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The Migration Act carried a maximum penalty of ten years for people smuggling and concealing a non-citizen. Ten years I would happily serve on their behalf if only Aslan was released. I’d serve every day for a hundred years if they gave him an Australian passport and permitted him to stay.
If they didn’t send him back to Cem Kara.
If they didn’t ship him to his death.
I’d never ask for anything else.
Never strive for anything more.
I’d happily rot in jail to protect my parents and my husband.
I didn’t care what happened to me.
Just him.
Only him.
None of this matters without him!
Dad agreed. Mum agreed. They fought as fiercely for Aslan as I did. Dad disappeared for hours at a time as if physically hunting for him and visiting anyone with a smidgen of power who could help us.
He even told Wayne Gratt, the detective who’d taken my statement and Dad’s friend, the truth about Aslan.
We were past caring what would happen to us.
Past fearing anything but the worst.
The worst being...
No.
Don’t think it.
I bit my fist to contain the welling screams inside me.
I wouldn’t let that happen.
I refused to lose him.
Not now, not ever.
Teeth marks and cuts covered the back of my hands from where I’d shoved my knuckles as far as I could inside my mouth to stop my sobs. Here, in my childhood bedroom with my parents down the hall, I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t free the wet chaos inside me. I couldn’t howl at the moon or beg the sea to intervene.
I wanted a tsunami to crash over Australia and rinse Aslan free from wherever he was being held. I wanted a fire to chase his capturers out of whatever prison he was in. I wanted plagues and hurricanes. I wanted every natural disaster imaginable to come to my aid and find him.
Honey messaged me constantly, trying to help.
Billy rang government agencies on my behalf.
Dad hired an immigration lawyer who stayed at our house for two full days, hounding her contacts and demanding to speak to someone in charge of Aslan’s case.
Mum did her best to contact someone in parliament.
Teddy spoke to as many news sites as possible.
Eddie tried to get our story on social media.
And I did my best to stay alive even though every part of me was dead.
He didn’t have his phone so I couldn’t track him. I had no way of contacting him or touching him, kissing him, loving him...
I’m sorry.
Fuck, I’m so sorry.
Eight years he’d been by my side.
Eight years I’d heard his voice and touched his body and whispered goodnight in the dark. Eight years I’d loved him, secretly and wantonly, and to have him suddenly gone...
He’s not gone.
He can’t be.
It’s just...not possible.
Each time I hung up from a stranger who didn’t care, loneliness pounced with deadly claws.
I’d leap into another phone call.
Another frustrating, worrisome, unsuccessful phone call.
I ran from facing the truth.
The truth that Aslan was out of my reach.
If I couldn’t find him in time.
If I failed to bring him home.
Then we, him, this, us...was over.
And that just couldn’t happen.
Love stories like ours didn’t end at the beginning.
Romances like this were epic and everlasting, and if Aslan dared to die, and I was left all alone, then...what was the point?
What was the point of falling?
What was the purpose of love when it was sharper than any knife, crueller than any enemy, and as merciless as death itself?
If Aslan was taken from me, then...I was ash and dust.
I was nothing.
And just like nothing, I would cease to exist.
Because how could I exist without him?
How could I go on without him?
How could I find purpose in life when my very purpose had been stolen?
I can’t.
I won’t.
I’ll find him...
Chapter Thirty
*
Aslan
*
(Heart in Sanskrit:???????)
I WAS GIVEN A WINDOW SEAT.
Thoughtful, I supposed.
Or sadistic if they knew what awaited me down there.
I expected my heart to stop pumping as we descended into Istanbul. Dusk was falling, triggering streetlights and crushes of buildings to glitter with a welcoming honey glow. The Bosporus Strait sliced like a dark ribbon through the city, providing a natural boundary between Asia and Europe, connecting the Black Sea to the Sea of Marmara.
My eyes skipped over the view, remembering moments, recognising landmarks, drinking in the sprawling city as it soaked up the last spiels of sunset.
I’m...home.
The last time I’d seen this view, I’d sat next to Melike as I pointed out mosques, towers, and bazaars as we soared away from the only country we’d ever known. I’d travelled on a passport that wasn’t in my real name, fearing for my parents’ safety as we came out of hiding to flee, never knowing that it was my fault we were running in the first place.
My hands balled as the wing flaps activated, slowing our descent, lining up for the runway below. I glanced at Roger, my escort. The thin-lipped, blond-haired guy who’d accosted me outside the Townsville Hospital. I’d learned his name thanks to the many hours we’d shared in a tiny interview room as he tried to uncover my secrets. He’d been my last contact on Australian soil and had grown into a strange kind of acquaintance.
