Page 22 of Miles

10

Savannah

“It’s sonice to hear your voice now,” Ainsley gushed. “I was worried you might never speak at all, and we would never know if you needed anything.”

“I could’ve written—though, not with this thing on my arm.” The cast made grasping anything in my dominant hand almost impossible.

“That’s true, I suppose.” She curled up in the chair beside the bed while I ate the modest meal prepared for me in the resort kitchen.

No, they were definitely not operating as a normal establishment—unless the chef and the entire staff were out sick.

Not that it was bad, by any means, but one expected more than cold cut sandwiches and what tasted like canned soup from such a luxurious looking place.

She seemed like a nice girl, the way all of them were nice. And she, like Miles, made it sound as though she hadn’t had much experience with outsiders. That was the word she’d used. It was refreshing to be around outsiders. What did that mean? I hadn’t asked. She had gone right on with whatever it was she was saying at the time, which I had stopped listening to because of that one specific word.

Were they some sort of cult? The idea had taken root and spread throughout my imagination until it loomed over every interaction with them. So many of the pieces fit. The secretiveness, the way they didn’t allow outsiders into their resort. Or was it a compound? The fact that they had medical supplies right there, on-site. They didn’t need to leave the island for contact with the rest of the world unless absolutely necessary.

Would they ever let me go? Not that I knew where to go if they did, but I didn’t enjoy the idea of being held prisoner, either. I might as well have stayed behind and let Antonio be my jailer if that was how life was going to turn out.

“What do you do for a living?” she asked, twirling a long, auburn curl around her fingers.

That was another thing. So many of them bore a resemblance. Like one, big family.

I made a concerted effort to pay attention to her and not to the theories swirling around in my head.

“Hmm? Oh. I don’t do anything for a living, not really. Or, I didn’t. I guess I’ll have to when the time comes.”

“You lived with your family?”

“Yes.” I looked down at the bowl on the tray, where bits of chicken and noodles swam in broth.

“Where are they? Don’t you think they’re looking for you?”

And this was why I shouldn’t have started talking. I should’ve stayed mute, the way I’d planned to.

But Miles had drawn it out of me, damn him. He was going to ruin everything for me, whether he knew it or not.

My silence must have struck a chord in my companion, because she clicked her tongue.

“I let my mouth get away from me sometimes. Everyone always says so. You must forgive me—it’s none of my business. You don’t have to answer any questions which make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Thank you for that,” I breathed, meaning it with every fiber of my being.

She brightened, then got right back on track. “So. If you had to do something for a living, what would it be? What do you like to do?”

Why was it so difficult for me to admit?

Papa’s sneer danced across my memory in answer to that question.

I decided I’d better get used to claiming my place in the world if I ever hoped to succeed. This was as good a place to start as any.

“I’m a writer,” I admitted, suddenly feeling quite shy.

Her eyes lit up. “You are? I’ve always had great respect for people who can string words together.”

I couldn’t help but giggle. “You’re pretty good at it.”

There were times when I asked myself whether she’d taken a breath recently, she talked so much.

---