Page 36 of The Lies We Tell

But one thing is clear. I realize the feeling of safety was coming from the man. Not the place. It’s three in the morning, I can barely keep my eyes open, and I’m sitting huddled in a blanket in the middle of the sofa.

The weapons Saint left in two different parts of the house for easy access should I need them are sitting on the ugly coffee table in front of me.

Every pipe gurgle, car sound, and otherwise totally normal noise outside the window makes my heart race to levels I didn’t know it was capable of. I’ve lived alone before, heard these kinds of noises, but now my fear of them feels amplified.

When we got back from the apartment, I tried to make things feel normal. I unpacked, showered, and pulled on my loose-fitting navy overalls and paired them with a bright tangerine T-shirt. The color boosted my mood, and my deathly pale complexion.

Five pairs of shoes now sat in Saint’s hallway.

I was doing okay until Saint told me he was going to the strip club and then the clubhouse. I’ve had boyfriends before, and I’ve always been a huge fan of having my own hobbies and interests. So it wasn’t that he was leaving. It wasn’t even where he was going.

It was that he was gone, and I was scared to be alone.

I got online and was able to catch up on the work I missed. Then I’d tried to distract myself and start the label design for a new botanical-infused sparkling water brand. I captured a handful of concepts. I loved the idea of the wildly colorful houses of Burano, a small Venetian island. Everyone has been doing neutrals recently, and I’m kinda over it.

The flavors are so crisp and bright that I feel simple images of the botanicals would make them seem a little insipid.

Saint told me to help myself to the food in his fridge for dinner. There was more nutrition in there than I anticipated, and I was able to pull together a veggie-filled pasta sauce to go over some bow-tie pasta.

It seemed like the absolute wrong pasta for a man like Saint. It’s too formal, too stuffy.

I managed to cope until sunset when I felt compelled to check if there were any other missing women in New York. The idea that not reporting my abduction brought harm to others makes me feel ill.

As the street settled into the darkness of evening, fear and anxiety started to creep a little closer.

Once in bed, I lay rigidly flat on my back, with the comforter pulled up to my chin like a safety blanket. Relentlessly, I scanned for noises.

When I rolled onto one side for comfort, the pillow blocked one of my ears, which made me feel exposed.

So I moved to the sofa after putting on the television, to see if drowning out the noises would help.

It didn’t.

I’m currently sitting in silence.

That isn’t helping either.

Knowing someone had their hands all over my stuff is making me ill. I don’t know how I’ll ever go back.

I rethink going to the police. Like what if I went out of state, to a different police force? Would there be some oversight to make sure I didn’t end up transferred to the two cops my abductors mentioned? What if they didn’t take me seriously and the two cops showed up at my home on the pretext of helping?

They’d know my address.

Shit, I’m not processing things properly. I already have proof they know my address.

They’ve been in my space.

Urgh.

I flop my head back.

But for the first time in days, it’s not just fear I feel. Anger is starting to simmer. I’m mad this happened to me. I’m mad the system isn’t designed to help. I’m mad that I’m in a virtual stranger’s home, reliant on his good nature. But there is no way I can afford to walk out on my lease to get a new place.

Maybe I can sublet it and move out.

I’ll have to check my agreement.

But then what? Do I move home with my tail between my legs and confirm that my dad was right when he said I was biting off more than I could chew when I moved?