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  “I haven’t had a chance to pick them up,” he said.

  “Could I have a notebook and pen at least? It’s not the same, typing onscreen … Will you stay the night?” I asked again.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Look what happened last time.” He meant the time he held me in his sleep.

  “Nothing happened last time,” I reminded him. “Please stay. I can tell you want to.”

  “What I want isn’t important.”

  “And what about what I want? Doesn’t that count at all?”

  “Yes, it counts.”

  “Will you at least stay to watch a movie with me? A movie date …”

  He considered for a few seconds. Then he said, “All right, I’ll stay the night, Chloe. But there have to be some ground rules.”

  I laughed. “You’re a lot like me, you know. Everything has to be planned in advance. That’s a good thing, that we’re alike. It means we understand each other. Okay, what are the rules?”

  “I know we might end up kissing again. We’ve crossed that line once and that makes it hard to resist a second time, both for you and for me. But I don’t want you touching me.”

  “Okay,” I said, switching off the lamp. The room was thrown into darkness; the only source of light was the glare of the screen.

  “It’s not about boundaries,” he said, his face shadowy in the dim light. “It’s a personal request.”

  I felt better when he said that. “Can we watch a movie together?”

  “Yes. But you must keep your promise.”

  “You can tie my hands behind my back again to make sure.”

  “Don’t joke about such things,” he said.

  CHAPTER 22

  Watching a movie on the laptop turned out to be impossible unless we were in the same line of vision. I ended up lying against him, with my head on his chest and his arm around my shoulder. He stroked my arm almost absently as the movie began. It was thrilling, that simple gesture of affection.

  I’d chosen It Happened One Night because it was light and also because it was about a couple who were thrown together by chance. But I could tell he wasn’t concentrating. Before long we were kissing again.

  I wanted more than kissing, but I knew it was out of the question for him. He did something better. He said, “My father was a great Chaplin fan.”

  He was bringing down the barrier, if only for a moment. I seized on it. “Is he still alive?”

  “No, both my parents died when I was young.”

  “How?” I asked, though I didn’t expect an answer. I assumed he’d shut down on me any minute.

  But he replied, in his usual casual way, “They were killed by the regime.”

  “The regime? What do you mean?”

  “They spoke out against the dictatorship and paid the price.”

  “How horrible!”

  “I had a pet tortoise, and on the day my father was arrested I was in the garden reading a book of stories, and I allowed my tortoise to walk on the pages, which I knew I wasn’t supposed to do, because it was my father’s book, a very nice edition. And my father came into the garden to say goodbye. I think he knew that was the end for him, and that this was a final good-bye. I don’t know how he controlled himself, but he did. I quickly took the tortoise off the page, but he saw that the page was wet, and I was so ashamed that I didn’t answer when he said good-bye. When I realized a few days later that he wasn’t coming back I felt so guilty and miserable I made a small bonfire in the garden and I burned the book.”

  “I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed, though I kept my voice low, barely above a whisper. I didn’t want to break the spell of intimacy. “How old were you?”

  “I was fourteen when my father was arrested. My mother managed to hold on one more year, then she vanished.”

  “I don’t understand. You mean she might be alive?”

  “No, they were both killed. But I’ll never know where or how.”

  “There wasn’t any sort of … record, or something?”

  “No. One day they were there and the next they were gone. All I can hope is that it was fast, though I know the odds are against it.”

  “That’s so sad.”

  “You lost a parent too, so you know what it’s like.”

  “I was very young, and besides, it wasn’t both my parents, and they weren’t just … killed.” Tears welled up in my eyes. “Some stories are too sad to bear.”

  “But have you noticed only other people’s stories? Because ours are just the things that happen to us.”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t agree. I think sometimes our own stories are also too sad to bear. That’s why people die of grief.”

  “I need some coffee, Chloe,” he said. “I’ll be right back. Would you like something?”

  “More ice cream, please.”

  “I’m sorry about the locked door—it locks automatically. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  I felt happy and heartbroken at the same time. Happy because he’d trusted me and we were closer now—there was no going back. And heartbroken because of what he’d told me. I wondered what country it had happened in. Unfortunately, there were probably several that fit the description.

  He returned a few minutes later with ice cream and coffee. He’d reverted to the casual formality that made him seem detached and remote. When he sat down, he held the coffee mug as if it was a barrier between him and the world.

  “How come you were never worried about me seeing you?” I asked, hoping to draw him back to me.

  “Even Rembrandt only captured one expression from one angle. Anyhow, I’m not the sort of person anyone would suspect.”

  “What about your prison record?”

  “I don’t have one. One good thing about that prison, the only good thing, is that there are no records. People came in, died or didn’t die, were executed or not executed, left or didn’t leave. No one knows who was in and who wasn’t.”

  “And you complain about the U.S.”

  “I don’t remember making any complaints.”

  “I just assumed …”

  “There’s injustice everywhere. No one is exempt. It’s human nature, apparently.”

  We were quiet for a while. I thought about what he’d told me, and suddenly a piece of the puzzle seemed to fall into place. “Is that where you met the prisoner you’re trying to help?” I asked. “In that prison?”

  “Yes. He’s older than me, and he saved my life. I owe him this.”

  “How did he end up in jail again?”

  “Some old enemy seeking revenge, pointing a finger at him, accusing him of planning a terrorist act. With all the paranoia these days he didn’t stand a chance. And he was given life in maximum security, without any evidence other than his enemy’s statements and some meaningless things he had written on scraps of paper found on his desk.”

  “What bad luck, to be arrested twice … but what if they try to locate everyone who ever knew the prisoner you’re trying to get released? What if they make a list of all his friends?”

  “Luckily I’m not on that list.”

  “Someone from that prison might remember you as his friend.”

  “We were all just trying to stay alive. No one was interested in anyone else’s name or identity. The less we all knew, the better for our survival, emotionally and otherwise. Unfortunately, almost everyone who was in there with me is probably dead by now.”

  “I know I shouldn’t be prying.”

  “That word, prying, reminds me of something. In prison there was a man with an incredible sense of humor. If the food was particularly inedible, he would lean over and say in English, Would I be prying if I asked you whether you detected a hint of tarragon in the soup? I think of him always when I make food.”

  “Did he make it?”

  He stared down into his coffee, and his pain showed in the way his hands held the mug. “No, he died before I left.”

  “Was he executed?”

  “H
e came down with a fever and died in the infirmary.”

  “They had an infirmary in a place like that?”

  “Even Nazi camps had infirmaries. It creates an illusion of normalcy, which for some reason the people in charge need to maintain. It’s just another form of torture, pretending there’s any sort of caring going on. Or maybe it’s just to prevent an epidemic that would kill everyone off and also jeopardize the guards.”

  “I feel so sad and I didn’t even know him.”

  “Yes, he was a wonderful fellow.”

  “Thank you for trusting me. I won’t say anything to anyone, ever.”

  “I told you—no matter what you report, they’ll assume that everything I’m telling you is a lie. In fact, the best thing I could do for my case is—” He stopped in his tracks. It was the first time he hadn’t thought through what he was going to say, and he looked confused and a little embarrassed. I was very moved, seeing those emotions on his face.

  “Is what?” I urged.

  He said, in his most I’m-in-control voice, “The best thing for me would be to have sex with you, that would absolutely settle it, for them.”

  I laughed. “We’re in a looking-glass world. Everything’s inside out … What if they think I’m making everything up, even if I tell the truth?”

  “That won’t happen. They’re trained in interrogation and you’re not. That’s why telling the truth is the best and easiest thing you can do. If they pick up that you identified with me, they’ll blame the Stockholm Syndrome. It won’t be in their interest to let that leak. At least I hope that’s the case.”

  “You still think that’s what I have—the Stockholm Syndrome?”

  “Yes.”

  “That means you don’t really love me either?”

  “No, that part is real. I never thought I’d fall in love, after all I’ve been through. But yes, I’ve fallen in love with you.”

  It took all the control I had not to hoot. Instead I said calmly, “Doesn’t that mean you want us to be together?”

  “Yes, in theory. But it’s just not possible.”

  “I don’t accept that. Why not apply to university? We could go to the same one and meet that way. Your rich friend can afford it, I’m assuming.”

  “It’s not a question of cost.”

  “What would your mother want for you? A life of crime and danger, or a career and family?” I regretted the question as soon as I asked it, and I covered my mouth in dismay. He’d trusted me with his tragic story, and I was already using it against him, to score a point. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I said.

  “This is a situation where you don’t need to apologize for anything, Chloe. My mother would want me to go to university and have a family, of course.”

  “Then please, please promise never to do anything like this again!”

  “How can I make any promises about the future? How can anyone?”

  “Of course people can! When it comes to morals and values you have to be able to promise. It’s a promise you make to yourself—not to lie, not to steal, to be a good person.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “Being a good person includes not taking the law into your own hands.”

  “There would never have been a legal review if not for this abduction and all the pressure it created.”

  “Even if that’s true—even if it worked once, it doesn’t mean it was the right thing to do. It definitely doesn’t mean it will work a second time. And you’ll never know, will you, whether you’d have managed to get what you wanted in some other way.”

  “In theory.”

  “Well, theory is everything. Action has to be based on theory, not on wild impulse.”

  “They said in the newspaper you were smart.”

  “Everyone’s smart in some ways, dumb in others. That’s what Angie always says. Look at you. You’re smart, but this hostage idea is beyond dumb. That man—the addict. Was he your brother?”

  My hostage-taker was very startled. He tried not to show it, but he was completely taken aback. I knew from his reaction that my guess was right, and he knew that I knew.

  I said, “Something about the way you talked about him … something made me think, on the way here, that he was your brother.”

  “It’s because I’m the only person you see that you become hypersensitive to everything I say and the way I say it,” he said, avoiding the question.

  “Let’s not talk anymore. You’ll stay the night like you promised?”

  “Did I promise?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about I stay until you fall asleep?”

  “I’ll take what I can get.”

  Kimmy Xuan good morning hun! I know you weren’t happy with the whole Win A Date With Chloe idea, but I watched it of course along with everyone else (ratings through the roof apparently) and it really wasn’t bad. The guys were really cool and they ALL talked about the campaign. And that dude from NBA—wow! In the end it was harmless fun and a good way of keeping her in the news which is what we’re trying to do, no?

  15 minutes ago Comment Like Wall-to-wall

  Angie Shaw Thanks, Kimmy for being so positive. It’s just that all the laughing and joking seems wrong when it’s possible that Chloe is being raped and tortured. But I’m being hypersensitive I know. The counselor at school keeps reminding us that the best thing we can do for Chloe is keep our spirits up. Chloe might be very excited about dating at least one of those guys esp with that cruise package. But everything depends on what shape she’s in when she gets back.

  11 minutes ago Comment Like Wall-to-wall

  Jeanette Persky She’s coming back to hot dates and a LOT of money for selling her story. I think that can make up for whatever she went through.

  8 minutes ago Comment Like Wall-to-wall

  Angie Shaw I can’t believe you said that. Read Telling by Patricia Weaver. If Chloe’s going through hell she might NEVER recover, or it could take years and years. Sorry if I’m coming across too strong.

  6 minutes ago Comment Like Wall-to-wall

  Jeanette Persky yeah you completely misunderstood I was trying to do what you were saying which is be upbeat but I guess it’s impossible to talk to you these days.

  3 minutes ago Comment Like Wall-to-wall

  Angie Shaw sorry sorry sorry. yes I misunderstood. Didn't mean to go all crazy on you. Come to the meeting tonight, my place at 7, my mom's making enchiladas. luv u.

  1 minute ago Comment Like Wall-to-wall

  CHAPTER 23

  The terrifying sound of machine-gun fire woke me up. I knew instantly what the sound was—I had no doubt at all. I reached out frantically for my hostage-taker, but he wasn’t there. He’d left while I was sleeping.

  I didn’t know what to think—panic had frozen not only my body but also my brain. Was it the police, had they found out about me? Would they come tearing down to the basement looking for me?

  Or were these friends of the addict? Were they here to take revenge?

  I grabbed the quilt, wrapped it around myself, and rolled under the bed. My heart was beating so hard I was sure anyone who came into the room would hear it, and I was shaking, or rather shuddering, from head to toe.

  There was another burst of gunfire, though it seemed more distant now—maybe the gunmen were on the upper floor of the house.

  And then it was quiet. The quiet seemed eerie. No footsteps, no one leaving, no cars driving away. What if everyone in the house was dead?

  I stayed under the bed for a long time. The panic receded as the minutes ticked by—the longer I waited, the less likely it was that they’d come downstairs looking for me. I was very confused—I didn’t know what to do, what to think.

  I must have dozed off eventually, cocooned inside the soft quilt, because I dreamed I came out of my room and began creeping slowly upstairs when suddenly I saw a severed hand on the stairs. I knew I mustn’t scream; instead I forced myself to wake up.

  After what seemed like an eternit
y there was a knock on the door and I heard my hostage-taker’s voice saying, “Chloe?”

  I scrambled out from under the bed. “You’re alive!” I cried out.

  “Yes, were you worried?”

  “Well, of course I was worried! What happened? I was hiding under the bed all night.”

  “Why were you hiding?”

  “The shooting, of course!”

  “Chloe, there hasn’t been any shooting. You must have had a bad dream.”

  “I didn’t dream it—I heard it. Machine-gun fire and heavy footsteps.”

  “There wasn’t anything like that.”

  “Where were you?” I asked frantically. I couldn’t have dreamed it—it was impossible. He must have been away and didn’t know what had happened in his absence.

  “I’ve been upstairs the entire time. No one’s been here.”

  “What time is it?”

  “8:15.”

  I sat down on the bed and tried to gather my thoughts. Maybe being enclosed in such a small room was making me hallucinate. But it had seemed so real. I began to cry with confusion, frustration, relief.

  “I’m going to take a bath,” I said, wiping away tears. “If I draw the curtain can I keep the door open? I want to make sure you don’t leave.”

  “I won’t leave. I have the day off today.”

  I ran a bath with the scented oils and bubble foam. “I must be losing my mind,” I said from behind the curtain. “Literally. I heard machine-gun fire. Twice. The first time was really close, the second time was more distant. I didn’t know what to think.”

  “You just had a vivid dream, Chloe,” he said. “You’re under a lot of stress.”

  “Nothing like a hot bath,” I sighed, shutting my eyes. “I used to soak for hours when I was training …”

  “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “Of course I mind! In case you haven’t noticed, this place is about the size of a hamster cage … I didn’t know you smoked.” I peeked out from the edge of the curtain. He was sitting on the floor, facing the side wall. He was as still as a statue—a classical statue of Apollo, or maybe some emperor, seen in profile. His arm was resting on his raised knee and he was holding a pack of cigarettes in his hand. I couldn’t see the brand.