“Oh, and then there’s the fact that I grow copious amounts of marijuana. I don’t deal in the hard stuff, but a bit of pot here and there never started any wars. And I’m sure you’d like to know about the guns? The Glocks and the Berettas and the semi-automatics that I supply to gangs all over America?”
Louis throws down his cutlery, his face turning redder and redder by the second. “You’re a spoiled little shit, James. You think of no one but yourself. If you can’t respect me enough to tell me the fucking truth, then you should get the hell out of my sight. Now.”
I smile so wide my face hurts. Patting my mouth with a napkin, I stand and give him a small bow. “My pleasure, Sir. Honest to god, sincerely, it would be my pleasure.”
SOPHIA
I don't know who I am anymore. I never thought I'd become this person.
In August 1973, two armed gunmen forced their way inside a bank in Stockholm and proceeded to take hostages—three women and a man. They held them for five whole days inside that bank, one hundred and thirty-one hours, and during that time, something happened to the hostages. The gunmen got inside their heads. They altered their perspectives so dramatically that when the police finally stormed the building and set them free, the hostages thought their captors were there to protect them from the police. One of the women ended up becoming engaged to one of the bank robbers. One of the other women set up a charity canvassing for donations to cover the robbers' legal fees. And so Stockholm's Syndrome was given a name.
When people are kidnapped, they develop defense mechanisms in order to survive. Weirdly, falling in love with a captor, forming an emotional bond with them, improves your chances of remaining alive. The cops even encourage people to do it in certain circumstances. Better your heart keeps beating in your chest, oxygen keeps filling your lungs, and you end up with an unhealthy, undeniable connection to your abuser, than simply being dead, right?
A sick realization dawns on me: that could have happened to me if I'd ended up stuck with Raphael as my master.
But that’s not what's happened here. I know how the syndrome works. I've studied it. Written a paper on it. The human mind develops these mechanisms when it fears extinction. Only if the stakes are so dramatically high that the psyche will do anything to survive. And I haven’t felt like that with Rebel. All along, he's been promising me he's going to let me go. And he's never made an advance on me until now. And even then, he didn't exactly force himself on me. I wasn't pinned down and raped.
God, am I just making excuses for him? I don't even know anymore.
All I do know is that when he kissed me, I was shocked and momentarily overwhelmed, but I didn't want to stop him. I only pushed him away at the end because things were moving very quickly and I knew...I knew if I let it go any further, I would have been the one pushing it even further. I sit on the edge of the bed I just slept in, staring down at my hands, not seeing them properly. Wishing I could call my dad and ask him what the hell I should do.
I know what I should do, though. Rebel said he was going to let me go this morning, and that's exactly what I should do. I should go, run for the hills and not stop running until I'm safe in my father's arms.
A knock at the door startles me from my panic. Rebel wouldn’t knock—this is his room—so it can’t be him. That leaves a number of possibilities, none of them particularly good. Carl? Rebel's dad? I don't answer. Whoever it is, I don’t want to see them.
I don’t get much choice, though. The door cracks open and a short blonde woman, maybe late twenties, stands in the doorway, a broad smile on her face. "Oh, Carl was right. You are beautiful."
I suddenly feel like I'm back at Hector's odd little house and Ramona's come to prep me all over again. I swallow down the urge to scream at her to leave. She takes two small steps into the room, wringing her hands in front of her, a nervous look on her face. "I'm sorry to bother you. I just...Rebel told me you'd had a slight misunderstanding."
"You could call it that." I laugh coldly, not sure how to take this woman. She seems anxious.
"I'm Leah," she says. "Forgive me if this is wildly inappropriate, but...are you like me? Has he brought you here to hide you?"
"Hide me?"
"Y'know. Is someone looking for you? Did they..." She struggles with her words, wrestling each one out like it causes her physical pain. "Were you taken?"