That night, in Puerto Vallarta, when Riley had followed me – I was buying girls. Had gone – not upstairs, as Menas had mentioned to Riley – downstairs, into the basement of the club, a giant space that housed over a hundred women. I bought thirteen that night. Climbed back up the stairs, into that salsa club, proud. Happy. Glanced at my watch as I re-entered the club. It was still early. She’d be up, waiting for me. And I suddenly couldn’t wait to see her. I didn’t know that she was already an hour away, in the trunk of that asshole’s car. I walked out of that club a naïve individual. Walked into the hotel still clueless. Didn’t even understand it when I walked into an empty hotel suite, her satellite phone on the bedside table. It took me another hour to fully comprehend it, the moment when I fully accepted it … it was a punch hard into my chest, a punch that broke through bone and gripped my heart and squeezed so hard that I physically ached. I fell onto my knees in the middle of the Puerto Vallarta police station and sobbed like a child. I broke into pieces on that dirty linoleum floor. Then I called my men.
In the nine months of Riley’s disappearance, I killed three men in my search for her. I wasn’t proud of that fact. But trust me, they were men who deserved to die. I wanted to kill this man as well, wanted nothing more than to physically rip him apart with my hands. But that would be Riley’s decision to make. I couldn’t weigh her down with my sins, wouldn’t burden her with the guilt that I would always carry.
Elyse’s disappearance hadn’t been my fault. Riley’s had. I was the sole reason she was in that salsa club. The sole reason she was alone, in that dangerous country, without protection. Nine days would have been too long, much less nine months. I didn’t know how to take that time back, didn’t know how I would love her the rest of her life without smothering her. Because, honestly, all I wanted to do, for the rest of my life, was protect her. Never leave her side. Love her. Treasure her. Marry her. Make her smile. Hear her laugh. Love her sweetly, deeply, and into forever.
I watched her sleep and wanted to touch her, but worried I would crush her with my love.
Carlos Menas made it five steps out of the building, a new slave by his side, when he was taken. The girl was put into one black SUV, he in the other, accompanied by three men. Men who had spent the last four years in Brett’s employ. Men who rescued a thousand girls from men like him. Men who had killed before, and put no value on his life.
At the house, an oceanfront mansion rented for the trip, Brett drew me a bath. Climbed in behind me and held me when I cried. Brought in a team of chefs, a doctor, and a masseuse, all of which were unnecessary. I wanted only to be in his arms, nothing else. The next morning, we climbed up the steps and onto his jet, heading straight home to my family. Jena had been right, sitting in my kitchen eons ago. The jet was twice as big, twice as luxurious as the plane I had always taken. A hundred questions and confirmations that could all wait for later. I settled into the seat, my hand in his, and didn’t know. Didn’t realize that back in Puerto Vallarta:
Brett’s team tracked down Carlos Menas’ car.
Moved him from their SUV into the trunk.
Drove him back across the border, straight to the address listed on his vehicle registration, a home thirty miles outside of Albuquerque.
Forcibly returned him to his home, leaving him chained in the basement, in a cell that had, less than 72 hours before, belonged to Kitten me. Then they called Brett.
We were in my parents’ living room when the call came. Unbeknownst to me, Brett had become close with my family during the nine months of my capture. Had flown twenty times between Lauderdale and Quincy. Trusted my father with information he had never shared with me. Kept him apprised to the buying trips, to the slaves rescued, to the women - none of which were me. They hadn’t known what had happened to me, hadn’t been certain that I was taken for the slave trade, yet Brett had doubled his efforts there. My father had come to Cancun, and they had watched hotel security footage, had tracked down my helpful cabbie, had spoken to employees of the salsa club. No one remembered me, or reported sightings of the man. We had both, in the events of that night, been unmemorable enough to have never existed.
When Brett’s phone rang, he glanced at the display, then at my father. I caught the look that passed, noticed the curl of my father’s fingers against his pant leg when Brett stood up and excused himself, his voice low when he brought the phone to his ear. My father’s leg jumped, a nervous jiggle, and I wasn’t surprised when he stood up, his hurried steps carrying him outside to the patio, my eyes following them.
“Are you okay?” My mother’s hand touched my arm and I jumped, my gaze skipping to her, the pained look at my response twisting my gut.
I smiled and hoped it looked normal. “Yes, Mom. I’m just glad to be home.”
“God, when I think of what you must have been through...” her hand trembled when she covered her mouth and I noticed the absence of polish on her nails. She’d always worn polish, gets it done on Tuesdays after work, her standard appointment. I suddenly picked up on the other details. The grey at her roots, the dead cigarettes in the ashtray. I was gone for nine months and my mother fell apart. My heart squeezed at the realization. I reached out and clasped her hand, gripped it firmly. “It wasn’t what you think, Mom. He wasn’t bad. Honestly. He was a psychology freak, liked to ask questions. That was most of it.”
She swallowed and gripped my hand. Ran her other one over the top of our clasp, her cold fingers tracing the lines of my veins. “I can see your bruises, Riley. Your winces. I can hear the change in your breaths, the pain in your voice. I am, though I haven’t always been the best, your mother.”
In the nine months of Riley’s disappearance, I killed three men in my search for her. I wasn’t proud of that fact. But trust me, they were men who deserved to die. I wanted to kill this man as well, wanted nothing more than to physically rip him apart with my hands. But that would be Riley’s decision to make. I couldn’t weigh her down with my sins, wouldn’t burden her with the guilt that I would always carry.
Elyse’s disappearance hadn’t been my fault. Riley’s had. I was the sole reason she was in that salsa club. The sole reason she was alone, in that dangerous country, without protection. Nine days would have been too long, much less nine months. I didn’t know how to take that time back, didn’t know how I would love her the rest of her life without smothering her. Because, honestly, all I wanted to do, for the rest of my life, was protect her. Never leave her side. Love her. Treasure her. Marry her. Make her smile. Hear her laugh. Love her sweetly, deeply, and into forever.
I watched her sleep and wanted to touch her, but worried I would crush her with my love.
Carlos Menas made it five steps out of the building, a new slave by his side, when he was taken. The girl was put into one black SUV, he in the other, accompanied by three men. Men who had spent the last four years in Brett’s employ. Men who rescued a thousand girls from men like him. Men who had killed before, and put no value on his life.
At the house, an oceanfront mansion rented for the trip, Brett drew me a bath. Climbed in behind me and held me when I cried. Brought in a team of chefs, a doctor, and a masseuse, all of which were unnecessary. I wanted only to be in his arms, nothing else. The next morning, we climbed up the steps and onto his jet, heading straight home to my family. Jena had been right, sitting in my kitchen eons ago. The jet was twice as big, twice as luxurious as the plane I had always taken. A hundred questions and confirmations that could all wait for later. I settled into the seat, my hand in his, and didn’t know. Didn’t realize that back in Puerto Vallarta:
Brett’s team tracked down Carlos Menas’ car.
Moved him from their SUV into the trunk.
Drove him back across the border, straight to the address listed on his vehicle registration, a home thirty miles outside of Albuquerque.
Forcibly returned him to his home, leaving him chained in the basement, in a cell that had, less than 72 hours before, belonged to Kitten me. Then they called Brett.
We were in my parents’ living room when the call came. Unbeknownst to me, Brett had become close with my family during the nine months of my capture. Had flown twenty times between Lauderdale and Quincy. Trusted my father with information he had never shared with me. Kept him apprised to the buying trips, to the slaves rescued, to the women - none of which were me. They hadn’t known what had happened to me, hadn’t been certain that I was taken for the slave trade, yet Brett had doubled his efforts there. My father had come to Cancun, and they had watched hotel security footage, had tracked down my helpful cabbie, had spoken to employees of the salsa club. No one remembered me, or reported sightings of the man. We had both, in the events of that night, been unmemorable enough to have never existed.
When Brett’s phone rang, he glanced at the display, then at my father. I caught the look that passed, noticed the curl of my father’s fingers against his pant leg when Brett stood up and excused himself, his voice low when he brought the phone to his ear. My father’s leg jumped, a nervous jiggle, and I wasn’t surprised when he stood up, his hurried steps carrying him outside to the patio, my eyes following them.
“Are you okay?” My mother’s hand touched my arm and I jumped, my gaze skipping to her, the pained look at my response twisting my gut.
I smiled and hoped it looked normal. “Yes, Mom. I’m just glad to be home.”
“God, when I think of what you must have been through...” her hand trembled when she covered her mouth and I noticed the absence of polish on her nails. She’d always worn polish, gets it done on Tuesdays after work, her standard appointment. I suddenly picked up on the other details. The grey at her roots, the dead cigarettes in the ashtray. I was gone for nine months and my mother fell apart. My heart squeezed at the realization. I reached out and clasped her hand, gripped it firmly. “It wasn’t what you think, Mom. He wasn’t bad. Honestly. He was a psychology freak, liked to ask questions. That was most of it.”
She swallowed and gripped my hand. Ran her other one over the top of our clasp, her cold fingers tracing the lines of my veins. “I can see your bruises, Riley. Your winces. I can hear the change in your breaths, the pain in your voice. I am, though I haven’t always been the best, your mother.”
