I broke the eye contact and looked down at our clasped hands, noting, with a jolt of surprise, the scars on her wrists. Not that of a suicide attempt. I rolled my wrist over, the same wrist I planned to tattoo, and compared our similar handcuff scars. I squeezed her hand and looked back up to her eyes. My mouth returned her smile but inside my heart cried.

4 months after rescue

“Ms. Johnson, you do understand that you are here of your own free will and are under no obligation to make this statement?”

I nodded. “I do.”

“I have a series of questions to ask, ones to verify the verbal statement you just provided, after which time you will write a written narrative of your events. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“On October 12th you visited the Cendez Salsa Club in Puerto Vallarta, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Why were you alone in the city at night?”

“I was just wasting time. Brett—my boyfriend—was having a business dinner.”

“And in the salsa club you were approached by Carlos Menas who took you into a secluded area of the club and injected you with some form of drug, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And your next memory was awakening in handcuffs and ankle shackles in the basement of his home in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Is that correct?”

“It is.”

“How long were you in Mr. Menas’ care?”

“I was a prisoner of Carlos Menas until I escaped about nine months later.” It would have been 268 hatchmarks.

“And you escaped on July 7th in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. Is that correct?”

“Yes. He had taken me there to sell me and purchase another slave.”

“And you escaped his care and ran to a hotel, where you called your prior boyfriend, Brett Betschart?”

“Yes.”

“And Brett Betschart just happened to be in the same city?”

“I was taken from there. I’m sure he made many trips there since my disappearance to look for me.”

My lawyer, a suit with a Yale diploma on his wall, leaned forward, far enough to catch my eye and gave me a warning look. Oh, right. No elaborating. I forgot. I flicked my eyes back toward the man, an FBI agent.

“Why didn’t you call the police upon your return to America?”

“I called my father. He’s the Chief of Police in my town.”

“So you called your father and told him where Mr. Menas lived?”

“Not initially. I was in shock.”

“What is your understanding of what your father did with that information?”

“I believe that he went to New Mexico and coordinated with local authorities there.”

“Would you be surprised to know that your father did not contact the police but instead went straight to Mr. Menas’ house, where it appears he tortured the man for several days before surrendering him to police?”

“Would I be surprised?”

“Yes.”

“No, I would not be surprised. But I don’t know what my father did when he left Quincy.” Or Brett. They left together, three days after I returned home. Three days spent in a combination of smothering me with love and grilling me about my stay. I didn’t want to know what they did to him, yet a small part of me wanted every painful detail. They let him live, I knew that. They let him live and now he was in the custody of the New Mexico judicial system.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Johnson. Special Agent Haster will escort you to a private room for your written statement.”

I nodded and rose. Remembered, at the last minute, that I could look him in the eye.

4 months, 3 weeks after rescue

I blew into the snow and it poofed, a hundred snowflakes bursting into the air, the wind sweeping a blast of them back into my face and I giggled, wiping a gloved hand over my ski mask. I looked around for Brett, the canvas of white before me blank and uninterrupted. Behind me, the glow of the cabin beckoned, the interior lights illuminating the cozy interior through the huge expanse of windows. I let out a long breath, the act frosting in the air before me, and looked up, into the night sky.

Out here, a galaxy above me, my view fringed with snow-capped branches and falling flurries, I feel— OOMPH. I stagger back, spitting out snow as I bat at my mask, the reaction futile as I am hit with another snowball, my twisting defense causing me to fall, one big awkward pile of fleece, my feet going up, gloved hands struggling to scrape at the snow, to form my own missile in which to destroy my opponent.

“Easy there,” Brett’s voice, his hot breath, warms my ear in the moment before he tackles me, pinning my arms and rolling with me down the slight hill. We roll to a stop, his mouth stealing a frigid kiss against an exposed patch of neck. “If you hit me with one of those, I’ll be forced to withhold hot chocolate.”

I dropped the partially formed snowball and held up my hands, grinning up at him. “A highly effective threat. I surrender.”

“Promise?” he tilts his head at me suspiciously. “You’ll be mine, forever and ever?”

“Forever and ever,” I whisper. “As long as that sentence comes with hot chocolate.”

His mouth twitches and he lets out a troubled sigh. “I can’t promise hot chocolate...” He pushes off and offers me his hand. “But I do have this?” He pulls me to my feet, us doing a seesaw when I right and he drops, onto one knee, his other hand lifting and holding out a ring box. “Riley, will you marry me?”