Page 52 of A Fine Line

I wiggle around, attempting to take some stress off my arms, but then I end up almost face-down. The cloth bag over my head smells faintly of spearmint, and I’m grateful, considering how terrible the trunks of cars can smell, and this line of thought makes me laugh. Either that or hysteria is starting to brew.

There’s no lurching or erratic driving, so it appears there’s no chase happening. Officially baffled with my current situation, I eventually manage to doze off, the sound of the tires lulling me to sleep.

I’m not sure how much time has passed when I’m startled awake by the car jerking to a stop. Two sets of shoes slap on the pavement, and then the trunk pops open, and two sets of hands lift me from the trunk. They carry me a short distance and set me on my feet, where I wobble for a moment before getting my bearings.

The bag is yanked from my head, and I blink against the glare of light. It feels like an eternity before I make out shapes of unknown faces. A woman is looking me up and down, tsking and shaking her head, but she says nothing. She’s slightly older, maybe around fifty and dressed to the nines, which seems a bit out of place.

The two men turn and leave the room, and then I’m standing there with the strange woman who’s still looking at me. Now, she’s walking around me, looking at me, and then she stops in front of me and says, “We need to get you cleaned up. We don’t have a lot of time, so I’ll trust you can do this quickly.”

The idea of a shower excites me, and I nod my head vigorously. She points to the other side of the room, and I waste no time rushing into the compact bathroom, my clothes stripped off before I get to the shower stall.

I’ve been in these situations before, but those people were not nearly as kind. I breathe a sigh of relief when I get under the hot water, but I do as I’m told, not allowing myself to doddle in the shower as much as I want to.

All too soon, I turn the water off, and a towel appears in front of me, which I take without comment. I dry myself quickly, and then a smaller towel is handed through, which I use to wrap around my hair. I secure the larger towel around my body and step out of the shower, where the woman is waiting with a rack of clothing, an array of make-up, and toiletries on the counter.

I’ve never heard of people being dolled up before being sold and murdered, so my confusion is escalating.

She places a chair in front of the mirror, and I sit without having to be told. She removes the towel from my head, then combs out my hair, spraying it with some products before weaving it into an elegant updo. She meets my eyes in the mirror and says, “This is better for traveling. We can’t have you looking a mess when you arrive.”

“Where am I going?” I ask hesitantly. As expected, she doesn’t answer, and I don’t press the matter for fear her mood will change.

She applies makeup to my face, keeping it subtle, and then goes over to the rack of clothes and rummages through it until she finds what she’s looking for. She motions for me to come closer, so I rise and walk to her. She hands me the clothing and says, “Comfortable yet stylish. You’ll look perfect.”

I glance at the designer label, my confusion increasing as I quickly dress and then stand there looking at her awkwardly. The smile she gives me is genuine, and she says, “Perfect.”

She glances at her watch, her eyes widening and a little squeak of surprise falling from her lips as she shoos me toward the door. We hurry across the room and exit out into a sunlit parking lot where a golf cart is waiting, a man behind the wheel waiting for us.

She directs me to sit on the rear-facing seat and then climbs on next to me. The cart takes off. We move quickly through the cars until the parking lot disappears, and we drive out onto what appears to be an airport runway. Trepidation runs down my spine, and I swallow the lump in my throat at the likelihood that I’m being taken out of the country.

The cart stops in front of a fancy private jet, and the woman helps me down from the cart, leads me over to the stairs, and says, “Go on up. And congratulations.”

“Excuse me,” I reply with a frown. “Congratulations for what?”

She laughs and pats me on the arm before motioning for me to get moving. With no other choice, I turn and make my way up the stairs, pausing in the doorway and glancing around the extravagant space. Two men are standing in the galley, dressed in nondescript uniforms, and then one nods at me and heads into the cockpit.

The other man steps forward, a smile on his face as he says, “Welcome, ma’am. Your husband is waiting for you, so please join him, and we’ll be on our way soon.”

I blink, my jaw dropping open, a shiver of fear rolling over me, and I stutter, “M-m-m-y…husband?”

His smile loses a bit of its luster, but he quickly recovers and motions for me to walk further into the plane, toward the seating area.

My feet are heavy as I take a small step, but then I look back at him, and I’m sure the look I have is pleading. He smiles at me reassuringly, giving me a little push. “Go on now. No reason to be nervous.”

I nod, then turn, and take another step into the plane, forcing my feet to move as I put my hands into the pockets of my comfortable-stylish pants. Pockets are comforting, allowing me to hide my shaking hands from anyone who might notice.

The man seated with his back to me appears to be reading something in front of him and has yet to give any indication that he realizes I’m behind him. I take another step, wanting to remain inconspicuous for as long as I can, but soon, I have no choice but to continue onward at a more normal speed.

When I’m only a few feet from him, a bit of the tension inside me eases as I note the dark head of hair and the obviously well-muscled arm leaning against the armrest. There’s no way this is Vincent. That motherfucker is dead. Fucking long gone, dead, and buried.

I take a deep breath, shaking my head against the wave of nausea the few moments of panic brought on, and then I straighten my spine, walking with surer steps toward the man waiting for me.

I lean forward, attempting to get a good glance at him before I have to face him. He turns his head slightly, and I catch a glimpse of his profile. My breath catches in my throat, and my steps completely falter as I whisper, “Darius?”

He stands abruptly, and I see before he faces me fully that he’s not Darius. But the resemblance is uncanny—haunting even. Then he smiles and steps into me, his arms coming around me as he says, “Darling. There you are.”

I stiffen in his arms, shocked into silence as I try to process what the fuck is going on here. He doesn’t seem to notice his embrace is one-sided; either that or he doesn’t care, and after a few moments, he pulls back, the smile on his face seemingly genuine.

I stare up at him, noting each feature that is Darius, but at the same time, isn’t Darius. He takes a seat in the same chair he just vacated, indicating for me to take the chair across from him, and I do so on wooden legs, sitting there with my spine ramrod straight and my hands clasped tightly on my lap.

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