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But instead of politely declining my offer, Karol rolls his eyes, scoffs, and exits the kitchen, the sound of his clicking heels fading as he gets further away. Damn. Never seen him act like that before. He’s usually all but licking our boots.
There’s definitely something up his behind.
I am alone, for the first time in weeks. Really, truly alone in the quiet, beautiful house. At least it seems that way. For the first time since I’ve been under the guys’ control, there is no one watching me. And I am not going to waste this opportunity. But first, I need money. It’s bad enough I have no ID or phone.
I poke my head into the hallway and make my way back to the bedrooms. I duck inside the first one I happen upon, belonging to which guy, I don’t know, and pull open a couple dresser drawers until I find a small bit of cash. I would prefer to have more, but I stuff the euros in my shorts pocket and head for the door. It’s something, at least.
It’s strange to be scrounging for money. While my dad isn’t rich by any stretch, I’ve always had everything I needed and most everything I wanted. Not that I wanted much. I’ve never really been into clothes and things like that. The only reason I’m dressing nicely now is that the guys—or someone they’ve hired—has shopped for me.
Guess they don’t like their prisoners wearing rags.
Maybe this is all a trap. Why is no one breathing down my neck? What suddenly changed? Do the guys no longer care about me since they can’t use me as leverage to get my dad to do what they want? How is it they were so vigilant about watching me for the last few weeks and, now that we’re back on land, I’m free to do what I want? It makes no sense.
But I’m not wasting this opportunity. The guys might be convinced my father is out to get me, but I can’t exactly trust them either, can I?
I step outside the front door waiting for alarms to start blaring, or security guys with big guns to jump out of the bushes. But neither happens. This is actually scarier than if thereweresomeone to drag me back into the house and lock me up. Who would have thought a taste of freedom would be so terrifying?
I pull the door closed behind me and follow the first path I see, which twists around a corner and disappears into brushy overgrowth.
The landscape is dry, beautiful in an arid sort of way, with bright pink bougainvillea going crazy here and there. I can’t tell if all this grows naturally or is the handiwork of a talented landscaper able to make everything look casually thrown together. It’s so different from Miami, all lush and green where gardeners are constantly mowing lawns and trimming hedges.
I pick up my pace almost to a jog, which is the best I can do carrying the puppy. I have no idea where I’m going except downhill, which I figure will eventually lead to something, if not town then at least another house or someplace where I can ask for help. A plane buzzes by overhead, probably heading for the island’s airport. It’s funny. People come from near and far to visit Ibiza and god knows they spend all kinds of money on their trips here, and yet I am trying desperately to leave. They’ll give anything to get here, and I’m on a mission to escape.
I remain quiet on the path, cradling the puppy and hoping she doesn’t suddenly start making noise. Another plane flies overhead and I wonder how the hell I’ll ever get on one with no ID. But I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. First things first.
I see the town not far away and without even thinking about it, my pace quickens. I’m free. Finally free. My weeks of captivity are about to be over. And the crazy, sick thing is, I am actually a little sad.
What the fuck, Abby?
I just can’t with this. My head is a mess. The guys obviously did a number on me. I guess that Stockholm syndrome shit is really a thing.
But I can’t deny, I feel safe with them. The way they protected me that night after dinner was epic. Like I was someone important. Not little old Abby Madden, college student from Miami on her first sojourn to Europe who wears ripped jeans and Converse Chucks.
But I can’t live locked up. That’s bullshit. No one wants that.
And yet.
Am I running just because the opportunity presented itself? Is this really the solution to the problem? Escaping has been on my mind for so long that my action today is just the default. I saw an open door, and I ran through it, literally and figuratively.
I’m breathing hard from my light jog, clearly out of shape from sitting around on my ass on that yacht for weeks. But I see a crossing guard and dodge traffic to get to her.
Donde ésta la policía?
That’s about all I remember from my high school Spanish, and I am hoping against hope the guard understands my hideous pronunciation.
She looks at me, surprised I’ve accosted her in the middle of a busy street, and points. “Señorita, it is that way,” she says, gesturing with her chin.
She speaks English!
Ohthankgod.
She kindly stops traffic so I can get back to the curb alive, shaking her head at another careless, idiotic tourist. I follow the signs forpolicíaand after a couple blocks find it right off the main drag.
I run inside and am not sure whether to laugh or cry.
I’m here. I’m saved. Oh my god. I can go home. Or somewhere.
“Habla inglés, Señor?”I ask.
