Trafficked -- Beaten -- Trapped
When eighteen-year-old Stacy Degray sets off to visit Felipe, a charming guy she met on the internet, she has no idea that she is being lured to his home country Malaguay to be auctioned off as a soldier's bride. All...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I wake up in my bed with a killer headache. When I try to move, my muscles scream at me to lie still, but the pain throbs through me even after I comply. Sunlight still slices through the thin curtains and the blood on my lips is moist, so I couldn't have passed out for long.
Staring at the ceiling, I contemplate my next move. I have to get out of Malaguay, no doubt about it. Except for Charo, no one has ever hit me before—my parents never even spanked me—and the one time a church member was discovered to have beaten his wife, the congregation was in an uproar. My mom told me back then that partner violence was an absolute no-go and that research showed the abuse escalated over time. It's one of the things I take at face value. I'm not eager to find out if she was right or not.
Now the only question is how to get myself home. After what just happened, asking Miguel for my passport is out of the question. Any confrontation could turn him into a monster again; something I need to avoid at all costs if I don't want to risk further harm.
Convinced that my papers have to be somewhere in his desk in the study, I prop myself up. With great effort, I swing my legs out of bed and tip my toes onto the floor to check for pain. My lower back is sore, but otherwise, I should be able to walk.
With a groan, I get to my feet and reach for the bedpost for balance. The first steps are pure agony, but by the time I reach the door, my thirst to escape has taken over. Tomás stressed in basic training that pain is a matter of willpower.
If you try hard enough, it can be controlled.
Back then, I thought he was full of shit, but now, I manage to carry on with the right motivation.
When I halt in front of the door to Miguel's office, the entire house is shrouded in silence. The clock in the hallway reads one p.m. He's probably over at the compound or grabbing lunch in town, and Naiara is out by the pool. This will be my best chance to search the study.
I softly knock to make sure. All remains still. With slight hesitation, I push the door open, the crack just wide enough to peek in. No sign of anyone. With a held breath, I tiptoe forward, pain and discomfort forgotten. My freedom is within reach. Six steps, five, four—my gaze is fixed on the desk. I just hope I can find the passport quickly and get out of the house before Miguel returns.
By the time I sink into Miguel's chair, my shirt sticks like a second skin to my back. I swipe a few strands of my hair from my forehead, a mistake I regret instantly when my fingers brush the left side of my face. Pain explodes in my head. It takes me a moment to catch my breath, the throbbing driving nausea up my throat.
Ignoring my desire to barf, I inspect the drawers and systematically go through the desk. None of the compartments are locked, the reason becoming all too soon apparent. Most of the drawers are either empty or stuffed with useless supplies. With a sigh, I lean back, scanning the room. When he took my papers, Miguel had mentioned a safe. Where could it be?
