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Bottling it up.
Swallowing it down.
I ignored my debilitating despair.
Launching to my feet, I snatched my phone out of my yoga leggings pocket. Tripping forward, I sat on our bed and prepared to go to war.
My fault...
“Neri...sweetie, a-are you okay?” Mum asked, drifting forward warily.
I ignored her and pressed the contact number for immigration.
Holding my phone to my ear, I looked up as it rang.
Dad frowned for a moment before understanding. “You’re calling immigration?”
I nodded. “I’m going to call everyone I can. I’m going to ring every single person in charge until they free him. I’ll visit the prime minister if I have to. Aslan isn’t going anywhere.” My voice sounded strange. So strange. Thick with unshed tears and hollow with heartbreak.
And when an operator finally came on, I sat stiff as a tree and rooted myself in belief that I could fix this.
I wouldn’t stop.
I would never stop.
He’s coming home.
To me.
By sea, moon, stars, and fate, this is not how we end.
This is not how he dies.
Not yet.
Not yet...
Chapter Twenty-Nine
*
Nerida
AGE: 20 YRS OLD
*
(Love in Afrikaans: Liefde)
“WELL, PUT SOMEONE ON WHO CAN HELP then!” I shouted, pacing in my childhood bedroom, rubbing at my heart that’d forgotten how to beat properly without him.
Seven days.
Seven nights.
A hundred phone calls.
A thousand threats.
