Page 10 of Pocketful of You

If I had been waiting for some sort of a terrifying climax when my father carted me onto one of his awaiting haulage liners the night of the shooting, then I would have been in for a major let down becausenothinghappened.

Instead of a dramatic showdown, or a gruesome rape before death, I was taken under deck and shown to a cabin before being locked inside without comfort or explanation.

Hours had turned into days, maybe even weeks, and I was still trapped inside the same tiny room, cold and hungry, and without a soul to keep me company.

My meals were scarce at best and always delivered by a man who only spoke in Arabic.

I hadn't seen my father since that night and I was glad. I couldn’t stand the sight of him. Knowing that my father was responsible for Chris's murder and having watched him put a hole in Sketch was too much to handle. And well, knowing absolutely nothing about where he was taking me was even more terrifying.

I could only presume that we were a long way from Pocketful by now. God knows we'd been at sea long enough. I knew we were still at sea because, just like my so-called dreams, the floor continuously swayed beneath me. The waves crashing against the circular windows of my cabin were also a dead giveaway.

Oh, and the cries of wailing women? The sound that had always tormented my dreams? Yeah, not a dream. They were all around me now.

So close I could hear their breathing.

Alone with only my thoughts and the women's screams to keep me company, I tried to piece together everything I knew up until this point. I desperately tried to make sense of the madness unfolding around me. Breaking it down into bullet points on a mental list in my mind made it easier to comprehend.

Iwasn'tcrazy after all.

Nothingin Pocketfulwasas it seemed.

My fatherwasan evil lunatic.

Ihadbeen brainwashed or drugged or freaking hypnotized into forgetting my past – presumably by my sadistic, evil criminal dad whohadmurdered Chris – or at least ordered the hit.

Catochi and his mendidwork for him, making my asshole dad the 'boss man' they spoke about.

Dad plotted to swap me for something important that had been taken from him.

He had kidnapped and then stowed me away on one of his haulage liners, destined to god knows where.

I wasn't the only prisoner on this ship – the women's screams and pleas assured me of that.

When the ship docked at its final destination, there was a big chance that I wasn't going to make it off alive.

Churning through small chunks of information at a time was the best way of not sending myself into catatonic mode. I had a block in my brain, one that grew taller and stronger whenever my anxiety set in.

Therefore, I tried to remain as calm as possible and keep my wits about me. It was the only way I could piece the puzzle together.It was my only chance of getting out of here alive.

In the midst of my inner turmoil and plotting, I decided that Sketch had survived the shooting. He was alive somewhere, recovering from what that monster did to him. I forced myself to believe that Sketch was safe and that notion gave me comfort. I refused to think about the alternative because a world without him in it was a world I wanted no part of…. which brought me to my next set of jumbled thoughts to make sense of.

The boy in my dreams had been real all along.

Jacob Torettowasthe boy behind the door.

Jacob Toretto wasSketch.

The T-shaped scar on his hip must stand for Toretto.

That meant Sketch wasn't a Capaldi.

Hewasn'tChris's twin.

And I was there the night they had given him that scar – the night my fatherburneda defenseless child!

Which meant that I hadn't just loved Sketch since I was five years old. I'd loved him my whole life.

There was no denying it – not when my father had as good as confirmed it to me that night. The boywasSketch. My dreams had always been aboutSketch. That's why he shared the same dreams – memories.

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