I refocused on the image in front of me. Grace had no front teeth. Despite being in a Princess Leia costume, she looked a lot like the pumpkin she’d carved. Jack, dressed as Luke Skywalker from Return of the Jedi, was giving her bunny ears; his mischievous grin an echo of his father’s—Greg’s, not Darth Vader’s.
My gaze moved to the other picture and my grin wavered, but only because I was surprised. The picture was of me, one of his pencil sketches, from the chest up wearing a black dress. I was glancing over my shoulder and smiling at something in the distance.
I straightened and turned to Greg. “When did you draw this?”
His answering smile was small and secretive, and his eyes were foggy with remembering. “I took it with my phone over Christmas. Jack was standing at the door telling us knock-knock jokes. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, looking over your shoulder and laughing. I sketched it on the plane back in January. Whenever I see the picture—the photo or the drawing—I can hear your laugh.”
I studied him for a beat. “You should have showed it to me.”
He shook his head. “No. I quite like my private memories of you.”
“Private memories?” I lifted an eyebrow at this. “You mean there’s more?”
Greg crossed to me, his gaze moving in a slow, cherishing path over my features. “If you knew how I saw you, how I think of you, your ego would become unmanageable.”
I laughed even though I was exhausted and still enormously angry with him. I had a crying-and Ketamine-induced headache and my thoughts were chaotic. We needed to talk about why he’d kept his assignment in Nigeria a secret. We also needed to discuss his drugging of me rather than listening to and trusting my judgment.
But for now, because I was exhausted and needed a bath—and he’d just said something funny and lovely—I responded with a fond, “You’re ridiculous.”
And I loved that he replied as expected. “It’s pronounced remarkable, darling.”
CHAPTER 11
Dear Husband,
Sometimes when you’re at home, you call me on your cell phone just so you can whisper, ‘I’m calling from inside the house,’ like one of those old scary movies. This basically sums up why I love you, and why we’re still married.
-Lucy
Email
Virginia, USA
Married 17 years
Present Day
Fiona
As soon as the Internet was up, Greg sent a message to Alex with the essentials: We were safe; we were together; we hadn’t freed the other hostages.
I wasn’t ready to give up on the captives we’d left behind. However, based on Greg’s level of vehemence regarding the Dalai Lama, Pope, and Steven Hawking, I decided to bide my time.
Alex responded immediately: 10-4 good buddy. Glad you’re not dead. Check back in at 06:00.
“He’s like mini-you.” I smiled wistfully at Alex’s message. “Except, with less tact.”
“And bigger brains,” Greg added.
“And weirder.”
“And less street cred.” Greg then proceeded to bite his bottom lip and made a weird symbol with his hands, as though this would impress me.
It didn’t. He looked absurd. But then, that was probably the idea.
“What is that?”
“It spells nerds. See how my thumb and index finger make the ‘N’?”
When I didn’t display the appropriate amount of wonder and awe at his demonstration, he said, “Well, I can see when my mad skills aren’t appreciated. I’m going to go grab us some dinner.” He said this like we were in Chicago and he was running out to pick up Italian beef sandwiches from Al’s.
Before leaving, Greg showed me where the towels and extra clothes were kept. I would have to hand-wash my bodysuit and underthings—which was fine—and don one of his alternate reality sports T-shirts in the meantime.
The hot bath was heavenly. My body was sore and sweaty, my face tight and puffy. Taking my time, I allowed my mind to rest and wander.
Unfortunately, when it wandered, my thoughts invariably turned to his lie about being stationed in South Africa instead of Nigeria. And also drugging me instead of listening. And also, strangely, the dishes he didn’t do last week. And the clothes he’d left on the floor in our bedroom. And the mess in the living room, most of which would still be there when we returned. And the retirement documents he hadn’t signed.
I decided I was going to make him clean up the mess in the living room when we returned to Chicago. It was the least he could do after drugging me with Ketamine.
These were my thoughts when Greg returned, carrying a canvas bag over his shoulder, and pulling his dirty boots off near the ladder. He set them neatly next to the wall. I frowned at his boots, wondering why he could put his shoes away in his man-cave bunker in Nigeria, but he couldn’t be bothered to do so in Chicago.
“I have dinner. I hope you like giant snails. And sardine sandwiches.” He gave me a winning grin, which immediately fell when he saw my expression.
It wasn’t the snails.
I could deal with giant jungle snails.
It was him.
He was the cause of my acerbic mood.