A tremor runs through me. “Yes.”
“If there had been some other way, we would have taken it. But there’s too much at stake. That’s what you need to remember. What we need from you is a leap of faith.” Another pause. “Are you willing to make that leap?”
“Yes,” I say again, because what choice do I have?
“Once you know the instructions by heart, put a match to them, burn the sheets of paper. Don’t write anything down, or take notes. I’m going to leave now. Don’t attempt to look at me. There’s a clock on the wall in front of you. It’s now six in the morning. Don’t move for fifteen minutes, except to pour yourself a coffee. Once the fifteen minutes are up, you can read the letter.”
He leaves, and tears seep out from under my sunglasses. I’m out of the room. I’m alive.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
PRESENT
I lift my sunglasses, scrub the tears from my eyes, then put them back on and search for the clock on the wall. I study its face, my sight gradually adjusting. The black hands show it’s five past six.
I lower my eyes to the table. Lying facedown are two sheets of paper. There’s also a carafe of coffee, a bottle of milk, and two mugs. I reach out, pour myself a coffee, and take a sip, my hands shaking as I raise the mug to my lips. The taste is so strong that I hold the hot liquid in my mouth before swallowing it down. I stare at the sheets of paper. I feel detached from reality, as if my body is still locked away in the darkness and I’m watching this scene from above. I take another sip of coffee and this time I close my eyes a moment, savoring the nutty, slightly burnt taste.
I look again at the two sheets of paper. Everything written on them will determine the rest of my life. Will I have a new name? Where will I go? Will a car come to collect me, take me to a safe house somewhere? What about money? My stomach clenches. I am here because of money, because I wanted to make life easier for myself.
The black clock’s hands now point to six-fifteen. I take a breath, exhale, take the blanket from my lap, place it on the table, and re move my sunglasses. The light streaming in through the windows is too bright and I’m about to put them on again when something catches my attention. I look at the glasses more closely, turning them this way and that, squinting at them. They’re mine, they’re the ones I bought in Vegas. One of the abductors must have gone back to Ned’s house after taking us. I put them down on the table, my mind too exhausted to think about it now.
Turning over the sheets of paper, I read the first line.
Today is Saturday, August 31.
I frown. It must be a mistake. Today is Saturday, September 14, day twenty-nine of our captivity. I know this.
I continue reading.
Today, you have been married to Ned Hawthorpe for exactly thirty-one days.
My skin prickles. What is this? A joke of some kind?
You may think it’s later, but your days here were not days of twenty-four hours. This is day fifteen of your capture.
Day fifteen? Stunned, I lift my head from the paper. I can’t have been locked in that room for only fourteen days.
I continue reading.
The story you will tell when you are asked is that Ned rented this house for two weeks to escape from the media glare surrounding the claim of sexual assault made by Justine Elland, and to spend some quality time with his new wife. His Instagram account will confirm this. You can check it on his phone in the bedroom upstairs, in accordance with our instructions.
I read the paragraph twice more and even then, I’m not sure I’ve understood correctly. Ned rented this house? I read it again. No, that’s the story I must tell, when I’m asked. But why? And who is going to ask me? I read the rest of the letter, then read it again, barely able to comprehend what I’m reading, what I’ve been asked to do. It’s only on the third reading that I finally understand.
Our kidnapping wasn’t a kidnapping at all.
PART TWO
THE RECKONING
CHAPTER ONE
It’s 7 a.m. I stand at the sink, holding the letter in one hand, a lighted match in the other. I push away the fear that I might not have memorized the instructions properly, that I might not be able to carry them out. I have to. I need to.
I put the match to the corner of the letter, feel the heat approaching my fingers as the yellow-blue flame gathers momentum, then watch, mesmerized, as the paper blackens and curls. At the last moment, I drop the sheets into the sink and quickly run water over them, washing the charred remains down the drain, along with the match. I replace the box of matches in the drawer where I found them and move around the kitchen, noting where everything is, the kettle, the fridge, opening cupboards and other drawers, taking in the contents.