Page 15 of Deceptive Lies

It sounded silly, but the worst part of being held prisoner on Professor Mahmoud’s property in this tiny little underground cell was the heat.

The pain from constant beatings was awful, and the unexpected claustrophobia those first couple of days had been as terrible as it had been confusing, given that Willow had never worried about small spaces in her life.

But the heat …

It was inescapable.

It clung to her body in a horrible sheen of sweat.

It was stifling and made it feel like every ounce of air had been drained out of this dark space.

It made her feel like she was being slowly cooked alive.

Of course, the temperatures in here weren't actually hot enough to kill her. If they were she’d be dead already. But they were hot enough that they kept her in a constant state of dehydration. What little water she was given, she always drank too quickly because she was so thirsty her mouth felt as dry as the desert outside. No matter how many times she coached herself to go slow, take sips, and make it last, as soon as that water touched her tongue, she lost her mind and guzzled it down as quickly as she could.

Which only served to start the process all over again, and by the time the next bottle of water was delivered she was so thirsty she couldn’t think straight.

This was a horrible way to live.

In fact, a lot of the time, Willow just wished the professor would hurry up and do it already, end her suffering, and put her out of her misery.

The rest of the time she remembered why she had to fight.

The promise she’d made to her dad on the day of his funeral hadn't been fulfilled yet. Even at eight years old, she’d felt the injustice of what had happened to her father so deeply that it was forever ingrained in her soul. That day, as she’d stood beside his coffin in the church empty but for herself, her mom, and the pastor, she had promised her dad that she would do something with her life to make him proud.

At eight, she hadn't known what that thing was. All she’d known then was that the people who should have trusted and believed in her dad had failed him, and somehow, she had to make it right. The church they’d attended every Sunday had been empty only because she’d refused to go to the funeral if the people who had let her dad down were there. They knew him, and yet they had refused to allow his funeral to take place there until he was cleared.

Then they cried crocodile tears.

But it was already too late. The damage had been done and she never stepped foot inside that building after the funeral.

As she grew older and thought more about the journalist who had written the lies that led to her dad’s death, she realized that was the way to honor the father she adored. To take what had killed him and make it mean something important.

So, she’d begun on this journey.

One that had already given her a well-respected name and sustainable career. One that had shown her that not all journalists cared solely about being first to break a story, about ratings and views, about fame and fortune. Some cared about gathering evidence and sharing with the world stories that needed to be told.

Those people were her tribe, and she was clinging to hope that they would alert the authorities about her disappearance.

Not that she was pinning all her hopes on anyone else to come swooping in on a white horse to save her.

If she wanted to live, she had to find a way to save herself.

Which was exactly what she planned to do.

The American would be back, she was sure of it. She’d studied human behavior, and even from the little she knew about the man, she was confident she could predict at least that aspect of his behavior. His mom had been gone for eighteen years, he had to be around her age, probably a couple of years older, which meant he’d lost his mom as a kid.

There was no way that hadn't shaped the person he had become.

She knew, she’d lived it, too.

Her dad’s death had shaped her entire future, and she believed it was no different for the American man. For whatever reason, he believed that Professor Mahmoud knew something about what happened to his mother, so he’d come back to try to get more answers from him.

When he did, she’d be ready.

This time she wasn't keeping quiet.

It was obvious the American wasn't there for her, and despite the professor’s guilty conscience, she doubted he was there for him either. This was all about his mother, which meant there was no team waiting in the wings to rescue her. There were no plans to risk messing up, so when the man returned, she was going for it. She’d find a way to alert him to the fact that she was in trouble and needed help and pray he would be willing to give it to her.

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