The Virgin. Tiffany Reisz

Shame was a foreign concept to her until that morning.

      But surely Søren would never do it again.

      Elle didn’t take the time to unzip the duffel bag and check its contents. She already knew what was in it.

      A passport.

      Five thousand dollars cash.

      Credit cards that Kingsley could track to find her if she couldn’t get to any of his safe houses.

      Three changes of clothes and toiletries.

      A can of mace on a key chain.

      A Swiss Army knife.

      A wig to change her appearance.

      Keys to the safe houses—one in Canada, one in Maine, one in Seattle.

      A mobile phone and charger.

      Beneath the duffel bag sat a black permanent marker. The marker was there for one reason only.

      “I might be out of the country when it happens,” Kingsley had said, the “it” being whatever scenario had occurred that meant Elle would need to flee.

      “Write a number inside the locker so I know why you went. And know this...if it’s number five, don’t go to any of the safe houses.”

      “Why not?” she’d asked.

      “Because whether I want to or not, I’ll help him find you if he asks. And if I’m helping him find you, I’ll find you.”

      She’d shivered then, because he was telling the truth. Søren had Kingsley’s loyalty and his love. Even if Kingsley believed she was fleeing for the right reasons, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from helping Søren find her.

      “What do I do?” she’d ask. “If I can’t go to a safe house, where do I go?”

      “I can’t tell you that. You’re as smart as he is. Use your brain. Find somewhere he can’t follow. And whatever you do, don’t tell me.”

      This was not a drill.

      This was real.

      Elle uncapped the marker. Inside the door of the locker she scrawled her message.

      5.

       3

      ELLE STARED AT the number she’d drawn on the metal door and knew what it meant—she had to go somewhere Kingsley couldn’t find her.

      Could she live with that? Never seeing Kingsley again? She would have to, wouldn’t she? If she wanted to leave Søren she had to leave Kingsley, too. From inside her purse Elle pulled out a six-inch length of intricately carved bone. A beautiful thing, or it had been once. She held it in her hand for a second longer than necessary. Kingsley would know what it was the moment he saw it. He would know what it was, and he would know what had happened.

      And he would know it was her way of saying goodbye.

      It hurt to let go of it, but there was no reason to keep it, right? She had the other two pieces in her purse. This third piece was for Kingsley. She laid it inside the locker, slammed it shut and walked away.

      Use your brain, Kingsley had said. Go where Søren wouldn’t expect her to go. Go where Søren couldn’t follow.

      She had three ideas. One she dismissed out of hand. As furious as she was at Søren right now, she would not bring his family into this by showing up on his mother’s doorstep in Copenhagen. The other two options were both bad, but one was worse than the other.

      With the credit card from the bag, she bought a bus ticket to Philadelphia. Then she walked to another counter and with cash bought a bus ticket to New Hampshire. She threw the one she’d bought with the credit card into a garbage bin. The one she bought with cash she shoved into her pocket. She doubted the ruse would throw Kingsley off her track, but she had to try.

      Kingsley had taught her how to flee from the press, from the church, even from Søren. But she wasn’t sure how to get away from Kingsley. He could track like a bloodhound. He had eyes and ears everywhere. She needed someone who would be on her side, not Kingsley’s. She needed someone who cared more about her than him. Or, more importantly, she needed someone who owed her a favor.

      And only one man owed her a favor.

      She got on the bus and found a seat near the back. Bus—when was the last time she’d sat on a bus? Maybe high school? Her senior year. Most days she walked to school, but if she was running late she took the bus. One morning she’d overslept because of Kingsley. The day before had been her eighteenth birthday, and he’d taken her to her first S and M club. She hadn’t played, only watched while couples and trios had engaged in acts she’d only read about and dreamed about. Kingsley had asked her if she liked what she saw, if anything intrigued her, if there was anything she wanted to do.

      “All of it,” she’d answered.

      She’d stayed out so late with him, she’d slept through her alarm the next morning and had taken the bus to school.

      That wasn’t right, was it? That wasn’t normal. High school seniors shouldn’t be oversleeping because they were at kink clubs with notorious underground figures the night before, right? How had it seemed so normal at the time? Why had it seemed so right? Where was her mother in all this? Pretending Elle didn’t exist, more or less. They’d become strangers to each other, roommates at most. What if her mother had found out about her daughter’s secret life when she was still in high school? Why had her mom not stopped her and said, “What are you doing with these people, Ellie?” If her mother, if anyone had asked that question she would have answered, “Because these people are my people.” She was one of them.

      But now she wasn’t one of them anymore.

      So who was she?

      She pondered that question for the next two hours, only stopping when another stomach cramp hit her. She doubled over and rested her head on the back of the seat in front of her. Only June nineteenth but it was already as hot as August. The bus was air-conditioned—barely—and the stifling air added to her misery.

      “Carsick?” an older man asked her. He was black with gray hair and sat on the seat opposite hers. He had a face like the grandfather you wished you’d had growing up. She nodded her head and squeezed her eyes shut tight.

      “Hang in there. You want some crackers?”

      The mention of food sent her stomach rumbling. Without answering him she raced to the bathroom at the back of the bus and vomited hard into the toilet. She prayed no one had heard her getting sick. People would remember a young white woman in a Mets cap on a Concord bus puking her guts out. But she couldn’t worry about that yet. When she was done being sick, she rinsed her mouth out and splashed cold water on her face. Then she pulled her pants down and checked her bleeding. It was heavy and thick. She tried to feel sad, feel remorse or regret. Instead, she felt only relief. She held on to that relief as she made her way back to her seat.

      She closed her eyes and leaned her head back. The man in the seat next to her patted her clammy hand and she opened her eyes. He placed three saltines in her palm. For the rest of the trip she nibbled on her crackers. In her weakened state and on her empty stomach, they tasted like manna from heaven.

      “Thank you,” she said. He reached out and patted her shoulder. A kind, grandfatherly touch. She ached so much for human warmth right now she wanted to sit next to him and lean against him. When another cramp slammed into her back, she grabbed his hand and squeezed it.

      “It’s all right,” the man said in a low voice. “We’re almost there. I get carsick too sometimes. Especially if I try to read. You’re gonna make it.”

      She smiled so he knew she heard him, but didn’t tell him the truth. She wasn’t carsick. Elle Schreiber did not get carsick. Any car, any kind, she could drive it. She’d been