Page 18 of The Tourist

I leave the hotel, and as I drive back home, I feel a mix of emotions—relief, guilt, and a renewed sense of determination. I can’t escape the reality of what Chloe has endured, but I can be there for her and help her to heal.

When I return to my compound, the house is quiet. I step inside, and the familiar surroundings bring me a sense of calm. Before I go to bed, I check on Chloe. I can see she’s asleep, and her face is peaceful.

"Good night, Chloe," I whisper. "I’ll be here for you. Always."

CHAPTER11

Chloe

I’m sitting on Diego’s veranda, book in hand, but I’m not really reading. I'm just flicking through the pages. Fiction books seem too real to me at the moment.

I watch as Diego steps out of the house.

"Hey," he says, his voice gentle. "I’ve got something for you."

I look down at his outstretched hand, my curiosity piqued. "What is it?"

Diego offers me a notebook and pen. "I want you to have these. I know you’re a journalist, and I think writing may help you process everything, along with the counseling."

The notebook has a beautiful leather cover—dark brown with intricate embossing along the edges. The leather is soft yet sturdy, and as I run my fingers over the surface, I feel the craftsmanship that went into making it. The smooth, cool texture is comforting. I’ve always loved notebooks, and I have a large collection back in my London apartment. The sleek, polished fountain pen he’s given me is equally exquisite.

"Thank you. But... what should I write about?"

"Write down your thoughts and feelings. Maybe write about what happened to you and what you're going through now. One day, you may decide to turn it into an article that will help other victims."

I nod, an idea slowly forming in my mind. "I remember when I first decided to become a journalist," I begin. "I was in high school. I always loved writing. I loved telling stories and uncovering truths. There was this thrill in digging deep and discovering information that no one else knew.”

As I speak, I begin to remember the feeling of anticipation when I chased down leads and conducted interviews. I recall the way my heart raced when I pieced together information that painted a bigger, previously hidden picture.

“I’d stay up late at night, scribbling furiously in my notebooks, the words flowing as if they had a life of their own,” I tell Diego. “Each story felt like an adventure, a chance to shine a light on the hidden corners of the world and give a voice to those who are often unheard. It was more than just a passion. It was a calling that made me feel alive and gave me purpose. I’m sure my mom still has many of my old notebooks somewhere. I’ll get her to search them out.”

For the first time in what feels like forever, I remember something I love. Something that consumes me other than terror.

Diego pulls up a chair and sits beside me, listening intently. "What was your first article about?"

A smile tugs at my lips as I recall the piece I wrote while still in high school.

"It was about a local animal shelter. The volunteers working there were struggling to find homes for all the animals, and I wrote an article to raise awareness. It got published in the local paper, and I was so excited. I remember running around, showing my parents and friends. Serena went out and bought lots of copies of the newspaper. It really felt like I’d made a difference, even if it was only small."

"I remember that. Serena had me driving around Las Vegas buying up all the papers we could find," Diego says. "You have a gift, Chloe. You could use it to make a difference again."

"I want to," I admit, feeling a surge of determination. "But it’s difficult. It’s hard enough to think about everything that happened, let alone write about it."

"I know," Diego says softly. "But writing can be another way to take back control. It gives you the opportunity to tell your story on your terms. And it may help others who have gone through something similar. Even if it gives just one person hope, it will be a victory. It’s not just those who’ve been kidnapped that could find some solace in your words. Victims of domestic abuse or violence because of their beliefs may also benefit. Your career was put on hold after you were taken. It’s still something you can pursue if you want to."

I take a deep breath, feeling the truth of his words. "Okay, I’ll try. I’ll start writing and see what happens."

Diego's smile widens. "That's the spirit. And remember, you don't have to do it all at once. Just take it one day at a time."

I open the notebook, and the blank pages stare back at me, waiting to be filled. I think about the journey that led me here. I recall the passion I once had for journalism, and the excitement of seeing my words in print. It feels like a distant memory, a different life, but it's still part of who I am, and I need to bring it back to the surface.

I start to write. The words come slowly at first, hesitant and shaky. But gradually, they start to flow, and I lose myself in the act of writing. I begin to feel as if I’m back at work, preparing a story. I write about my decision to become a journalist, about the thrill of uncovering stories, and about the joy of seeing my first article published. Then I start to write about the pain and fear of my recent experiences and the struggle to find myself again.

Diego sits beside me, drinking a coffee. His belief in me fuels my determination, and I pour my heart out onto the pages. I sit there writing all day while the book I was trying to read lies discarded and forgotten. I write mostly in note form, but it’s therapeutic, and I can feel a great weight lifting from my shoulders.

As night falls, I shut the notebook and hold it close to my chest, knowing that it contains not only my past aspirations and traumas but also my hopes and dreams for the future. The words I’ve written are another big step toward healing, toward reclaiming my life, and it makes me believe I can face whatever comes next.

CHAPTER12

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