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Thinking of the sex makes my face hot. I pull the sheet up to hide, but it’s June, and a person can’t hide under a sheet even inside a cabin with central air. Jameson doesn’t keep it at frigid temperatures, unlike some of my least favorite classroom buildings at NYU.
Eventually, I throw it off my face and stretch out.
Is this freedom?
It’s an unexpected irony that I’m freer here, with Jameson, than I was back at home. That’s not the way it’s supposed to be. When he first took me from that parking lot, I thought the only way to fix it was to get back to my plans as fast as possible.
Now I don’t know.
Being with him, even for this short time, has changed my perspective on everything. As a prosecutor, I’d never have seen the reasons behind the kidnapping. Not that I’m excusing the theft of an actual human being. Ofme. But how could I have meted out justice without a full understanding of the situation? Do prosecutors ever have a full understanding?
Canthey, if the judges who are supposed to be the paragons of the system are themselves corrupt?
Learning that about my grandfather made me feel sick and off-balance. He’s the man I’ve looked up to all my life. He’s the reason I wanted to become a lawyer. Of course he encouraged my interest in that career path. For all intents and purposes, my grandfather is my dad, and it would thrill any parent if their child followed in their footsteps.
But if what Jameson said is true, he wasn’t honest about his footsteps.
I don’t have any reason to think Jameson’s lying. It would be an elaborate lie to make up if all he wanted to do was kidnap a random person. Would I like to see the original documents relating to the case? Yes. I don’t think they’ll change my opinion. I’m deeply certain that they’ll corroborate his story.
I get out of bed and run my fingers through my hair. He wanted to make things fair. He wanted some sense of justice in his life, which by his account has been very difficult, to put it mildly. The one thing I know for sure is that he’ll never go back to being a criminal or a kidnapper or a scary shadow in the night. He’ll always be Jameson. I’ll always see him for who he is.
We’re gonna have to talk.
First things first. Bathroom. Quick shower to rinse off the sleep. Jameson doesn’t knock on the door or come into the bathroom. I hope he’s sleeping on the couch andnothaving a nightmare.
I hope he didn’t leave me here.
No, he wouldn’t do that. He came after me in a thunderstorm, for God’s sake, he wouldn’t take off in his SUV.
Although, if he did, it would leavemethe option to disappear, in which case…
Nothing. Nope. Not thinking about that. I brush my teeth, fix my hair, and find a set of sweatpants and a T-shirt to wear.
He’s not in the kitchen, either. Snowball sings in his cage, hopping from his nest to the floor, eating seeds, collecting water with his beak.
“Hi, Snowball.”
The little bird tweets a high, clear call and comes over to peck gently at my fingertip. I stroke the top of his head, which he seems to like. His wings puff up and he flutters them a bit.
“Do you want out of there or are you okay?”
His song sounds okay. I wonder if he can survive in the wild, or if he’s been caged too long. I bet Jameson would have some idea about that—a transitional process, maybe. Or Snowball’s his for life.
Jameson’s for life.
I’m not saying I want the same thing. I’m saying it doesn’t sound like the end of the world.
Jameson’s not in the cabin. I know it now that I’m standing in the kitchen. It’s too quiet in here. Snowball sings. The kitchen’s beautiful and cozy with the fresh eyes of the morning. Summer light shines over the sink. The teacup gleams from its place on the nail, blue and white with that rim of gold. I’d like to know more about that teacup. It’s one of the first things I noticed in Jameson’s cabin, and he’s never said a word about it.
“Where’s Jameson?”
Snowball sings, and I’d testify in court that it sounds likeI don’t know. Where?The last tweet rises like a question. His next song sounds likeWill you go find him?
“Of course I’ll go find him. You don’t think he drove away, do you?”
He lets out a series of titters that remind me of laughter.
“Yeah, me neither. If you’re okay, I’ll go look.”
