Page 96 of Swerve
“Probably not, right?”
I’d like to assure her that he will be found and punished for abducting Mia and Grace, but I can’t do that. If Senator Hagan could get away with escaping to the Ivory Coast, then wasn’t it true that bad people could get away with a lot of things? “Maybe one day he’ll be found,” I say.
“Sometimes, I’m afraid he’ll find me again.”
I reach out and squeeze her hand. “You’re safe, Mia. The Hotel California has been closed down. The other girls found there have been returned to their families. And everyone knowingly involved, arrested. That evil place doesn’t exist anymore.”
“My logical brain knows that, but I guess fear isn’t logical.”
“With time, it will fade.”
“Will it?” she asks in a soft voice.
Again, I want to reassure her, but settle for, “I hope so.”
We spend a wonderful day there at the sanctuary, holding chickens and turkeys, playing with baby pigs, rubbing the cows and horses. In most cases, the animals who come there have endured terrible lives, abuse, neglect, starvation. But they have been brought to this wonderful place to heal.
And sitting there on the grass of a green pasture, I want to believe that with time, the two of us will begin to heal as well.
Emory
“Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”
—Søren Kierkegaard
THE TRUTH IS I thought I would never hear from him again.
In the first weeks after we were both released from the hospital, I’d let myself hope that he would call. Reach out to say how he was doing, see how I was doing. But the days and months went by, one after the other, and I began to let the hope fade, slip away like threads of sunlight sliding from the horizon at dusk.
And then, out of the blue, late one night when I couldn’t sleep, I received a text from him.
I’ve been working on me. I think I might finally be someone worthy of giving a chance.
I haven’t stopped thinking about you, and it’s been nearly a year.
If that’s where you are too, meet me at this address on Friday.
I hope you’ll come.
And so, here I am, stepping off the boat that has taken me from Saint Martin over to Anguilla, a place I’ve never been before, a beautiful island in the Caribbean, my heart pounding so hard that I can feel it against the wall of my chest.
At first, it had simply seemed too insane an idea to even consider. But I’d shown the text to Mia, and she had said I would be crazy not to go. And so, less than forty-eight hours later, here I am.
The driver of the boat helps carry my luggage into the customs office just up from the pier. He leaves me with a smiling, young woman with beautiful skin and a lilt in her voice who welcomes me to Anguilla. The process is quick by United States customs standards, and I walk outside of the building within minutes, pulling my luggage. An older man with graying hair is holding up a sign with my name on it. I lift a hand in recognition, and he smiles, taking my suitcase and pulling it toward a white van in the parking lot.
“Would you like a bottle of water, miss?” he asks, sliding into the driver’s seat. “It’ll take about twenty minutes to get there.”
“Yes, please. Thank you.” I sit back and take in the sights outside the window. Incredible resort hotels are interspersed with small, stucco-type houses where goats mow the front yards. As we go, the houses are fewer and farther between, and in just under twenty minutes, the driver turns the van onto an unpaved road. At the top of a small knoll, I can see the ocean in the distance. Within a couple of minutes, he makes another turn and stops the van at a house that sits just off the beach.
It’s not enormous, but it is charming with bright pink stucco walls. Beautiful flowers in an abundance of colors climb the frame surrounding the front door.
The driver gets out and walks around to my side of the van. “The fare has already been taken care of, miss,” he says. “I hope you enjoy your stay in Anguilla.”
“Thank you so much,” I say, and then watch him back out of the driveway and pull away. The front door of the house opens, and there stands Knox, tan and more gorgeous than I remember. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and some kind of hip-looking swim trunks.
“You came,” he says.
“I did,” I manage, unable to censor the smile on my face. I’m happy to see him, and I see no point in trying to act cool about it.
