Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
She nods.
As we climb back into the Jag, I wonder why she picks service stations and car parks for her revelations. I drive away from the pumps, park the car facing woodland, and the engine idles off. “Okay. Do you still want to talk?”
Alessia stares out at the leafless trees in front of us and nods. “My betrothed. He is a violent man. One day…” Her voice falters.
My heart sinks. It is as I feared.
What the fuck did he do to her?
“He does not like me playing the piano. He does not like the…um…attention that I get.”
I despise him even more.
“He is angry. He wants me to stop….”
My hands tighten on the steering wheel.
Alessia’s voice is practically inaudible. “He hits me. And he wants to break my fingers.”
“What?”
She looks down at her hands. Her precious hands. She cups one with the other, holding it tenderly.
The fucking piece of shit hurt her.
“I had to get away.”
“Of course you did.”
And I have to touch her, so that she knows I’m on her side. Folding both her hands in one of mine, I squeeze gently. The temptation to haul her into my lap and just hold her is overwhelming, but I resist. She needs to talk. She gives me a hesitant look, and I let go. “I went in a small bus to Shkodër, and there we move into the big truck. Dante and Ylli are there with five other girls. One of them has…I mean—is only seventeen years.”
I gasp. Shocked. So young.
“Her name is Bleriana. On the truck. We talked. A lot. She lives in the north of Albania, too. In Fierza. We became friends. We made plans to find work together.” She stops—lost in the horror of her story, or maybe she’s wondering what became of her friend.
“And they take everything from us. Except the clothes we are wearing and our shoes. There is only one bucket in the back….You know.” Her voice fades.
“That’s awful.”
“Yes. The smell.” She shudders. “And all we have is a bottle of water. One bottle for each of us.” Her leg starts jiggling, and her face pales—I’m reminded of how she looked when I first met her.
“It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you. I want to know.”
She turns dark, devastated eyes to me. “Do you?”
“Yes. But only if you want to tell me.”
Her eyes move over my face, scrutinizing me. Exposing me, like that first time in my hallway.
Why do I want to know?
Because I love her.
Because she’s the sum of all her experiences, and this, sadly, is one of them.
She takes a deep breath and continues, “We were in the truck for three, four days maybe. I don’t know how long. We stopped before the truck went on a—what is the word?—ferry. For carrying cars and trucks. We were given bread. And black plastic bags. We had to put them over our heads.”
“What?”
“It is to do with the immigration. They measure the, um…dioksidin e karbonit?” She flounders for the words.
“Carbon dioxide?”
“Yes. That is it.”
“In the cab?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know, but if there is too much, the authorities know there are people in the truck. They measure it. Somehow.
“We drove onto the ferry. The noise was loud. Too loud. The engines. The other trucks…and we were in the dark. My head in the plastic bag. And then the truck stopped. The engine was off, and all we could hear was the creaking and groaning of the metal and the tires. The sea was rough. So rough. We were all lying down.” Her fingers move to the little cross at her neck, and she starts to fiddle with it. “It was hard to breathe. I thought I was going to die.”
A lump forms in my throat. My voice is hoarse. “No wonder you don’t like the dark. That must have been terrifying.”
“One of the girls was sick. The smell.” She stops and gags.
“Alessia…”
But she continues. She seems compelled. “Before we went on the ferry, when we are eating the bread, I heard Dante say in English—he did not know that I understood the language—he said that we would be earning our money on our backs. And I knew our fate.”
My fury is swift, burning through my blood. I wish I’d killed the fucker when I had the chance and dumped his body the way Jenkins suggested. I have never felt as inadequate as I do in this moment. Alessia drops her head, and I lift her chin gently with my fingers. “I’m so sorry.”
She turns to face me, and there’s a fire in her eyes. It’s not sorrow reflected back at me, or self-pity—she’s angry. Really angry. “I heard rumors, before. Girls missing from our town and from neighboring villages. And from Kosovo. It was in the back of my mind when I boarded the bus—but you always hope.” She swallows, and beneath her anger I see the anguish in her eyes. She feels like a fool.