Page 50 of Exiled

“No way to really know, unfortunately. And he’s not your problem, anymore. Your concern now is being healthy. Taking care of this baby.”

I breathe out slowly, a shuddery breath. “The baby.” I put my hand on my belly. “It doesn’t feel real. And I don’t... I don’t even know what to do next.”

“Well, we get you a doctor, number one. Make sure you’re healthy, all that. And then, number two, I think you should talk to someone. A therapist. Try to make some kind of sense of... everything. And eventually, you need to make some decisions regarding your future, and our future.”

“What decisions?”

“Well, you’ve been staying here sort of out of default, because there was nowhere else. But is that what you want? How do you want to structure your life? Do you want to keep living with me here? Do you want to keep working on getting Comportment off the ground, or does being pregnant change that?”

“God, Logan. That’s too much. Too many questions. I don’t know. I don’t know any of that!” I feel stifled, my lungs compressed, my mind crammed so full of such a wild whirling maelstrom of thoughts and emotions that I can’t think, can’t sit still, can’t take anymore.

I shoot to my feet, pace away. “I need to get out of here. I feel crazy. It’s all too much.” I clutch my head in both hands, feelingas if the crushing weight of everything that is my life is about to explode out of my skull. “I can’t be here anymore. I have to—I don’t know. I don’t know.”

I could scream from the burden of it all. Caleb, Logan, the baby, my past—and the lack thereof. The brief snippets of memory that hint at a wonderful childhood, and the not-so-pleasant glimpses at something far more nefarious between Caleb and me. Lies. Truths. Illusory tapestries woven with skeins of both lies and truth. Six years, nine years. A mugger, a car accident. Did I know him before? Did he cause the accident somehow? Has all this been a plot of his devising? How can I care for a child when I am not even a person, but a ghost, a shred of a soul lost in limbo? I am no one, I am nothing. I am theStarry Night, andMadame X. I am a shaven-headed girl in a hospital bed. I am a blank slate, a tabula rasa on which a mysterious man named Caleb Indigo has inscribed his imprint. I am Rapunzel, locked in the tower, raven-haired instead of blond. I am Belle, prisoner of a Beast, a thing of shadows and magic and primal carnality. The least of the threads that comprise me is Isabel.

Logan is beside me, grabbing me, turning me to face him. “Look at me, Isabel.” He tilts my chin up with a fingertip. “Breathe. Take a breath. Look at me, and take a moment.”

I focus on breathing, focus on Logan’s gaze, the brilliant indigo soothing me. He found his patch at some point, the brown leather one. I don’t remember him putting it on. Truth be told, it’s a relief when he puts it on. I feel horrible for it, but looking at the bare, raw, healing wound is... too much. Too hard to look at. It makes my stomach churn to know how close he came to death.

But that train of thought only upsets me more.

Am I crying, yet again? I have wept so much, of late.

I feel listless. I see you, over and over and over. The man in the tower, dressed impeccably, the master of his world. The rutting beast, the controlling, dominating sexual conqueror, the man who can ensnare my mind and my body and my emotions, bend me to your will, get me on my knees and on my back. The silent aggressor, the man who will always get your way. The man in room three, on your knees behind Rachel, fucking her from behind, your eyes on me, Rachel’s eyes on me. Rachel enjoyed that, knowing I was watching. So did you. I see you, Caleb. I do not see Jakob. Not until the night in my room, a month ago. When you did not fuck me, did not control me, but kissed me and made love to me, and spoke my name with something like reverence. The way you shut down abruptly when I spoke the name “Caleb” rather than “Jakob.” You were not you, then. That was a man I could have loved. Perhaps that was the man Ididlove, when I was Isabel, the first time, the sixteen-year-old Isabel, the errant, school-skipping girl infatuated with an older man. I see you, the mixed-up, unstable, violent creature who was just here. Yelling, cursing in Czech, tripping over your own feet. Running away.

“Enough.” Logan lifts me in his arms.

I let him.

He deposits me in the bathroom, on the closed lid of the toilet. Starts the shower. Adjusts the water. Pulls me to my feet, unbuttons the shirt. Guides me in under the spray. This isn’t sexual. I wish it were, I would like the distraction from my thoughts. But it’s not. Instead, he washes me gently, shampoos my hair, rinses it, and wraps me in a towel. Dries me, dabbing and patting and rubbing. Guides me to the bedroom. I sit on the edge of the bed and watch as he grabs clothes from the closet and the bureau. His clothes, mine. Underwear, T-shirts, jeans, socks. Several days’ worth of clothing. And then he dresses me. I am little help, my mind has shut down. I am content to dowhatever Logan wishes, let him take me wherever he wishes to take me. I cannot bear anything more. He slides underwear up my legs. Slides my arms through the straps of a bra, and I cooperate in fastening it the rest of the way. Hands me a pair of jeans and a sweater. I put those on while Logan showers, a military-fast shower. Three minutes, at most. Emerges naked, hair damp. Dresses with military efficiency, ties his hair back, packs the clothes into a black hard-sided suitcase. He doesn’t fold the clothing, however, but rolls it into tight rolls. I notice this, and find it odd. And then, packed and dressed, he makes two phone calls. One, to Beth. Arranging for Cocoa to be looked after for a few days, and to make sure the office knows he will be out of touch and out of town, to handle whatever comes up as best they can, leave a voice mail in case of emergency. The next call is, from what I can tell, to arrange a flight somewhere. Leaving now, today.

What time is it? Morning? Night? I don’t know. I glance at the clock on the bedside table: 5:05 a.m. Fifty-two minutes since the first knock on the door.

In the car, then. Logan’s Mercedes SUV. Radio off, heat on. The air outside has a chill to it, and the interior of the SUV is cold. It is still dark.

A long, long drive in silence. Logan drives with his left hand, holds my hand with his right, fingers tangled. Eventually I lean my seat back and drowse, but do not let go of his hand.

I wake up, and we are parked... I don’t know where. Nothingness as far as I can see. The sky is gray now, a tinge of orange-pink on the horizon. A building off to my right, long, high, impossibly large. Blue lights in lines and rows all around. To my left, an airplane. A jet, but not a large one. Small, only four or five windows, and an opening with a staircase that can be rolled away. Lights blink, and engines roar.

Logan opens my door, and someone else fetches the suitcase from the trunk. Up the stairs, Logan’s hand on my back. The interior of the jet is luxurious. Six pairs of seats, in rows of two, an aisle between. Each seat is deep, upholstered in creamy leather. Plush carpeting. A huge television. A woman in a uniform, waiting, hands clasped behind her back.

“Welcome, Mr. Ryder. My name is Amanda. It will be my absolute pleasure to serve you and your guest this morning. Please, be seated. Can I get you coffee, to start?” Her voice is bright and cheerful.

I take a seat in the middle row, against the window. I only pay partial attention to Logan talking to the flight attendant. A mug is pressed into my hand; tea, piping hot. He has coffee when he sits down beside me.

“Isabel?” His voice, sun-warm, worried. “You haven’t said a word in a long time.”

“It’s all too much.”

“Sleep, then. We have a long flight ahead of us.”

I should ask where we’re going, but I don’t seem capable of curiosity at the moment. I watch dawn break out the window as Logan speaks with the captain, discussing flight patterns or something like that. Logan buckles me in. The plane taxies, and then velocity presses me into my seat, my stomach sinks, and we’re airborne. Up, up, up over the clouds.

When we are no longer climbing, Logan unbuckles me, places a pillow on his lap, takes my now-cold tea from me, and pulls me to lie on his lap.

I float, drift, sleep.

I wake up in Barcelona, Spain.