New York.”
“I’d rather you stay in town,” Detective Jackson pipes in. “In case we have any further—”
“We’ll be flying out within the hour,” I interrupt. “Unless I need to call my lawyer, that is.”
Agent Martinez stands up, and Detective Jackson follows. Agent Martinez glances at Ember, then at me and says, “That’s all for now. I’ll be in contact if we have any further questions.”
“Mr. Martinez,” Ember calls to him as he begins to walk out of the room.
He turns to face her but doesn’t answer.
“Is it possible for me to have that photo of me as a child? I don’t have any photos. I don’t have anything.”
I am prepared to lunge for the man and rip the file with her photo right out of his hands if I have to, but luckily, he nods and hands it to her.
“Thank you,” she says as she stares down at the picture I’m sure she doesn’t truly even recognize.
My heart breaks for what Ember must be feeling. In a matter of hours, she has lost everything. She’s been told her mother, who she has feared her entire life, is dead. She’s also been told that the father she was forced to live with in captivity could now possibly be alive.
Her eyes remain on the photo as she says, “I’ve never been on a plane before.”
The number of firsts coming up for her are sure to be staggering. All I can do is try to help her muddle through them.
“Well, the good news is, my mother insisted on a private jet, so we won’t have to deal with all the crowds. It will be more comfortable too. We can have something to eat on the plane and get some sleep. You look tired.” I know I sure as hell am.
Finally breaking her gaze from the picture, she looks up at me with eyes that could tell a lifetime of horrific tales. “You called me your wife,” she says in a monotone voice with zero emotion on her face. A blank pallet that leaves me wondering what she’s thinking.
“Because you are,” I say.
I don’t have the mental bandwidth to dive into what our future looks like beyond getting on a plane and getting the hell out of here. I need distance from this nightmare before I can even think. I need clean clothes, shoes that fit, and a goddamn drink. I need normalcy. I fucking need a minute where I feel ordinary.
“I’m scared,” Ember admits, but I don’t need to hear the words to know that she is.
I pull her up out of the chair and embrace her tight. “We’re going to figure this all out. I don’t have all the answers now. I don’t know what happens next. But you and I will figure it out.”
2
Ember
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God,” an older woman who has the same facial bone structure as Christopher says as she walks toward us, stunned with her mouth wide open. “Oh. My. God.” She places her fingers on her lips as a floodgate of tears releases from her eyes. “You’re alive. You are really alive. You’re really here! Oh my God.”
“I’m alive,” Christopher says as he approaches and pulls her into a hug. “I’m alive, Mom.” He looks up at the sky, then inhales deeply, closing his eyes briefly as he does.
I can’t look away, even though I feel as if I’m invading their privacy by observing this twisted reunion. What it must be like to embrace a ghost. To hold your dead son in your arms, only to feel the warmth of life and the breath of the living.
“I know I heard your voice on the phone, but to see you.” His mother pulls away from the hug and looks Christopher over from head to toe. “You’re really here. I can’t believe you’re really here. How did this happen? How?”
“There’s a lot to tell you,” Christopher says as he then turns away from her and reaches out his hand for me to take. “But first, I want to introduce you to Ember. She was with me in Hallelujah Junction, and we escaped together.” When I cautiously approach and take his hand, he adds, “Ember, this is my mother, Louisa Davenport.”
Louisa glances down at my hand intwined with her son’s and then paints a smile on her face as she gives a slight nod in acknowledgement. She then reaches her hand out to me. I’d never shaken a hand before but know what to do from all my reading. It’s odd to touch someone else—a complete stranger—but I want to be polite. I want Christopher’s mother to like me.
“Nice to meet you, Ember,” she says as she grips my hand firmly.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Davenport.” I make eye contact with her and notice she has hazel eyes beneath very thick eyelashes against heavily gray-eyeshadowed lids. I’ve never worn makeup before and wonder if Louisa will someday show me how to apply it like she does.
