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One step.
I pause again to think. I won’t make it down the steep, slippery stairs to the beach. I’m too weak, too close to passing out. I’ll fall to my death. The best option is walking straight down the valley like I did it when I first arrived here when I caught lice. I know the way. I can find it in the dark.
Another step.
It’s funny how I thought back then that catching lice was the worst thing that could happen to me. The most important goal in my life was keeping Angelo out of my heart. All I want now is him. I don’t want to die alone.
It’s hard. So hard.
Cold.
The shivering makes my feet coordination tougher. I can’t walk a few meters, let alone kilometers. But then I think about him, about Angelo. About deep, dark, comfortable water. About floating on my back and letting the tide carry me. It’s easier when I pretend.
I stumble over a rock and go down, blocking my fall with my hands. My palms burn. I don’t think about it. I don’t think about the nausea or my unraveling vision as I crawl and get up again.
I think about the sea.
My husband.
I don’t know how long it takes or how many times I fall. Night cuts to black and back to a moonlit landscape as I hover on the precipice of unconsciousness, dipping my toes into that dark, beckoning water with increasing frequency.
Finally, the mill comes into view. It’s the first building on the outskirts of the village. Tears of relief and fatigue freeze on my cheeks. The river flows like a silver ribbon through the inkiness of the night. An owl hoots close by. It all seems so peaceful. So normal. Like nothing is wrong. Like I’m just caught in a bad dream.
Just a few more steps.
The big old wooden door looms up in front of me. I raise my hand, using my last dregs of strength to knock, but my knuckles barely make a sound.
One more time.
I try.
I try again.
But it’s one time too many.
I can’t hold my breath any longer. I collapse on the threshold, drifting away like a ribbon on the silver water.
ChapterTwenty-Five
Angelo
We’ve been tracking the spoor of the SUV for hours. We’re only a hundred kilometers from Bastia. The kidnappers are driving in circles, my guess is to throw anyone tailing them off their track, but no one has a better tracker than me, that tracker being my traitorous uncle.
Despite the quarter moon, the dark of the night is thick. There’s no light pollution from the city in the mountains. There are only stars and more stars in the sky. The air is crisp with cold.
My driver steers the 4x4 carefully down the dirt road, keeping an eye out for potholes and big rocks that can damage the chassis. Uncle Enzo sits next to me in the back, still dressed in his silk robe from this morning. We haven’t stopped to eat. The men are drinking water to keep hydrated and snacking on the energy and protein bars they habitually carry in their backpacks.
My uncle’s big stomach bounces as he’s tossed around on the seat. He wets his cracked lips with his tongue. I don’t offer him refreshments. He doesn’t deserve the basic commodities of food and drinks. As for me, I don’t register thirst or hunger. My only focus is on getting to the kids. It’s all I allow myself to concentrate on. Until I get them back, it’s all I live and breathe for.
We’re catching up with them. The tracks are getting fresher.
“Left here,” my uncle says. “Stop.”
When the driver has complied, he gets out. I follow, pushing my gun against his side.
“Look over there.” He points at the bushes on the bend. “The branches are broken.” He crouches down to study the ground in the headlights of the 4x4. “The tracks are clear. The wind hasn’t disturbed them. They went this way not long ago.”
“Get inside,” I say, dragging him up by his arm and shoving him toward the vehicle. Once we’re seated, I tell the driver to continue.
