Page 55 of Cruel Captor

That bastard Micah.

“You are wise beyond your years, grasshopper.” She smiles at me, then tenses again when Darlie makes it to the top of the wooden wall. “Maybe Darlie’s too young for that course. Am I being crazy? I am, aren’t I? I can’t even tell anymore.”

“Joshua made that thing pretty safe. If she falls, there are piles and piles of cushioning for her to land on. If she’s going to fall anywhere, this would be the place to do it.”

“You’re right.” She looks down at her hands and forces her fists open. Her nails have dug little half-moons into her palms. “Let’s talk about something besides my paranoia. It’s going to be Thanksgiving in a couple weeks. And then Christmas,” she says. “Joshua told me that if we’re still here, I could order anything I want for the kids.”

I feel a surge of warmth toward him. He’s been trying the past few days, ever since the incident with the nightmare. He’s made an effort to be with me—even though I can tell it really is an effort for him, like he’d rather be alone, and it hurts my feelings.

But he wants to be different. I know he does.

“Was that his idea or yours?” I ask her.

“His. He brought it up. Why?”

I choose my words carefully. “He has this image of himself as being very similar to his brother. And to their father. He thinks he isn’t capable of feeling empathy or compassion. But then he does things like offer you guys protection from his brother, and thinks about your needs, like getting things for the holiday season, and I know he’s not seeing himself the way he really is.”

She nods. “Are you familiar with the concept of the unreliable narrator?”

“In fiction, yes. It’s when someone’s telling a story from first person point of view but they’re not telling the whole truth.”

“Exactly. That’s Joshua. But it’s not because he’s lying. When he tells his own story, he doesn’t see the whole truth of himself. He’s telling his story as best he understands it.”

“That’s a beautiful way to describe an ugly problem.”

“I’m here rattling on and on about me, but how are you these days?” She looks at me with concern. “We can all see that Joshua’s…preoccupied. I’ve been doing my best to keep the kids out of his hair. Is everything okay with you guys?”

I bite my lip. It’s so hard to talk about Joshua when I can never reveal the whole truth, but it’s also nice to have a sympathetic ear. “Not really. He just doesn’t seem to know how to be in a normal, healthy relationship.”

“It’s hard to be normal when we’re all locked away here, in the middle of nowhere, hiding out from Micah.” She purses her lips. “Just try to get him to do normal couple things. Go through the motions, and maybe he’ll get more comfortable with it as time goes on.” She glances at me. “What did you guys do together before Micah kidnapped you?”

I stammer, trying to think of a way to answer that question that won’t send Astrid screaming for cover and put Joshua in prison.

And Darlie falls off a rope bridge and plummets six feet onto a pile of foam, and Astrid’s bolting over there so fast she practically burns scorch marks into the dirt.

Saved by the bell—or rather saved by the falling child.

Darlie’s fine, of course, and when Astrid comes back, I change the subject.

The next day, we have a rare thunderstorm, so Joshua invites me to eat lunch with him in a glassed-in three-season room. I think about what Astrid said. Do normal couple things. Go through the motions until it feels natural.

What would a normal couple be doing at this point in their relationship? It seems as if we’ve agreed that we’re committed to each other. So the next step would be to talk about our plans for the future.

“Where do you see us in a year or two?” I blurt out. He sets down his glass of wine and looks at me. It’s his third glass. He never used to have more than one glass at meals.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, let’s be optimistic and assume that your brother is in prison by then and we could do anything. What would your plans be?”

His face is drawn and the hollows under his eyes are more pronounced. “Why are we talking about this now?”

“I mean…isn’t that what couples do?”

“I suppose.” His voice is so lackluster it hurts me.

He stabs at his battered fish, then lays his fork down without taking a bite.

“Do you want children?” I press on. “Do you see us…getting married?”

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