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She’d never felt so naked.
On the boat, she’d found number twenty-one, an older woman with gray-red hair and bony, strong hands who had spoken English on the first day when the whistle had blown and they’d needed to line up for lunch—bread and tea. “Move!”
So she’d leaned over and whispered, “Where are the others?”
The woman shook her head, glared at her.
Okay, then. Shae shoved her hands between her knees and tried not to let the sea upend her stomach as the boat motored them back to the hulking ship.
She’d climbed the stairs and lined up for dinner. Potatoes in a slimy gravy, two slices of brown bread, more tea.
She probably didn’t want dinner anyway, but when Vikka sat down beside her, the idea of the woman stealing her supper rooted in her gut.
Then Twenty-Seven sat down next to her, and whatever verve she’d had died.
Twenty-Seven reached over and, with his grimy hands, grabbed her potatoes.
Vikka took the bread.
Another man, next to Vikka, grabbed the tea.
And when Shae tried to get up, to leave them to their thievery, Vikka grabbed her and pulled her back down. “Nyet.”
She’d never quite felt so violated as when they ate her dinner in front of her, then piled up their plates for her to take to the scullery.
Or when Vikka then came up behind her, grabbed her around the neck and whispered something into her ear.
She hadn’t a clue what it was, but just her breath on her skin made Shae want to retch.
And still no Judah.
The prisoners left the mess hall, a few of them smoking cigarettes they’d earned—or stolen. The guards then came out and made them line up on the deck, by number, in rows. She faced Vikka but stared out past her, to the horizon where the sun was setting over the far-away mountains. Behind her, the wind skimmed off the ocean, brutally cold, and she shivered, pulling her hat down lower.
Vikka eyed her. Smiled.
They stood on the deck in the cold while the guards finished their meals inside the cafeteria. Then they were marched down to their containers below deck.
Shae had never been so grateful to hear the doors slam, to be locked in the cold dungeon of her room.
Now, rolling over, she wrapped herself in the wool blanket, trying to ignore the press of hunger inside.
Footsteps, and more doors rolled open, then closed.
Silence, her heartbeat the only sound.
She wondered where Ned was. If he’d figured out she’d been moved yet. If Uncle Ian had gotten the demand.
Maybe, like Judah had said, he’d paid it, and it didn’t matter.
Stop crying. Crying would get her nowhere.
Please, God, where are You? Send help.
“Twenty-Three.” The voice wheedled through her, a whisper in the night.
She stilled.
“Shae, are you there?”
