Excerpt of Her Perfect Life by Vicki Hinze

HER PRISON CELL WAS DARK and dank.

Weak moonlight cut through the tiny barred window, barely casting a thin strip of shadow on the hard sand floor. The air lay still, silent and heavy, yet compared to the days of hundred-twenty-degree temperatures, it seemed blissfully cool.

In just a few hours, dawn would come and the desert heat would again turn her cell into an oven. Trapped between the walls in this armpit of hell, the heat swelled and seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the air. Day or night, Katie felt choked. Midday, she often spent strangling, and when the sandstorms came, the misery increased tenfold.

That which is endured is conquered.

She gently held the photo of her husband, Sam, and their children, Molly and Jake. It was far too dark to see it, but that didn't matter; she'd memorized every detail. Though it made the ache in her heart so acute she swore it would kill her, each night she forced herself to remember every quirk and expression and sound they'd ever made, terrified if she missed even one night she'd forget and never again be able to recall them. She relived each memorable moment and the way it had made her feel, the way they had made her feel, at least a million times, and prayed it would be enough to last her the rest of her life.

Eyes are unnecessary to view what is stored in the heart.

The photo's edges were frayed and the images worn smooth in places — one on Molly's hair and one on Jake's nose. Katie had always done that — stroked Molly's hair, and dragged her fingertip down the slope of Jake's nose. Back then she'd been comforting them. Now she stroked their photo, trying to comfort herself.

In the last six years, there had been little comfort. But there had been an abundance of nightmares. Nightmares of the crash, of her injuries. The pain of setting her own broken bones. When she'd discovered she'd gone down in a lawless tribal area, she'd known that there would be more pain to be suffered. And there had been. Much, much more.

Despite the warlords' bets that she wouldn't last a week, she had endured and conquered every single violation. She had survived. Yet each abuse had created horrible images that didn't fade from her memory on awakening. Images that ignited resentment and anger and made it burn as strong in her as the loneliness of isolation and the constant fear of what the sadistic bastards holding her prisoner would do to her next.

General Amid had been a godsend.

Still, it'd taken a couple years to come to grips with being left behind. C.D. had to be dead, or he'd have found her by now. She still mourned him. Mourned losing Sam and their kids. Mourned having her life stripped away from her and being left with...this.

It'd taken a couple more years to give up hope of ever being rescued. But on the fifth anniversary of her crash and capture, she'd reached critical-crisis point: accept it or go insane. That night, alone in her cell, she had slogged her way through a minefield of emotions and faced the truth. No one could reach her here. No one would even try — not anymore, if they ever had. Too much time had passed, and living in this cell, cleaning General Amid's home, shopping for his household at the market — that was her life now, and likely that's all it would ever be. She refused to think about his leaving. Without his protection, the guards would revert to the way they'd treated her before he'd stepped in, and that incited more nightmares, more withdrawing deeper and deeper inside herself, closing even more shutters in her mind, locking away the memories of torture to stay sane.

Yet on still nights like this one, where she lay alone in her cell on a bare cot with but one thing of her own — the photo — she silently wept inside, crushed under the weight of her darkest fears. She would die in this god-awful place, still wearing her tattered flight suit because it made the guards feel superior and powerful to hold her — the U.S. — captive.

She would never again see Sam or Molly or Jake. She'd never again know the joy of watching them play while she worked in her beloved garden. It, too, likely stood as withered and overgrown as the day they'd first moved into the house. Sam was not a master gardener. He wouldn't even remember to water the lawn if it wasn't on an automatic sprinkler system. She'd worked two years on that garden. But... Reality hit her. Everything in her life ceased to be when she had ceased to be.

Except for Sam and the kids.

Yet even with the most heartfelt and resolute rationalization, she couldn't convince herself that they weren't gone from her life forever.

On her cot, she curled on her side, pulling her knees to her chest, trying to shut out despair. God, how long must I endure this? Why can't I die, too? Please, just end this pain....

For the hundredth time that long, sorrowful night, she swallowed a sob and buried her hopelessness. The guard was apt to come in at any time, and she didn't dare let him see her in tears. She'd made that mistake once early on and would kill herself before doing it again. He and the other guards had tortured her for six hours straight.

Shaking head to toe at the memory, she crossed her chest with her arms and squeezed. The sensation of pressure swept sweet relief through her body. She was awake, not asleep, not dreaming those haunting dreams. She had survived.

That which is endured is conquered.

Rubbing the faded U.S. flag patch on her sleeve, she wondered. What were the children doing? Was Sam home from the hospital, tucking them into bed, singing them night- night songs? Did he notice that Molly showed signs of being as psychic as Katie's mother? Did he remember that she hated the crust on her sandwiches, and Jake had to have orange juice every morning to jump-start his blood sugar level? Did Sam remember to kiss them good-morning as well as good-night? How often did he remember to tell them he loved them? He'd seldom slowed down long enough to tell Katie herself, but love had always been there in his eyes. Always there in his eyes. Molly would sense that. But would Jake?

A tear splashed onto Katie's cheek and her heart ached. God, how can I keep taking this, day after day? Please, please let what happened today matter. Please let that French doctor report seeing me.

He had seen her. Hadn't he? He definitely had made eye contact, been startled and quickly covered it up, then pretended not to have seen her at all.

General Amid, who ran the prison camp, had sent her to the market for his fresh vegetables. There was no danger of her running away. There was nowhere to run and no one to run to, and anyone foolish enough to try would die in the desert or be slaughtered by the warlords hiding out in the region. In the market, there had been a small group of medical workers treating the sick, passing out medicine.... That's where she'd seen the French doctor. He had to have reported seeing her....

But nothing happened that night to verify it.

Katie consoled herself. It took time to notify people. Time to identify her and to debate the options and decide what to do. Warning herself she was being a damn fool, she couldn't seem to stop hope from flickering to life inside her.

Nothing happened the next night, either, and doubt seeped in. Maybe she'd just seen what she'd wanted to see, and the Frenchman hadn't noticed her at all. Or maybe it was just taking a little longer to get the wheels moving. It had to be taking just a little while longer....

But a week later, when still nothing had happened, her certainty disappeared. The Frenchman hadn't seen her, or if he had, he'd chosen to ignore it or he'd thought nothing of it.

The most important glimpse of her life — but to him it'd been too insignificant to even notice.

You've got to stop this, Katie. Stop hoping. It's insane. Nothing is going to happen. Keep hoping, and how are you going to handle the letdown? Hope is a luxury you can't afford.

She paced her cell in the darkness, bitterness burning her throat, her chest so tight she could barely breathe. Die, hope. She pushed a fisted hand over her heart. Die!

And whether it did, or it was buried so deep she couldn't feel it anymore, she put the Frenchman from her mind, locking him behind the shutter to forget him, too, and then returned to stroking her worn photograph in the sweltering heat, missing Sam and the kids, mourning C.D., and scrubbing General Amid's quarters, longing for her weekly bath and swearing she'd trade her eyeteeth for a hamburger, soda or bottle of skin lotion. And conditioner for her hair. She squeezed her eyes shut and indulged in heartfelt longing. She'd give a molar for one squirt of conditioner. Just one...

While she hadn't dared to hope, she had put herself in General Amid's presence as often as possible, in case he wanted to send her back to the market. The medical workers still being around was highly unlikely, but it wasn't impossible.

Yet whether or not they remained close by quickly became a moot point. The general watched her with an odd look in his eyes, but he never sent her back to the market. Instead, just before she was to return to her cell one night, he stopped her. "Katie," he said. "I am to be transferred to a new prison soon."

Fear sliced through her heart like a knife and she had to fight to find her voice. "Will you take me with you?"

Regret burned in his eyes. "I am sorry. That is not possible."

Disappointment raised terror, and tears clogged her throat. She couldn't speak, and so nodded. He would leave, and things would return to the way they had been before he had learned what was happening to her. Oh, God. I can't stand it again. I can't.

"I am sorry," he whispered. "I have done all I can do to protect you."

He had. Here, and maybe in sending her to the market. Maybe he'd meant for her to be seen. On the chance he had, she felt gratitude swell and her chin quiver. She cleared her throat to hide it. "Thank you."

He, too, had given up hope. She was lost. Lost, screwed and defeated.

Knowing it, she walked the dark pathway back to her cell. The defeat had her despairing, but even more than despairing, she was terrified.

Long after midnight that night — exactly two weeks after she'd seen the Frenchman in the market — Katie paced her four-foot wide cell until her feet ached, and then collapsed onto her cot, exhausted. Her stomach growled. She hadn't been fed since yesterday, and hadn't been able to steal anything from General Amid's. If he ever noticed food missing, he never mentioned it. But she didn't flaunt stealing his food in his face, either.

Holding the photo over her heart, she ignored her rumbling stomach and closed her eyes.

For the first night since she'd seen the Frenchman, she didn't drift to sleep seeing his face in her mind. Every other night, she had alternated between praying he'd think of her and the thought of her would nag at him until he did something to help her, and cursing him for not being more aware, seeing her and doing something to set her free. But this night, she didn't think of him at all. General Amid, the man whose protection had kept her alive and safe, whose food had kept her from starving to death, was leaving. A new commander would take his place and things would return to what they had been.

She would be dead within a month. If God was merciful, sooner...