“See, when Yusuf agreed to help the Russians, Alexandroff, our . . . captain, had promised him he could send money to his wife and see her occasionally when we were back in the area. Only they never allowed it. So he was sneaking off to see her, to take her some money so she and his daughter wouldn’t starve. I wouldn’t let him go without me, of course, so we paddled across to the Somali coast and put in at a little bay to travel to his village of Beernassi. We only got to spend a couple of hours there, but I got to meet his wife and his little girl. They got up like it wasn’t the middle of the night. His wife, Sharifa, made us something to eat, and his daughter wouldn’t let us out of her sight.” His smile is sad as he speaks of her. “Her name was Jamilla. It means ‘beautiful.’ And she was.”
He gets quiet again, so I prompt him, wanting to hear more of his story. “What happened next?”
Nash looks up at me. His eyes have gone cold, his voice even colder. “Alexandroff found us. He walked right in, put a gun to Yusuf’s head, and pulled the trigger. Killed him right in front of his family. Two of his men, two guys I hated from the second I got on board, held me, made me watch, and then beat me in the head with the butts of their guns until I passed out. I woke up on the ship two days later, stuck to my pillow in a pool of my own blood. I was gagged and tied to the bed.”
I’m speechless. And I’m heartbroken. I ache for what Nash must have felt, what he still must feel. And this was one of his happy memories, for God’s sake! My throat is thick with emotion and my eyes burn with unshed tears.
“Oh God, Nash. I’m so sorry.”
Why did you have to know, Marissa? Why? Why put him through this?
“Nothing good happened on that boat. Nothing. Ever. I learned a hard lesson that night. One I’ve never forgotten.”
I’m almost afraid to ask. “What’s that?”
“I learned to hate. To really hate.”
“I understand it, and I’m sure it’s natural to feel that way—for a while. But it’s not healthy to hang on to an emotion like that for long.”
“It is when the alternative is even more self-destructive. Then it’s healthy. It’s healthy to hang on to hate when letting it go could kill you.”
For one fraction of a second, the perpetually angry mask Nash wears lifts and I see the wounds behind the tough scar tissue. I see a small glimpse of the person he used to be, maybe could be again.
Without thinking, I reach up to touch his cheek with the tips of my fingers. “Maybe one day you can find something other than anger and hatred to live for,” I say softly, almost absently.
As if my touch woke him from a stupor, as if he knows he’s letting me in deeper than he’d like, Nash looks away. He reaches for his vodka, takes a long, slow sip, then sets the glass gently back onto the table. When his eyes return to mine, they’re curiously blank. There’s no hurt, no anger, no . . . nothing in them. Just a wall, an impenetrable barrier that’s been years in the making.
“You got your warm, fuzzy story. My turn. Tell me about Saturday night.”
My stomach curls up into a tight ball and my pulse picks up speed as I remember what happened after I parked the car. I was preoccupied, stewing about the breakup with “Nash.” Of course, I had no idea who I’d been dating. Or who was breaking up with me. That still blows my mind. And infuriates me sometimes. It makes me feel like an idiot if I think about it too long.
I push those thoughts aside and let my mind go forward, through the chain of events that still terrify me when I let them out of the lockbox where I’ve been keeping them.
“My mind was on the breakup. At first, it was a pretty big smack to the ego. All Na—Cash told me was that he was interested in someone else and that it wasn’t fair to keep seeing me. He was very vague and secretive about it, and he refused to answer any of my questions. So, I was preoccupied and wasn’t really paying attention to much of anything else when I unlocked the door.
“I set my purse on the table and went back to my bedroom to change clothes and then have a glass of wine. After I put on my pajamas, I realized I’d left my phone in the car, so I went back out to get it. It was when I came back in that I sort of snapped out of it and realized that the television was on and turned up really loud. I thought that was odd because Olivia had obviously worked a shift. I mean, she was at Dual closing up when I was there. And she never leaves the television on. She’s much too responsible to do something like that.
“Anyway, I was standing there in front of the door, wondering over that, when I saw him move toward the living room. It was like he stepped out of the shadows and was just . . . there. A silhouette. A black presence against the white, flickering light of the television. I knew instinctively that it belonged to no one who was familiar to me.
“All this happened in probably twenty or thirty seconds. It’s like he appeared right as my brain was starting to work, but that delay . . . that short delay was enough. It cost me what little advantage I might’ve had. Could’ve cost me my life, I guess.
“Just as it was all coming together in my mind, that there was a strange man in my living room in the middle of the night, I opened my mouth to scream. That’s when he lunged at me. I tried to dodge him. And I almost did. It was just his arm that caught me. Knocked me back into the table where I’d put my purse. I remember hearing the crashing of the lamp when it hit the floor. He knocked me off balance and I hit the wall and then stumbled into the living room, still trying to stay out of his reach. I couldn’t think of anything more than the need to get away from him, to make sure he didn’t catch me. He grabbed my leg and I fell. I kicked at him so he couldn’t get my ankle, but he yanked me back toward him and straddled my legs. I was on my belly, so it was hard to do much of anything. I did manage to dig my keys into the back of his hand when he pulled my head back by my hair. I was still holding them from going outside to get my phone. But then he put something over my mouth and I could barely breathe. I remember smelling something harsh, like a chemical, and then there was nothing. Until I woke up wherever they kept me, blindfolded, bound, and gagged.
“I’ve never been more scared in all my life. They must’ve had me in a basement somewhere,” I tell Nash, my mind going back to the horrifying sensations—smells, sounds, the feel of cool, smooth stone beneath my cheek and hip. I feel small and alone and still afraid when I remember it. “The floor felt like the coldest concrete in the world. And it smelled like must and something metallic, something coppery. Like blood. And when it was quiet, I could hear water dripping. And someone breathing.” I stop and look up at Nash, who’s watching me intently. “I still don’t know who was down there with me. Or what happened to them. Eventually the breathing just . . . stopped.”