Page 7 of Rescued By Midnight

“We’re all struggling.” Even saying the word “struggling” had a lump forming in my throat. It had been two months since Nessa died. Sometimes I thought we’d be struggling forever. There was no way out of this ocean of mourning. No rope. No lifeboats. No buoys.

“Anyway,” she said, “I like it here, but my church wants me to do therapy on their campus. Except their grief counselor gives me the creeps.”

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Twenty-one.”

“Okay, listen to advice from an old man?—”

“You aren’t old,” she snorted.

“I’m thirty-two.” I raised my eyebrows, waiting for her to argue with me. When she didn’t, I said, “So listen to an old man’s advice. Your gut is telling you something for a reason. You should pay attention. If something feels off, with a person or a place, don’t ignore it, okay? If a grief counselor gives you the creeps? It’s because your body is telling you to avoid him.”

Landon caught my eye from the other end of the hall, his signal that he was ready to go.

Alice stared thoughtfully at her tea. “I was late to the meeting because I sat in my car, scared of disappointing the elders.”

“I hope to see you next week,” I told her. “Inderjit runs a good meeting. You’ll find it helpful, I think.”

“Thanks.”

ALICE - NOW

Returning to the campus of Seven Blessed Days is jarring. Because as much as my home has changed, this place looks exactly the same. White-washed buildings, so bright in the sunlight that my sunglasses don’t even help. No trees, only carefully manicured shrubs lining the white cement walkways. It’s harsh like a desert, and eerily silent.

“I’ll walk you in.” Brayden starts to get out of his truck.

“No need. I know where it is.”

We’ve barely spoken since last night. He seemed surprised when I didn’t jump up this morning to fix him breakfast, but he didn’t say a word. He also didn’t make breakfast for himself. I wonder if he even knows how. It’s amazing he survived my absence. Did Jericha move in the day after I was kidnapped?

“I’ll wait here,” Brayden says as I slam the door closed behind me.

The sun beats down, harsh on the crown of my head. It reflects back up to my face from the bright cement. I’m sweating in the dark yellow sweatpants and sweatshirt Brayden gave me yesterday. We’re supposed to buy some new clothes after therapy, at least. I wish we’d gone shopping before, but since I’m not driving—my license lapsed while I was in captivity—I don’t get to make the itinerary.

Walking to Elder Wattle’s office makes me feel like a confused teenager all over again. When my parents moved us to San Esteban, I was fourteen. I was also a sulky little shit, angry at my already-large breasts and angry at leaving my best friend behind in Oregon.

We joined the church, and my parents immediately enrolled me in the free therapy offered by Elder Wattle.

Here I am again, over a decade later, to talk about my feelings. I knock on the office door, which is white like the walls of the building, white like the cement. Timothy Wattle, Elder, Level Five is listed on a small plaque in the center of the door.

“Come in,” a voice calls from inside.

I open the door and face Elder Wattle. He looks the same as I last saw him—a gray and white Santa beard, with round, red cheeks above it. His glasses are square-framed and make his small eyes look squintier. He smiles at me like I’m his own, long-lost child, returned at last.

I have never liked him.

“Alice.” His voice is warm and he stands to greet me, hand held out.

I touch my fingertips to his in the usual church greeting. Keeping my gaze on the floor, I say, “Elder Wattle, hello.”

“Have a seat, please.” He gestures at the chair across from his desk.

“Thanks.” I perch on the edge. It’s an uncomfortable chair, I know from experience. The padding is a joke. This hour will feel longer because of it.

“So,” he says. “Obviously you know why you are here.”

“Yes. I was kidnapped.”