“I’m glad you didn’t sell this place.” I take a carton of milk out of the fridge.
When he doesn’t respond, I glance up. He’s watching me, his hands resting loosely on his hips and his expression shuttered.
My heart clenches. Does he even know that he’s still locked up, still trapped? That we both are?
“Why didn’t you just come here to find me?” he asks. “Why did you track me down to the fucking fight?”
“I didn’t know how to get here or what the address is.” Heat crawls up my neck. “I wanted to find you because my father found some na…naked pictures of me.”
Darius looks at me sharply.
“They were self-portraits.” I avert my gaze. “I’ve been experimenting after reading about self-portraiture in that book you gave us. My father found some nudes and…well, of course he went ballistic, thinking someone else had taken them. He even asked me if you’d taken them.”
The color drains from his face. “Henry suspected it was me?”
“I don’t think he asked because he thought there was anything going on with us,” I say hastily. “I think he couldn’t imagine who else it could have been. I mean, just from the photographer angle and the fact that I don’t have many friends or even know that many people. But the question obviously freaked me out, which is why I went looking for you. So if he asks you about it, you’ll know why. And you can tell him you don’t know anything about it.”
“Jesus, Nell.” He lets out a heavy sigh.
“Please don’t be mad at me.” I can’t stop my voice from shaking.
He gives an abrupt shake of his head. “I’m not.”
What I hear is—But I’m fucking enraged at myself.
The microwave beeps.
I set a cup on the counter for him and take mine into the living room. A sick feeling is starting to form in my stomach. I don’t know what happens next, but I do know it won’t be easy or even good.
And now I’ve added to Darius’s considerable pain by begging him to surrender, when he’s already lost so much. I don’t even know what it would mean to win this battle. Winning always means someone else has to lose.
I take a sip of coffee and slowly circle the room. Botanical prints of seashells and ocean plants hang crookedly on the walls. An intricate ship-in-a-bottle sits on a table. Next to it, a wooden box divided into compartments contains an array of broken seashells and bits of driftwood.
I pick up a piece of gray sea glass about the size of a half-dollar. Smoothed by the tides, the frosted surface seems to glow from an inner light.
“You and I found this.” I hold it up to show him. “We were coming back from looking at the tide pools, and there was a tangle of seaweed on the beach. I noticed something gleaming in the middle of it, and you dug out this piece of glass. You gave it to me and told me how rare it is to find sea glass on the beach. So you said it had to be good luck.”
“I remember.” He nods toward my hand. “Keep it.”
“No. You keep it.” I rub the glass between my thumb and forefinger. “You said you once lost a coin that was your good-luck charm. Now you have a new one.”
I place the sea glass back in the box.
Turning, I examine the bookshelves, which are still cluttered with dusty old novels and nonfiction books about politics, history, and photography.
The bottom shelf contains all the well-worn picture books that I’d once loved so much. I find A House for Hermit Crab, a colorful story about a little crab who outgrows his shell and goes on a search for a perfect, new home.
I sit down and leaf through the pages. I’d read this book so many times that I’d had it memorized. The crab reminded me of Darius, a creature who carries his house with him wherever he goes. Always on the move.
I press a hand to my chest. I can’t reconcile the Darius I know with the bloodthirsty, ruthless fighter in the ring.
“When did you start doing that?” I gesture vaguely to the window. “That kind of fighting? I thought…I could never imagine you…”
My throat closes over. I duck my head and stare at the book, a bright picture of the crab.
The cushions shift as Darius sits on the other end of the sofa. Big, bruised, smelling like the ocean and eucalyptus-scented soap.
“I wish to God you hadn’t seen that.” His voice is hoarse.
“I’m not sorry I did.” I glance at him. “Who else knows?”
“It’s not a secret, but I don’t advertise it either.” He rubs his hands over his face. “Most everyone on the fight circuit just knows me by my last name.”
“But why?” I put the book aside and turn to face him. “How did you…?”
He rests his elbows on his thighs and links his hands loosely between them, his head bent.
“After I got back to the States, I had a rough time.” His voice is low, reluctant, like he’s forcing out the words. “Not a surprise, of course. The nightmares were the worst, like being back in the compound. I had an army of people—doctors, therapists, specialists of every kind. They got me reacclimated to living, to accepting that I was free again and could do what I wanted. The doctors helped me build up my system. Therapists gave me ways to deal with the PTSD and all the other shit that came along with it. But it wasn’t enough.
“Fifteen years ago, I did a cross-country photo series on underground fights and fighters. I’d stayed in touch with a few of the guys. After getting through rehab, I needed to do two things—get back into the best physical shape possible and get back to work. I called one of the fight organizers in New York and worked with their trainers to rebuild myself. For six months, that was my life. Training and fighting on the underground circuit.”
I no longer need to ask why. The reasons must be astonishingly complex and intricate—an outlet for his rage and bitterness, a way to be in control again, to bulk up, to use his body and energy. To stop thinking and rely only on his instincts, strength, and power.
“Then the Times called with an assignment.” His profile darkens. “They wanted me to cover an insurrection in Fallujah. I got on the next plane and landed in the middle of escalating violence. Before, I’d have run right into it to get the perfect shot.”
He shakes his head. “But this time, I froze. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t click the shutter, adjust the focus. Couldn’t even get close to the action. I felt like I’d lost everything I’d ever worked for. Everything I’d wanted and was good at.”
My heart clenches like a fist. His inability to use his camera must have been like losing an appendage or one of his senses. His second nature.
“I was…” His throat works with a swallow. “My captors beat me pretty regularly. Sometimes just a cuff on the side of my head, sometimes more. I got used to it because the pain reminded me I was still alive. But the worst was when they’d take me out to the courtyard and put a gun to my head. Then pull the trigger on an empty chamber. Multiple times.”
I press my hands to my face.
“That was how I felt when I tried to go back to work.” He straightens and runs his palms over his thighs. “Terrified, frozen, and unable to do a fucking thing about it. Empty inside. I left Iraq the next day. Came back and started fighting again. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to take another photo. But I knew I could fight well and win. So I did.”