I hear moaning.

Hour after hour. Again and again. There’s nothing in the world but that haunting sound. Nothing to see or feel or taste.

Just moaning, over and over. Every time, a little bit different.

My eyelids are heavy, too heavy to open or blink. I want to open them but I can’t. It’s not time yet. Somehow I know that.

Much later, I’m realize that the moaning is coming from me. It feels like hours since I started hearing it. Days.

I blink once. The world appears in fragmented snatches, jagged bits of wall and floor. Stone, beams, a high window showing a sliver of flat gray sky.

My mouth tastes like metal. I feel sick to my stomach. I close my eyes again and the feeling goes away.

It’s almost nighttime when I open my eyes again. I’m more awake now. Awake enough to be terrified. My heart races so fast I can’t count the beats.

My body trembles as I push myself up on wobbly arms. After a few tries, I’m able to sit. The walls reel a little before going still.

I’m lying on a bed. I’m naked. The white sheets are tangled as if I’ve been thrashing in my sleep. There’s a comforter in a heap on the floor.

Fear and confusion grip me in waves. What is this place? What happened to me?

I look at my hands, my arms and legs. I must have been drugged. Maybe beaten unconscious. But my head doesn’t hurt. I don’t see blood or bruises, just cuts from jumping and walking in bare feet.

My mouth is dry, my eyes filmy. I glance around, trying to find one familiar thing.

The room is small and strange. The stone walls are a dark gold color with tiny pits in them. The floor is a different stone, black and shiny with silver fragments that glisten. The ceiling soars maybe fifteen feet above my head. Thick wooden beams arch across it. Their rich dark color soothes my eyes.

I’m at Isaac’s. I must be.

Whimpering, I yank the sheet up over my breasts. With a frantic feeling of dread, I touch my pussy. No blood. It doesn’t hurt. Nobody’s raped me. Yet.

I have to get out of here. I can’t wait for him to come for me.

I look from the window to the beams to the floor. There’s something weirdly opulent about this room. The sheets feel impossibly smooth against my skin. Everything seems elegant and expensive, from the pillows to the down comforter to the gray velvet headboard.

Can this really be Isaac’s farmhouse?

I’ve seen pictures of it. I pretended to be interested when he showed off the renovation to my parents last year. I remember thinking, renovation? All I saw was flowered wallpaper and rough pine floors.

Maybe I’m in rehab, or jail. I did something terrible last night.

Has it only been one night? What do I remember? Hands clutched to my racing heart, I try to think.

Jumping from my parents’ window. Lying on James’s grave. The silver heart on his headstone. Walking. Freezing rain and endless wind.

That’s all. Nothing else.

I push the sheets aside and sit on the edge of the bed. My legs quiver as I try to stand up. Sharp pain shoots through my ankle and my knees wobble. I kneel down and crawl to what I hope is a door.

There’s no handle, just a rectangular seam in the wall. I push against it. It doesn’t budge.

I press my ear to the stone and listen. The silence is so deep I feel swallowed by it.

I sit back and rub my swollen ankle. Time passes. The sky gets darker.

It takes until sunset to gather my nerve.

I knock lightly. “Hello?” My voice sounds weak and raspy.

I put my ear to the door again. Dead silence.

I call out again, and again. “I’m awake. I’m here.”

My voice breaks and I cough. Maybe no one can hear me. I have to be louder.

I stop talking and use my fists to pound the door. The sound hurts my ears. I pound until my hands ache and tears are streaming down my cheeks.

I’d be relieved to see Isaac now. I’d take any human being who can explain why the hell I’m here.

It’s dark now, the kind of deep, consuming dark that makes me feel crazy. I run my hand along the walls but there’s no switch. Panic rises in my throat but I push it back down. I need to stay calm. It’s all I’ve got.

I feel my way back to the bed and curl up in a ball. “Sleep,” I tell myself. “It’s the only thing you can do.”

A moment later, I hear footsteps. I scramble into a corner and pull my legs up to my bare chest. My pulse hammers in my ears.

The door swings open slowly.

There’s a figure in the doorway, backlit by a bright light. I blink my eyes and squint.

A low, golden light glows on overhead, and a figure steps into the room.

A woman.

She’s wearing a long, flowing red caftan and high-heeled leather sandals. Wavy blonde hair flows down her back. As she approaches I see that she’s pregnant, at least six months. And she’s beautiful, with full lips, high cheekbones, and china-blue eyes.

This is not Isaac’s wife.

This isn’t my life, or reality as I’ve ever known it. This is insane.

Fuck calm. I have to get out of here.

I jump up and lunge for the door. With almost effortless grace, she reaches out and locks an arm around my throat. Her grip is just strong enough that I can’t speak or move. I’m too weak. My legs quiver under my weight.

She reaches out with her free hand and shuts the door. “Going somewhere?” she asks, her voice soothing and light in my ear.

I shake my head. “Good,” she says. “Then I won’t have to do that again.”

She lowers her arm slowly and lets me go. I back away and crouch against the side of the bed.

I don’t try to cover myself. I don’t care that I’m naked anymore. It’s a trivial detail compared to the craziness of this moment.

“Who are you?” I say. “What the fuck is this place?”

“I heard you were feisty,” she says, smiling, “and you are.”

“How did I get here? Do you work for Isaac?”

“Isaac?” She seems genuinely puzzled.

I just shake my head. I despise her smooth, confident control. She’s what I always wanted to be and never was.

She squats in front of me and rests her elbows on her knees. Her long-fingered hands clasp lightly. I try to stand up again but she clucks her tongue. Shamed and defeated, I sit back down.

“You can fuck with me or we can be friends, okay?” she says. “You decide.”

My whole body hardens with fury. “I want answers. Now.”

She smiles again. “Then start asking questions.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Coral,” she says.

“Did you undress me?”

“No. You were naked when I got here.”

I glare around at the strange stone walls. “Where’s here?”

“A house.”

“Obviously,” I spit out. “Who owns it?”

“A friend of mine.”

I roll my eyes. “You want to expound on that? Man? Woman? Name?”

Her expression doesn’t change. “Later.”

I drag my fingernails along the floor, not caring that it hurts. “What the fuck am I doing here? What do you want?”

“To help you, Grace.”

Hearing my name shatters my last nerve. My eyes flood with tears. “How do you know I’m Grace?”

She reaches out and takes my hand. “Come on. Come with me.”

Digging my toes into the floor, I stiffen and pull back. “Where?” I sound rattled and hysterical.

“You must need to use the bathroom by now, and I bet you couldn’t find it. There are no doorknobs in this house.” She gives me a conspiratorial smile that says, we’re both women. You can trust me.

I let her pull me up and lead me to the other side of the bed. I watch her warily. She touches the wall and part of it slides open.

A light comes on inside, illuminating a luxurious bathroom with a soaking tub, double sinks, and a glassed-in shower. Everything looks as polished and elegant as the bedroom. The modern fixtures remind me of the kind of upscale hotel I’ve always wanted to stay in but could never afford.

“Where’s the toilet?” I ask.

“Around the corner,” she says, letting my hand slip out of hers. “Go ahead.”

I do as she says. Underneath the terror and resistance is a tiny glow of comfort. It’s a dangerous feeling. The urge to give in and trust. To make this bizarre detour in my life okay.

Nothing about this is normal. I’m weak and in shock, but I can’t let my guard down. My life might depend on it.

A minute later, I come back around the corner to find her running a bath. Beside her is a marble-topped table with a porcelain pitcher, dishes of soap, and clear glass bottles of shampoo and conditioner.

“Get in,” she says.

I shake my head. “I have to make a phone call. My parents will be worried. I need to go home.”

“This is your home for the moment.”

My chest aches with fear. “No, it isn’t. That makes no sense.”

“It will. Now get in.” She holds out her hand.

I fold my arms and set my jaw. Her cleavage rises and falls as she sighs. “One of the rules here is that you won’t be asked twice.”

“You live in this house?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know what the rules are?”

She twists off the faucet. A single drop falls into the water with a hollow ring.

“As I said, the owner is a friend. I know what he expects.”

“He.” Terror cracks through my heart. “Did someone kidnap me?”

“They saved you. Now, come take your bath.”

The steam from the tub looks so inviting. I’m dirty, frozen to the bone. I take a tentative step toward her.

“Good,” she says.

I step over the side and into the water. It feels like liquid fire as I sink into it. “It hurts,” I say.

“You were outside for a long time.”

She dips the pitcher into the water and pours a slow trickle over my head. I squeeze my eyes shut on instinct.

“What are the other rules of this house?” I ask.

“You don’t need to learn them all right now.”

“Just tell me two or three,” I say.

She laughs. “Were you always this willful?”

“My parents would say yes.”

She pours more water over my head and pulls the cork from a glass bottle. I hear her hands rub together, and then they start massaging my dirty hair. Shivers go down my back and legs.

“You said they saved me,” I say. “Who’s they?”

“Two men who saw you last night. You were in danger.”

I try to comb back through my memories, but everything stops at the cemetery. “In danger how?”

She hesitates just long enough to scare me. “Willful and talkative,” she says. “Just take your bath.”

Just take my bath. Don’t think. Don’t wonder.

She works conditioner through my hair, then starts scrubbing my back. I relax into her hands, shamed at the tears filling my eyes. I can’t remember the last time someone touched me. For two years I’ve endured the brief, skeletal hugs of my parents, the professional probing of doctors, and the tentative embraces of friends who’d mutter, “Sorry I’ve been so busy,” or “You’re so thin. Are you eating?”

Coral’s soapy hands slip over my shoulders and collarbone, wrapping around my throat and rubbing under my chin. I tilt my head back and let her wash off the dirt, rain, and sweat.

“Feeling better?” she asks.

“I’m starting to.”

She stands and sits again on the tub’s edge, facing me. I haven’t felt this way, this lost and innocent, since I was a child. Coral takes the soap from the dish and rubs it between her hands.

“I can do it myself,” I say.

“Not the way I can,” she says.

She glides her soapy hands firmly down my arms, back up and down the front of my chest. I brace against her touch. No one’s touched my breasts except me and James, though he only did it once. I asked him if he wanted to, and he pushed his hands under my bra. His fingers pinched too hard and we fought about it, and after that he said we should wait until we got married.

I didn’t want to wait. I wanted him to be so attracted to me, he had to have every part of me right now. But James wasn’t like that. Sex wasn’t a big deal to him. That’s what he said, anyway.

I tried to be happy. If he didn’t want me for sex, that meant he loved me for who I really was.

I’d give anything to be with him right now. To escape this confusing, shameful moment.

Goosebumps ripple across my skin. Coral slides her fingers under and around my breasts, lightly running her smooth palms over my nipples. My breath quickens and I lower my eyes.

Her touch shouldn’t feel good, but it does. I should want her to stop, but I don’t.

“It’s okay,” she says, as if she can read my mind. “You’ve been through a trauma.”

“Have I?”

“You tell me.”

I shake my head. I still can’t look at her.

“No judgment,” she says. “I promise.”

My voice is quiet. “I was drinking yesterday. I quit my job.”

“How did you get the scratches?”

“I jumped from my parents’ bathroom window. They gave me two choices. Go to rehab or live with a man I hate.”

“That explains the limp,” she says. “Stand up.”

Water pours from my body as I get to my feet.

“You’re already waxed,” Coral says. “That’s good.”

I look down at the bare smoothness between my legs. “Good for what?”

“Everything.”

Soaping her hands again, she slicks her hands over my ribs and waist.

“Feet apart.”

I plant my right foot to the side. I’m in awe of her confidence as she grips my hip and slicks soapy fingers through the folds of my pussy. Every time she grazes my clit, I gasp.

“I can do that,” I say, blushing.

“You need to be cared for right now.” With expert poise, she washes me thoroughly and turns me around. “Bend over.”

I wince at the wall. “No. I can’t.”

“You’re not getting out of this tub until you do.” Her voice goes from friendly to stern in an instant.

Biting my lip against a wave of embarrassment, I bend at the waist.

“Excellent,” she says. “So much for I can’t, huh?”

Her wet, slippery fingers soap between my ass cheeks and probe every inch of me. My pussy tightens. I can’t be aroused. I feel sick and my face is hot and I want to cry.

It’s my fault. I’ve isolated myself for so long I’m like a starving animal. I’ll take anything that resembles warmth and affection. Demeaning pleasure from a strange woman’s fingers. Touching my pussy on my fiancé’s grave.

Suddenly, hot spray from the hand-held wand blasts between my legs. Grabbing me again by the hip, Coral spins me around and rinses me from my breasts to my knees. She does my feet last, making me sit in the tub and present each one for a thorough scrubbing. I hiss when she scrubs across the sliver in my heel.

“I stepped on glass,” I say.

“Ouch,” she says, wincing in sympathy.

She takes a pair of tweezers from a glass dish on the table and pries out the sliver. I bite my lip to keep from whimpering.

“All better,” she says, holding up the tiny shard. “Now you can heal.”

Now I can heal. She makes it sound so easy.

After drying me off, she tells me to clean up. While she watches, I scrub down the tub, wipe up the wet floor, and put the towels in a hamper hidden under the sink. She wants every bottle and implement on the table to be wiped down and arranged with perfect symmetry.

“The world outside is a mess,” she explains. “In here it can be different.”

When the fixtures are gleaming, she blows out my hair in front of the full-length mirror and puts makeup on me.

“Your body is scratched but your face was spared,” she says penciling in my eyebrow. “You’re lucky. A pretty face makes life easier.”

“That hasn’t been my experience so far.”

“Maybe now it will be.”

When she’s finished, she turns me around to look in the mirror. I look glamorous, almost too made up, like I’m about to perform. “What do you think?” she asks. “Better than yesterday?”

A tiny part of me wants to smile, but I don’t. “A little bit.”

“You look beautiful.”

“I think I look scared.”

“You can be both, you know.”

Going to a closet across from the tub, she takes out a long white satin robe. “Where did that come from?” I ask.

“I brought it up while you were asleep.” She slips the sleeves over my arms and ties the slender string in front. It barely keeps the robe closed over my breasts.

“I feel so exposed,” I say.

“It’s that or nothing,” she says, sounding stern again.

She takes out a pair of ballet slippers and puts them on my feet. “You can wear heels when that foot is better.”

My heart aches with hope. Her words imply that I’ll have a future. That she won’t hurt me, and no one else will either.

“What happened to my dress and underwear?” I ask.

“They’re being cleaned. You’ll get them back.”

Stepping in front of me, she puts her hands on my shoulders. “I’m going to leave you now. I hope I’ll see you again. Take care of yourself.”

I grab her arm. “Why can’t I call home? I can keep a secret. I promise I won’t say a word to anyone –” I stop. I hate myself for sounding so desperate and weak.

Taking my hand, she leads me back to the bedroom. “Wait here. Be patient. Leave the light off.”

“Sit in the dark?”

“For now. Are you hungry?”

“No.”

She pries my fingers from her sleeve. “I can’t stay.”

“Please take me with you,” I say, and start to cry. “Or call my parents. Scott and Melinda Garrett. Let them know I’m okay.”

She smiles her strange, ethereal smile. “You’ll call them soon enough. Just sit tight. Wait. It won’t be long.”

“Until what?”

“Goodbye, Grace.” She kisses the tips of her fingers and walks out the door, locking it behind her.