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 could end it all, now. Her misery would be over.
She will feel nothing. Ever again.
Her mother’s anguished face comes to her mind.
Mama.
How devastated would she be…?
She thinks of Maxim. And dismisses the thought of him immediately.
She’ll never see him again.
Her throat is closing. Choked with emotion. She screws up her eyes. Panting.
She can die at her own hand. Not Anatoli’s…
And someone will have to clean up afterward.
No. No. No.
She crumples to the floor. Defeated. A failure. She cannot take her own life. She doesn’t have the gumption. And deep down she wants to stay alive in the vague hope of seeing Maxim again. She can’t run. She needs to get home. Zagreb is not five days’ walk from London, it’s so much farther. She’s helpless. She rocks quietly to and fro, holding herself and cradling the gun, while she silently surrenders to her grief. She’s never been so distraught. She’s never wept this many tears. Ever. Even after her traumatic escape and on her long walk to Magda’s. She’d mourned her grandmother and felt her loss—but she never felt this desolate. This sorrow is overwhelming. She cannot kill him, and she cannot kill herself. She’s lost the man she loves, and she’s bound to a man she loathes.
Her heart is broken. No. Her heart has disappeared.
* * *
As the sun peeks over the horizon, she stifles her sobs and through her tears she examines the gun. It’s similar to one of her father’s.
There is something she can do; she’s seen her father do it often enough. She unclips the magazine and is surprised to find only four bullets in it. She removes them and then sharply pulls the slide back and catches the remaining round as it’s ejected from the chamber. She reloads the magazine into the gun and pockets the bullets. Then she places the pistol back in Anatoli’s case and zips it up.
Standing, she wipes away her tears. Enough with the crying, she scolds herself. She glances toward the window as the skyline of Zagreb materializes in the early-morning light. From the fifteenth floor of the Westin hotel, the city is spread out beneath like a terra-cotta patchwork quilt. It’s an arresting vista, and in a distracted moment she wonders if Tiranë is similar.
“You’re awake.” Anatoli’s voice startles her.
“I was hungry.” She glances at the table of leftover food. “Now I’m going to have a shower.”
Grabbing her bag, she scuttles into the bathroom and locks the door.
* * *
When she emerges, Anatoli is up and dressed. Their crockery and the leftover food have been cleared away, and there’s fresh linen on the table, with a continental breakfast laid out for them.
“You stayed,” Anatoli says quietly. He seems subdued, though he’s as watchful as ever.
“Where would I go?” Alessia replies wearily.
He shrugs. “You left once before.”
Alessia stares at him. Mute. Despondent. Exhausted.
“Is it because you care for me?” he whispers.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she says, and, sitting down, picks out a pain au chocolat from the bread basket.
He takes his seat opposite her, and she can tell he’s hiding a slight and hopeful smile.
* * *
Tom and I wander across the vast Skanderbeg Square, which is close to the hotel. It’s a clear, chill morning, with the sun reflecting off the multicolored marble tiles that pave the gargantuan space. It’s dominated on one side by a bronze statue of Albania’s fifteenth-century hero on horseback, and on the other by the National History Museum. Although I’m anxious to get to Alessia’s town and find her home, we have to wait to meet our interpreter.
I’m unsettled and jittery and unable to keep still, so to kill time Tom and I take a quick walk through the museum. I distract myself by snapping numerous photographs and posting the odd one online. I get told off twice, but I ignore the officials and continue to take photographs surreptitiously. It’s hardly the British Museum, but I’m fascinated by the Illyrian artifacts. Tom, of course, is preoccupied with the displays of medieval weaponry; Albania has a rich and bloody history.
At ten we stroll down one of the tree-lined boulevards toward the coffeehouse where we’ve arranged to meet our translator. I am struck by how many men are sitting around drinking coffee outside, even though it’s cold.
Where are the women?
* * *
Thanas Ceka is dark-haired and dark-eyed, a postgrad student at the University of Tirana doing his doctorate in English literature. His English is excellent, he has a ready smile and an easygoing nature—and he’s brought his girlfriend. Her name is Drita, and she’s an undergrad studying history. She’s petite and pretty, and her spoken English is not as good as Thanas’s. She wants to come with us.
Well, this could get complicated.
Tom glances at me and shrugs. I haven’t got time to argue. “I’m not sure how long we’re going to be,” I state as I finish my coffee. It could double as paint stripper—I don’t think I’ve ever drunk coffee this strong.