Chapter 3

The guest room was more like a cell. There was no bed, no dresser, not even a chair. Just a thin mat on the floor and a single blanket. For seven years, this was Sarah' s world. The window looked out onto a beautiful garden that the groundskeeper tended, a world of vibrant life she could see but never touch. The physical deprivation was a constant, dull ache, a reminder of her place in David' s world. She was not a wife; she was a punishment he inflicted upon himself, and mostly, upon her.

The most torturous ritual was the one with the divorce papers. Once a month, for the first few years, she would gather her courage and present them to him. Each time, his reaction was the same. He wouldn't even read them. He would take the papers from her hand and, with a calm, deliberate motion, tear them into small pieces, letting them fall to the floor like confetti at a funeral. Other times, he would toss them into the fireplace and watch them burn, his face illuminated by the flames. It was his way of telling her that there was no escape. He owned her past, her present, and her future.

In the long, quiet hours, Sarah would talk to herself, her thoughts her only companions. "What did I do wrong?" she would whisper into the darkness. "I saved that boy. I didn't see where Emily went." She would replay the day at the lake over and over, searching for a single moment where she could have changed the outcome, but she always came up empty. She was innocent, yet she wore the guilt like a heavy cloak. To keep her mind from breaking, she would dream of buildings. She' d find scraps of paper-the backs of old receipts, discarded envelopes-and sketch designs for houses, libraries, and soaring skyscrapers. It was a small act of defiance, a way to remember the woman she was supposed to be.

Sometimes, a memory from long ago would surface, a ghost of a different David. She remembered being twelve, visiting his family's house with Emily. He had been a kind older boy then. He'd found her sitting alone in the garden while Emily held court with her friends. He had silently handed her a piece of strawberry candy, given her a small, shy smile, and walked away. The memory was so sweet it made her current reality feel even more bitter. It was a reminder that the man who hated her now was not a monster by birth, but one made by grief and blame.

Her escape fund grew slowly, painfully. She became an expert at being invisible, at saving. She would tell David the grocery bill was two hundred dollars when it was one hundred and eighty, stashing the twenty-dollar bill away. She walked everywhere instead of taking the bus, adding the saved fare to her secret stash. She ate the simplest food-vegetable soup made from peels and ends, day-old bread. Once, she came down with a terrible fever, her body wracked with chills. The bottle of medicine in the cabinet cost twelve dollars. She looked at it, then at the small roll of cash hidden in her coat. She chose the cash. She would endure the fever. The price of freedom was higher than the price of medicine.