Charlie stops kissing me, and reaches over to collect the newspaper clippings and my journal into a stack. My eyes follow the clippings, all the words I’ve circled and notes I’ve taken in their margins. Some of them say, “I’m sorry.” I’m not sure who I was apologizing to, but the stupidity of doing so is overwhelming. The journal contains worse. I needed an outlet. I’ve been so afraid to tell anyone. But now, I know that Charlie could turn these into a jail sentence if he wanted to. His eyes meet mine again and he smiles with compassion. In my state of unease, the warmth seems manufactured. This time, I can’t help but shudder. His eyes narrow behind his smile as he slips the clippings and the journal under his arm. I move to stop him but he grabs my wrist and tightens his grip until I gasp with pain. Through the whole thing, his smile is unchanged. I’m bound to him now. I have no choice.
I know something’s wrong even before I open my eyes. They’ve been shut for a while now, even though I’ve been hovering between sleep and an awake state for five minutes, maybe ten. My head is heavy and aches from the memories that have been plaguing me all night—memories of that awful day. I experience a brief, gory image of fishhooks dragging down my eyelids, a snapshot in my brain. My whole body feels tired and sore. I feel Lena shifting around beside me, and I try to remember what’s going on—Kerala, a boat, Anand, chai . . .
“Oh, shit,” Lena says in a gravelly, sleep-clogged voice. “Shit, shit, shit. Aubrey. Get up.” She elbows me hard and I pry my eyes open with effort. Things look blurred and my head pounds. I blink a few times and take in the room, eyeing it for signs of what’s causing Lena’s distress. I don’t panic at first; Lena still has her penchant for melodrama.
Then I see what remains of our possessions strewn across the bed. My green canvas messenger bag is lying open near where I lie; crumpled bits of receipts, gum wrappers, and an open lipstick tube clutter the thin bedcover. Lena is on the floor, scrambling around under the bed. Her efforts grow more frantic by the second.
“Aubrey,” she says. “My wallet’s gone.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. But I know exactly what she means. The abrupt switch from aggressive to saccharine. The false camaraderie. Us refusing the beers but accepting the tea, drinking from our cups only after we’d seen Anand drink from his; but accepting refills from the pot. Anand, I think now, didn’t pour himself a second cup.
“Jesus,” I whisper. “I think he drugged us.”
“He definitely drugged us,” Lena says, her words rushed and clipped. “Check your bag.”
“Just try to stay calm,” I say, in a level voice. But one glance tells me that many of my possessions—my earrings, my iPod, even some of my clothes—are gone too. “Do you think he’s still here?” I stand up and move stiffly to the doorway, squinting into the bright sun. My head feels like it’s being cracked open with a hammer. The boat’s docked in the same location where we started yesterday, but the shore is oddly deserted; only a lone crewman is cleaning up the debris of a party a few boats down. From the look of it, everyone has vacated. The sun’s high in the sky and I’d guess it’s midafternoon. I wander the length of the vessel, picking up a Kingfisher bottle and dumping its contents over the side of the deck.
“Anand?” I call, heading toward the kitchen. My heart’s slamming. I’m not sure whether I want to find him or not, but part of me is hoping this is some horrible coincidence. I reach the little galley kitchen and am half relieved to find it empty except for a trash bin that’s overflowing with fish bones and some bootlegged DVDs that are scattered across the floor.
He’s gone.
I go back to the bedroom to break the news to Lena. She’s sitting on top of the thin mattress, her head buried in her hands. She’s motionless.
“Aubrey—” she starts, dread in her voice.
“It’s okay,” I interrupt. “I do have a credit card for emergencies. It’s probably enough for a flight back. And your parents will help with yours. They have to, right?” I laugh nervously. The truth is, my own parents are probably ready to disown me and would likely be happy to see me spend eternity in an Indian jail. They’d probably rather never see me again than welcome me home with an eight-hundred-dollar credit card bill and open arms. Because that’s what a flight back home will cost. At least. I’ll be babysitting for a year to pay it off.
My heart is working its way up into my throat, and I feel sick to my stomach. The thought of putting even more of a burden on my parents—and letting them see how awful I’ve been this whole time—is making me ill. They’ve been worrying about me; they’re not oblivious to the way I’ve been hiding from them ever since the accident. Still, I can’t tell them. I tried a few times. The thought of seeing their disappointment and hurt was too much. Now, though, I’ve made everything worse.
“It’s not the money,” Lena mutters. “It’s worse.” My heart goes still. I wait for her to continue. Her silence is scarier than anything we’ve faced yet. “It’s the passports, Aubrey,” Lena says, her voice dull. “They’re gone too.”
It takes me a few seconds to reply. Anxiety wraps itself around my vocal cords, making me feel like I might choke. “Both of them?” I ask.