Page 11 of Perilous Healing

Silas stops scooping. “I am so sorry, Bianca.”

I shrug. It’s a half-truth because the actual story is far more horrific. “I just don’t do much celebrating anymore.”

“What did you used to do? Before?”

Leaning back against the rock, I try to decide how much to tell him. Truthfully, I never thought I’d ever want to speak about my past. Not after trying to keep it hidden for so long. But Silas makes me feel safe in a way I haven’t felt ever since I was a little girl. And even then, I’d learned that security had been bought with the blood of innocent people.

Telling him doesn’t feel like such a hard thing, especially given that I know our likelihood of survival is practically nonexistent. His wounds, despite my best efforts, are infected, and I’m nearly out of the supplies I need to keep it from spreading.

“My mom made me lemon cupcakes with vanilla frosting every year. She’d add sugar crystals to the top and we’d sneak out onto the roof and watch the sun go down while eating them.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It was,” I reply honestly, then close my eyes as an onslaught of tears threatens. My mom had been my best friend. My rock. And the image of her body will forever haunt me. There’s a part of me that almost wishes we won’t make it out. Or at least that I won’t. Because then I’ll never have to suffer through these memories again. I’ll be free of my past, blissfully unaware of the damage done.

“Well, it’s no vanilla cupcake, but—” Silas trails off, and I open my eyes.

In front of me, shaped with dirt and leaves, sits a muddy cupcake, a single pink flower sticking out of the top. The tears fill my eyes again, and I look from it to the man sitting beside me. A Navy SEAL with a heart of gold. Far too good to be sharing air with the likes of me.

“It’s perfect.”

“Yeah?” he asks, mouth lifting at the corners in a boyish grin that seems far too light for our dark circumstances.

“Yeah.” I reach forward and cup it in my hands, then close my eyes and blow the flower away as though I’m blowing out a candle.

“Happy birthday, Bianca.”

“Thank you,” I tell him, unsure how to explain that even though we’ll likely die in this jungle, it’s the best birthday I’ve had since I lost my mother.

The man didn’t followme.

Something that puts me at ease, sure, but I’d almost hoped he was a threat so I could put some of this unrest to bed. It’s been days of feeling as though I’m being followed but being unable to prove it.

Today was the first time I’d seen him.

Yesterday, it was a woman dressed in white capris and a black T-shirt who’d eyeballed me at the small market here in town. The day before that, it was a man wearing a suit and tie as he stood just outside the post office when I’d gone to collect my mail.

So either I’m being followed, or I’m losing my mind. Honestly, it could go either way.

I finish eating my cupcake, then set it aside and head into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. The small two-bedroom duplex I’m renting isn’t much, but it’s home. I even put pictures on the wall, something I haven’t ever done before because I’d never planned to stay in one place long enough to get comfortable.

But I plan to stay here in Hope Springs as long as possible. Partly because I love it, and mainly because of the man currently making spaghetti on the other side of the duplex wall. It was a complete coincidence that I rented this place right after he did.

Even though I knew he wanted me to find somewhere else to live, I refused. Now I make an effort to leave before him and offset our schedules so we see each other as little as possible. For him and for me.

If I’d been anywhere else, I would have left at the first thought that someone could be following me. My father may be dead, but there are still people out there who were on his side. I know it. And if they find me, well, the jungle will look like a vacation in comparison.

I roll my shoulders and step out onto my half of the balcony that overlooks the ocean. The single chair and table I keep out here are inside the house in preparation for the storm, so I just lean against the railing. I should be inside, but with the windows boarded up, the house feels an awful lot like a prison cell, and I’ve spent enough time in those.

There’s a good bit of distance between me and the crashing waves, but from here I can see the steadily darkening sky—a sign that the storm is getting closer. I feel a bit nervous knowing I have to go back inside, so I close my eyes and simply let myselffeelthe wind as it toys with my hair.

I let the freedom of my surroundings saturate my soul and alleviate some of the tension. And as I stand out here, I try to imagine that Jesus is standing with me. I try to picture Him, try to imagine what it would have been like to stand in His glorious presence.

And even though I’m struggling to connect with the Bible and God’s Word, I try to pretend—for just a minute—that I’m not.

That it all makes sense and everything I’ve been through has brought me right where I am for a reason.

“You shouldn’t be out here.”

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