“Go ahead,” I say coolly. “Do your best.”

And giving him a mocking smile, I wait for the torture to begin.

26

Nora

The evening of my arrival home is a nonstop stream of crying, hugs, and questions about what happened and how I managed to come back.

I tell my parents as much of the truth as I can, explaining about the plane crash in Uzbekistan and Julian’s subsequent capture by the terrorist group he’s been fighting. As I speak, I can see them battling shock and disbelief. Terrorists and planes downed by missiles are so far outside of the normal paradigm of their lives that I know it’s hard for them to process. It was difficult for me once, too.

“Oh, Nora, honey…” My mom’s voice is soft and sympathetic. “I’m so sorry—I know you loved him, despite everything. Do you know what’s going to happen now?”

I shake my head, trying to avoid looking at my dad. He thinks this is a good development; I can see it on his face. He’s relieved that I’m most likely rid of the man he considers to be my abuser. I’m certain both of my parents think Julian deserves this, but my mom is at least attempting to be sensitive to my feelings. My dad, though, can hardly hide his satisfaction at this turn of events.

“Well, whatever happens, I’m glad you came home.” My mom reaches out to take my hand. Her dark eyes are swimming with fresh tears as she gazes at me. “We’re here for you, honey, you know that, right?”

“I do, Mom,” I whisper, my throat tight with emotion. “That’s why I came back. Because I missed you… and because I couldn’t be alone on that estate.”

That much is true, but that’s not the real reason I’m here. I can’t tell my parents the real reason.

If they knew I came home to get kidnapped by Al-Quadar, they would never forgive me for that.

Despite my exhaustion, I barely sleep that night. I know it’ll take some time for Al-Quadar to respond to my presence in town, but I’m still consumed by dread and nervous anticipation. Every time I drift off, I have nightmares, only in these dreams it’s not Beth who’s being cut into pieces—it’s Julian. The bloody images are so vivid that I wake up nauseated and shaking, my bedsheets drenched with sweat. Finally, I give up on sleep altogether and pull out the art supplies I brought with me in my suitcase. I’m hoping that painting will prevent me from dwelling on the fact that my nightmares may be playing out at this very moment in some Al-Quadar hideout thousands of miles away.

As the light of the rising sun filters into the room, I stop to examine what I painted. It looks abstract at first—just swirls of red, black, and brown—but a closer inspection reveals something different. All the swirls are faces and bodies, people tangled together in a paroxysm of violent ecstasy. The faces reveal both agony and pleasure, lust and torment.