The room is simple, with a single bed, a stained rug, a lamp, and a small desk with one chair pushed under it. Apart from an old clock on the wall above the desk, there isn’t much else—no plants, pictures, or even a curtain at the window. But it’s my safe haven for now.

Two frayed quilts cover the bed. I peel one off and use it to cover the windows, tying the ends around the empty curtain rod. I make sure the door is locked, then place the chair underneath the handle for extra security.

The windows are large enough for me to climb through, should it come to that. But if I’m able to climb out, what would hinder someone from climbing in from outside?

The thought leaves me cold, but I’ll lose my mind if I worry too much. At least I can see the small parking lot from my room. I’ll know whenever a car drives in.

There’s nothing I want more than to throw myself onto the bed and go to sleep, but instead I go into the small bathroom. The shower is barely big enough for one person to fit inside, the basin is cracked, and the toilet cover is missing.

I peel my clothes off as quickly as possible and jump into the shower. The jet of cold water shocks me, but I recover quickly. I allow the cold water to run over my hair and skin, then scrub as much grime off as I can with the one tiny bar of soap I found near the sink.

Finally, feeling a bit more refreshed, I turn off the shower. Even though a faint stench lingers in the air around me, it’s not stomach-turning. Another shower in the morning should chase off any additional smells.

Before leaving the shower, I touch the bracelet on my ankle, trying for the millionth time to remove it. I could sell it along with the diamond ring. But the piece of gold metal is as tough as ever.

Dripping, I glance around the bathroom for something to dry myself off with. A rough towel on a rusty hook next to the toilet beckons for me. When I’m done drying my skin and hair, I wash my clothes in the sink, after removing the now soggy photo of Damien and me from the back pocket of my pants. I also rinse the kitchen towel I had wrapped around the knife. I’ll tuck the blade under my pillow before I go to sleep.

My clothes might not be able to dry completely before morning, and there’s no way I’m going to sleep with the window open. But that’s fine. Clean, damp clothes are better than dry clothes soaked in rotting food.

Wearing my damp but freshly washed panties and bra, I climb under the quilt, pulling it up to my chin. I keep one eye on the door, and one hand on the knife under my pillow.

Despite my exhaustion, I toss and turn for hours, imagining Damien bursting through the door and dragging me back to my prison. At times the images are so vivid inside my head that I sit up in bed, trembling with fear. But the hours tick by and he doesn’t show up.

When the clock strikes 3 a.m., I drift into a troubled sleep. An hour later, voices in the corridor outside disturb my sleep. Head swimming and heart pounding, I sit up and listen.

The voices belong to a man and woman. They’re getting closer.

It hasn’t even been one night and he’s already found me.

I jump out of bed and get into my cold, damp clothes, which still smell sour. I glance out the window. Before I went to sleep, a single car had occupied the parking lot—a beaten-down white Toyota Corolla. Now there’s a taxi parked next to it. No one is inside.

The voices get louder for a moment, and then silence returns. Could it be a false alarm?

I have two choices: relax and go back to sleep, or assume Damien is standing outside my door right this minute and make a plan. Maybe I should run for it. But what if I jump out the window and someone in the lobby sees me through the window? How far would I be able to run before he catches up?

I’m holding my makeshift curtain with one hand and my knife with the other when I hear the voices again. It sounds like an argument, and the voices don’t sound familiar.

No footsteps approach my room. A few minutes later, the argument stops. Not long after, I detect movement outside. A man dressed all in black exits the motel and heads for the taxi. He gets in and drives off. 

Ten minutes tick by, then fifteen, then thirty. Deciding it was a false alarm after all, I undress again, hanging my clothes over the chair at the door.

An icy shiver touches the base of my spine as I climb back into bed. Under the covers, I consider my options.

If I manage to get out of Mexico, where will I go? I’m desperate to return home, but where is that, exactly? The dorms? My mother’s place? Where do I belong? Everyone I used to know believes I’m dead. And Damien is no fool. He knows I’ll seek safety somewhere familiar.

No, I can’t go anywhere familiar until I’m one hundred percent sure that Damien is behind bars and cannot come after me. Until the coast is clear, I have to find a safe place somewhere far away from Boston and Oaklow. My old life as I knew it has crashed and burned. I’m never getting it back. I’m not the same person I was before he kidnapped me.

Right now, my focus should be on getting out of Mexico. I hope the cops will be able to connect me with a U.S. embassy or consulate. Surely they can issue me temporary travel documents and facilitate my safe return.