Chapter 6
My tears finally came.
Silently, they slipped down the bridge of my nose, into the corner of my other eye, then into my ear, ticklish as if ants were crawling there.
"You hate her," Jack said. It wasn't a question.
"No, I don't," I said.
He let out a quiet laugh full of mockery. "Who are you kidding?"
"You," I said. "What good does hate do anyway?"
He turned to look at me. With the light behind him, I couldn't make out his expression, but I could feel his eyes lingering on me for a long time.
"Interesting," he said. "You're more interesting than anyone I've ever met."
Jack wasn't an ordinary kidnapper.
That was what I realized on my seventh day with him.
He had discipline, plans, and limits. He didn't hit me or curse at me. He even changed my bandages every day and cooked porridge for me.
But he still wouldn't let me go.
"You're my hostage," he said while peeling an apple with smooth, practiced movements, the skin coming off in one long strip. "Until I get the money, you're not going anywhere."
"They won't pay," I said.
"Why not?"
"Because they don't want me anymore."
His hand paused for a second.
"You said it yourself, no one came to save you," he kept peeling. "But them not saving you doesn't mean I don't still want ransom money."
"Then kill me," I said.
The apple dropped from his hand onto the floor. "What did you say?"
"I said kill me," I stared up at the ceiling. "Living doesn't mean much anyway."
He went quiet for a long time.
Then he stood up, walked to my bedside, and looked down at me. "You want to die?"
"No," I said. "But living doesn't feel any different."
"Then stay alive," he picked up the apple, cut off the dusty part, and shoved it into my hand. "Stay alive and watch them regret it."
"They won't regret it."
"They will," he sounded certain, like he was stating a fact. "Everyone regrets things. Usually when it's already too late."
I took a bite of the apple.
It was sweet.
Funny how an apple from a kidnapper tasted sweeter than a hug from Anne.
On the fifteenth day, Jack brought back a newspaper.
The front page was about the Carter family's press conference, with a photo of James in uniform on stage, looking stern and resolute.
The headline read: [Sniper Explains Rescue Decision: I Chose the Lower-Risk Option]
"Option," Jack tossed the newspaper in front of me. "He called your life an option."
I glanced at it and flipped it facedown.
"Don't want to read it?" he asked.
"No."
"Then listen to this," he took out his phone and played a video.
It was the full recording of the press conference.
Anne sat on the stage, eyes red and swollen, voice trembling. "Emily is the child we raised with our own hands. She's suffered so much... we'll protect her no matter what and never let her get hurt again..."
Comments floated across the screen. [What incredible maternal love.], [The Carters really adore their daughter.] and [Emily is so blessed.]
Jack paused the video. "When she says 'daughter,' does she mean you or Emily?"
"Emily," I said.
"How do you know?"
"Because she never said my name once."
Jack stared at me for three seconds, then put his phone away. "You're damn clear-headed."
"If I wasn't, I wouldn't have survived this long."
He smiled a little. This time it was real, the corner of his mouth lifting more than before. "Sophia. Have you ever thought about what you'd do if they actually came to rescue you?" It was the first time he'd called me by my name.
"They won't."
"I'm saying if."
I thought about it for a long time.
"I don't know," I said. "Maybe... I'd forgive them."
"That easily?"
"It's not easy," I stared at the ceiling. "I wanted it too badly. I wanted a home too much. I wanted someone to care about me too much. So no matter what they did, if they came for me, I'd forgive them."
Jack said nothing.
After a long while, he stood up, walked to the doorway, and spoke without turning around. "Then stop waiting.
"They're not coming."