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Fuck!
I shook her again, my fingers pressing against the bones in her arms.
THAIS
His eyes churned with anger, the corners narrowed, the blue irises swirling with purpose, his pupils contracted. I could smell his warm, unoffending breath he was so close, and the soap and cigarettes on his body, though I had never seen him smoke before.
He released me and marched over to a red milk crate, yanked out a thick mass of old telephone cord and unraveled it; his large hands moved in a chaotic motion, his fingers poked and pried and pulled as if it were a complicated puzzle as he untangled the massive knots.
Anxiety filled me. He’s going to tie me up!
I glanced at the locked door, wondering if I could get to it fast enough, but it was a preposterous idea.
“Give me your hands,” he demanded; the cord, only partially untangled, hung from his fist.
I shook my head and walked backwards toward the door.
Atticus followed.
“I’m going to find my sister!” I cried out, my voice strained; I put my arms up in front of me.
Atticus stopped. “With a getaway bag?” he said with accusation, glancing at the bag on the floor. “You were doing more than that.”
He came toward me again, the long cord dragging the floor beside him. I kept walking backwards toward the door until I could go no farther.
“Please, I’m begging you to let me go,” I said, still with my hands out in front of me. “I-I can tell you’re not a bad man. “Y-You’re d-different from the other men here. Please, just let me go…” A part of me truly believed that he was different.
I was teetering precariously on the edge of my and Sosie’s freedom. Every second I spent in the room pushed me further and further away from our only chance. Sosie’s face flashed across my mind; I saw Farah waiting with her by the fountains, getting anxious as the time passed and I never showed; I saw Sosie’s hope drain out of her face—I needed to leave. Now.
“Please!” Begging was all I had.
Atticus stopped, the cord dangling from his hand.
He shook his head with what seemed like concern, and then said in a calmer voice, “I know you’re going to try running. And I know that someone is helping you”—he pointed upward as if to emphasize his point—“and how I know is not only because of the bag, but because it’s not even nightfall yet. Unless you had help, you’d wait until it was dark before trying to escape, like any intelligent person would.”
My gaze strayed; he was right and I didn’t want him to know it.
Reaching up with both hands, I adjusted the shoulder straps of my dress for nothing other than a nervous distraction.
“Is it Farah?” Atticus finally came out with it.
“No.”
“It’s her, isn’t it?” He moved closer.
I pressed my back against the door.
He dropped the phone cord. I glanced at it once, and then met his conflicted gaze.
“I want you to listen to me,” he said calmly, intently. “Just listen to what I’m about to tell you—will you do that at least?”
I hesitated, and then nodded.
“Farah, Naomi, any one of Rafe’s wives will kill you before they ever help you.” He placed his hands around my upper arms.
Feeling uncertain about his closeness, I could only look at his shirt at first.
“If Farah has promised to help you out of the city,” he went on, “it’s only to get you alone with her. She’ll help you get only so far, and then she’ll have one of her midwives kill you. Or she’ll kill you herself.”
