weak, she forced herself to sit down on one of the opulent couches in the center of the room instead of slipping down to the floor. That was a level of humiliation she wasn’t willing to reach.
The woman spoke, not in English, her tone sharp and clipped. People in the room responded, moving in different directions, but no one was coming towards Zoey, to tie her down, throw her in a cold shower, or try to slap the hysterics out of her. She wondered if the woman would come and sit down next to her, to try to touch her and reassure her. She flinched away from a connection that never came.
It took her more than a few moments to collect herself. When she wiped away the wetness on her cheeks, she saw that the woman had turned back to the window and was gazing down at the city again. “They will bring you food,” she said without turning back to meet Zoey’s eyes. “And clean clothes. If there is anything else you require, you need only to ask. Mr. Blankenship is safe. He will join you shortly. The only thing I must ask is that you do not try to leave the suite.”
“Can I make a phone call?”
“No. I am sorry.” The woman glanced at her and inclined her head again. This time, Zoey didn’t feel the need to smile or return the gesture.
“I doubt that it’s actually your fault,” Zoey said. “Thank you. I think I’m going to shower. And then I’d like to be alone.”
The woman inclined her head again. “If there is anything you need, merely knock on the front door of the suite.” She had a small, careful smile. “I would not suggest that you open the door.”
When the door closed behind the woman, it occurred to Zoey that she’d never actually been this alone. She had no idea where she was, she didn’t know which language was being spoken, and she had no way to reach out to anyone. She had to sit, wait, and hope that she would be safe.
Somewhere, deep down inside, she found the core of herself and found that it was still made of steel. The woman had promised her fresh, clean clothes and some food. At least she could have a shower and eat something. It was better than nothing.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Part of Zoey’s heart thought that by the time she was clean, fed, and dressed, everything would be at least a little bit better. It was a silly thought, and she didn’t realize how important it was to her until she showered, twisted her hair up into a bun so that it was off her neck, and walked out into the suite in the jeans and t-shirt, and felt just as lonely and frightened as she had before. Part of her had been entirely sure that something would have changed. Someone would be here, telling her that it was all a big joke, just a tease, she would laugh, they would laugh too, and then they would get on a plane and go home. Or, even better, the big reveal would be that they were actually in New York City again, and she was on Candid Camera.
Walking back out into the empty suite cracked something deep down inside of her, and she wasn’t entirely sure that she would recover from it. It hurt, so very much, and she didn’t know if it would ever get better.
Was it better or worse that they had no questions for her and didn’t care what she knew or would say? It didn’t feel better. In all the movies, being the person with information was much, much worse than being the person who was being held to convince someone to talk, but not much of what had happened in the past few weeks had really gone like it did in the movies. In the movies, there would be a solution by now. In the movies, she would be curled up on the couch, bitching to her girlfriends about what a horrible situation it had been and wistfully dreaming of the crazy time she’d spent with the most exciting playboy in New York. And then he’d show up at the door of her pathetic apartment with a huge bouquet of roses, he’d tell her he still loved her and he didn’t want to live without her, no
The woman spoke, not in English, her tone sharp and clipped. People in the room responded, moving in different directions, but no one was coming towards Zoey, to tie her down, throw her in a cold shower, or try to slap the hysterics out of her. She wondered if the woman would come and sit down next to her, to try to touch her and reassure her. She flinched away from a connection that never came.
It took her more than a few moments to collect herself. When she wiped away the wetness on her cheeks, she saw that the woman had turned back to the window and was gazing down at the city again. “They will bring you food,” she said without turning back to meet Zoey’s eyes. “And clean clothes. If there is anything else you require, you need only to ask. Mr. Blankenship is safe. He will join you shortly. The only thing I must ask is that you do not try to leave the suite.”
“Can I make a phone call?”
“No. I am sorry.” The woman glanced at her and inclined her head again. This time, Zoey didn’t feel the need to smile or return the gesture.
“I doubt that it’s actually your fault,” Zoey said. “Thank you. I think I’m going to shower. And then I’d like to be alone.”
The woman inclined her head again. “If there is anything you need, merely knock on the front door of the suite.” She had a small, careful smile. “I would not suggest that you open the door.”
When the door closed behind the woman, it occurred to Zoey that she’d never actually been this alone. She had no idea where she was, she didn’t know which language was being spoken, and she had no way to reach out to anyone. She had to sit, wait, and hope that she would be safe.
Somewhere, deep down inside, she found the core of herself and found that it was still made of steel. The woman had promised her fresh, clean clothes and some food. At least she could have a shower and eat something. It was better than nothing.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Part of Zoey’s heart thought that by the time she was clean, fed, and dressed, everything would be at least a little bit better. It was a silly thought, and she didn’t realize how important it was to her until she showered, twisted her hair up into a bun so that it was off her neck, and walked out into the suite in the jeans and t-shirt, and felt just as lonely and frightened as she had before. Part of her had been entirely sure that something would have changed. Someone would be here, telling her that it was all a big joke, just a tease, she would laugh, they would laugh too, and then they would get on a plane and go home. Or, even better, the big reveal would be that they were actually in New York City again, and she was on Candid Camera.
Walking back out into the empty suite cracked something deep down inside of her, and she wasn’t entirely sure that she would recover from it. It hurt, so very much, and she didn’t know if it would ever get better.
Was it better or worse that they had no questions for her and didn’t care what she knew or would say? It didn’t feel better. In all the movies, being the person with information was much, much worse than being the person who was being held to convince someone to talk, but not much of what had happened in the past few weeks had really gone like it did in the movies. In the movies, there would be a solution by now. In the movies, she would be curled up on the couch, bitching to her girlfriends about what a horrible situation it had been and wistfully dreaming of the crazy time she’d spent with the most exciting playboy in New York. And then he’d show up at the door of her pathetic apartment with a huge bouquet of roses, he’d tell her he still loved her and he didn’t want to live without her, no
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