Free A Small Fortune by Audrey Braun

a tray of food. Benicio turns from the window and calls out to her, but she closes the door and locks it without looking his way.
    My mind feels open and clear, observant, sensitive to tricks, turning over every little thing for clues to get out of there. I consider the objects on the tray, a chunk of soft cheese and dense bread. Four unopened bottles of water. I observe Benicio cutting across the room, an actor on a stage, lifting the tray stage right, moving to stage center, throwing a soft—and, yes, call it what it is—sexy glance my way.
    He sits on the floor in the center of the room. He motions me to join him with a gentle toss of his head.
    I’m operating on a different level. I’m above it all, observing, calculating moves. I join him as if it’s a picnic.
    He twists open a bottle of water and hands it to me. He opens one for himself and drinks it down without stopping. We take turns tearing into the bread and cheese. Somewhere the baby cries. The iron gate clangs closed.
    It occurs to me that I’ve never fully grown up. Jonathon has taken care of me in so many ways, ways a parent takes care of a child. I don’t have to give any thought to the mortgage or utility bills or investing my earnings, nor have I ever given much thought to saving for Oliver’s college. These are all grown-up responsibilities, all taken care of behind the scenes. When Jonathon asked me to stay instead of threatening to leave the way another man would have, I somehow interpreted this as if he were the one seeking forgiveness. I haven’t been a very good husband. Don’t leave me , like begging me to keep the man who’d done me wrong. How could I let him disappear from my life? Vanish suddenly, and forever, like my father? Like my mother?
    My leap in understanding causes me to draw an extra breath. The only part I don’t understand was why Jonathon wanted me to stay after what I did. This question has woven in and out of my thoughts for years. I wonder if it has something to do with all of this.
    “There’s something else,” Benicio says.
    His voice startles me.
    “I think the reason they had you shower and change was because you were supposed to get on a plane. Something must have happened.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I think your husband brought them your passport. At least that’s what it sounded like.”
    “What what sounded like?”
    “I didn’t hear the whole thing clearly. And your husband has an accent when he speaks Spanish. But what I thought I heard was him saying that he wanted them to keep your passport here with you, just in case.”
    I wait for him to finish.
    “That’s the part I didn’t quite hear.”
    Doubt trickles down my throat like spoonfuls of cloudy soup pooling in my stomach. What if I have this all wrong? What if Jonathon has become involved with these people by mistake, and by the time he realized what was happening it was too late? What if he’s just going along with them as a means to get me out of here?
    “Maybe you’re meeting him in Switzerland.”
    “What would make them think I would agree to get on a plane without screaming for help?”
    Benicio stares at me. He’s too kind to say the words.
    I suddenly lose my distance, my vantage point from on high. I slide back down to the level of participation, the place where everything hurts. I turn to the window. “Let me guess. Threaten to kill someone I love more than anything in this world.”
    Benicio rests his hand on my shoulder. I turn to meet his eyes. Someone this attractive usually has it easier in life than most. Beautiful women probably throw themselves at him. Men probably offer him jobs. It occurs to me that he could have children, a wife somewhere, worrying herself sick.
    “Are you married?”
    Benicio drops his hand and shakes his head. “I was engaged once. To a woman in Los Angeles.”
    “Is that where you lived?”
    “L.A., New York, Chicago, Miami.”
    “That’s why your English is so good.” I assume crop or