Either way, opening the window is out.
Next, I explore the small window in the bathroom. It has the same thick glass as the window in the bedroom, and there are two additional problems with it: it’s too small for me to crawl through, and there’s no opening mechanism as far as I can tell.
Frustrated, I leave the windows alone and go through the closet and the dresser, looking for a forgotten phone or an old tablet. The odds of finding such a device here are slim, but back home, people would leave their electronics everywhere, and it’s feasible Kent and his wife might do the same. After all, this is their house, not a place where they regularly keep prisoners.
At least I’m hoping that’s the case.
Unsurprisingly, I don’t find anything. The closet and the dresser hold what one would usually expect to find in a guest room: extra bedding and towels, along with some unopened toiletries.
Feeling increasingly drained and dispirited, I decide to take a shower and get some rest as Kent suggested.
With some luck, I’ll get to talk to Yulia tomorrow.
At this point, she’s my best, if not my only, hope.
* * *
To my disappointment, I don’t see Yulia the next day, nor am I allowed out of my room. Kent himself brings me my meals—a mix of leftovers from dinner and new gourmet concoctions undoubtedly made by his wife—and then he carries away the dishes an hour later. I don’t know if he’s purposefully trying to keep me away from Yulia, or if it’s just an unlucky coincidence, but by evening, I’m going stir crazy, frustration about my predicament mixing with growing worry about Peter. All I have are a few books that Kent brought me around lunchtime, and it’s not nearly enough to keep me from dwelling on the dangers Peter’s team might be facing at that very moment.
“Have you heard from them? Are they okay?” I ask Kent when he brings me dinner. The hard-faced arms dealer intimidates me, but I’m determined not to show it.
After all, I’ve been living with four equally dangerous criminals for months.
At my question, Kent looks coolly amused. “You want to know if they’re okay?”
I nod, though a flush warms my face. I understand how this appears. Given Kent’s treatment of me so far, he obviously knows I’m not here of my own free will. Still, I’d rather he believe I’m suffering from Stockholm Syndrome than continue to remain in the dark and worry about Peter all night.
“They’re okay,” Kent says, placing the tray on the dresser. His face is expressionless again, though a trace of amusement glimmers in the icy depths of his eyes. “Peter messaged me a couple of hours ago, asking about you. For now, they’re just gathering intel for the strike, so I doubt anything will happen tonight. You can rest easy.”
I exhale in relief. “Thank you.”
He nods and turns to leave, but I decide to push my luck. “Wait, Lucas… where’s Yulia? I haven’t seen her all day, and I wanted to thank her for these lovely meals.”
He gives me an inscrutable look. “I’ll convey your thanks to her.”
This is my cue to be a good captive and slink away, but I’m not about to give up so easily. “I’d rather do it in person, if you don’t mind,” I say, pasting a slightly embarrassed smile on my lips. “Is she really busy? There’s actually something I wanted to ask her… about some female items, you know…”
“Ah.” Kent looks amused again. “Yulia said to tell you that tampons and other girl necessities are in the cabinet under the sink.”
“Oh, it’s not about that,” I say quickly, though that was indeed what I was hinting at. “It’s something else.”
His eyebrows lift. “Oh? What is it?”
Crap. I was counting on him being like most men and acting embarrassed when confronted with the reality of women’s biological functions. Thinking quickly, I say, “It’s just a cream for something. It’s okay, though; I’m sure it’ll go away on its own.”
His expression doesn’t change. “Just tell me what cream it is, and I’ll see if we can get it.”
“Monistat,” I say, looking straight at him as I name a popular treatment for yeast infections. “The generic name is miconazole. It’s for—”
“Yeast. I know.” He doesn’t look embarrassed in the least. “We’ll get it for you.”
I grit my teeth. “Okay, thanks.”
He is determined to keep me from Yulia, and that makes me want to talk to her even more.
* * *
The following day passes in a similar manner, with me locked in my room all day. The only difference is that, at dinner time, Kent voluntarily updates me about Peter.
“They’re planning to do it the day after tomorrow, in the morning,” he says, placing my food tray on the dresser. “I will let you know if anything changes.”
I eye the arms dealer morosely. “Okay, thanks.”
It feels like an axe—a very slow-moving axe—is hanging over my head. I dread both the failure of this operation in Turkey and its success. If something goes wrong, I will lose Peter and regain my old life, and if he returns unscathed, I will be tied to him forever, bound by a child he intends to force on me.
The only way out is to escape before Peter returns, and I don’t see how that’s possible when I’m even more of a prisoner here than I was in Japan.
Kent leaves, and I eat dinner on autopilot, barely tasting the richly flavored food. On the tray, along with covered dishes, is a tube of the cream I requested—something I have absolutely no use for other than as a way to explain my need to talk to Yulia. Now that it’s been two days, I’m even more convinced that the beautiful blonde might be sympathetic to my situation—if only I could explain it to her fully.
Finishing my meal, I study the cream, noting dispassionately that it’s packaged a little differently from the way I’m used to seeing in the United States. It’s not surprising, of course. This is Europe. The Japanese morning-after pill also looked nothing like what I was used to.
The morning-after pill…
Sucking in a breath, I jump up, unable to contain my sudden excitement. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me before, but if Kent was willing to get this cream for me, there’s a chance he’d agree to get something else—such as the pill I so badly need.
My first instinct is to rush to the door and hammer on it until my jailer comes, so I can implement my plan right away. However, that wouldn’t be wise. Acting overeager could make Kent suspicious, maybe even cause him to consult with Peter on the issue.
Taking a calming breath, I force myself to sit and wait for Kent to return for the tray. For this to have the best chance of success, I have to be smart.
I have to pretend this is yet another ploy to talk to Yulia.
The waiting seems interminable, though the clock tells me it’s only been an hour. Finally, Kent opens the door, and I implement my plan.
“So,” I say casually as he walks in, “is Yulia still busy? I would really like to talk to her.”