That night, Marissa did not dream of the beating from Tomas or of Braxton's window being shot out. She had a nightmare that was to become recurring. In the dream, Braxton was being assaulted by members of the Cartel. They left him for dead in his home. Someone found him barely alive and he was taken to hospital. Marissa was called to the ICU. The doctor told her there was nothing more they could do for him and he had asked to see her before he died. When she approached his bed, he told her, in a weak voice, that it was her fault that this happened and she would burn in hell for it. At this point, she woke up in a sweat. She hoped she hadn't screamed or if she had, it hadn't disturbed the man in the next suite.

The day after she arrived at the compound, Marissa met Brian for lunch in the cafeteria. He introduced her to Cara, her new supervisor. Cara looked like a no-nonsense woman. She was tall for a female, had a thin build, very short blonde hair, green eyes and an expression that could freeze anti freeze. The total opposite of Brian, who was shorter, with dark hair and a kind face - though if push came to shove, Marissa knew his loyalty was with the Cartel.

“I need your second phone, Lydia”, Brian said. Marissa was in her wheelchair – she was getting good at manoeuvring it with one hand – and he had moved a chair over to accommodate it. “I forgot about it yesterday when I asked for your phone.”

“I forgot about it, too, Brian.” She reached into her purse and brought it out. “I was going to give it to you anyway.”

“I hope you have not made any calls on it”, he said as he took it from her.

“I haven't.” It was the truth, though she'd thought about calling Braxton with it. In the end, she decided against it as she did not want any harm to come to him, should the Cartel find out.

“You will have only one phone while under my employ”, Cara said in a stern voice. “Is that clear?”

“Crystal.” Marissa had a feeling she was not going to like this woman.

The day after that, she started training to teach recruits on how to be a mule and not get caught. There was one other trainee with her, a man named Joe. Cara was their instructor. A lot of the training was a review of what they already knew, since they had both been working as mules, but they also learned how to “read” their students. While the Cartel was careful in who they recruited, mistakes did happen now and then. The “teachers” were to look for signs that a recruit might not be “all in” with the program – people who might be likely to feed information to the police. If they saw someone exhibiting any of those signs, they were to inform Cara ASAP and she would take it from there. Marissa did not like having such responsibility. She was afraid to ask what happened to any recruits that they flagged.

Her first day training new recruits was very stressful. She had a class of four. Two were able bodied and two were in wheelchairs. This is what was hardest – knowing that the Cartel most likely caused them to be in the chairs. She hated the feeling of enabling them by agreeing to teach.

Her days ended at 3pm – the Cartel felt that anything more than six hours of 'training' was too much for their recruits and they had invested in bringing each one there, so they did not want that time, effort and money to go to waste. Better for a shorter day without information overload than to risk them trying to escape – because if that happened, they'd never be able to trust the person and said person would have to be whacked.

One day, when she got back to her suite, she found Brian waiting outside her door. “I'm flying to Seattle tomorrow morning”, he told her when they were seated in her living room. Marissa was only too glad to get out of the wheelchair. “So I wanted to come say goodbye. How are things going for you here?”

“All right, I guess. It is nice to have something to do for part of the day.”

“How are you getting on with Cara?”

“We're civil. She's a little harsh for my liking but this is only temporary.”

“That's a good attitude to take. Like I said, I'm going to try to get them to send you to Seattle so I can be your supervisor again. You know I will treat you well.”

“I appreciate that, Brian. What do you think the chances are that you will be successful at that?”

“Pretty good. I have an in with the head honcho here. Don't fret about it.”

“I'll try not to.”

“Good. You have my number. My new alias is Mark, please use it from now on.”

“Bri...Mark... how many people in the organization know about Braxton?”

“Just me and my superior. Why? You aren't thinking of contacting him, are you? That would not be wise.”

“Are my calls being monitored?”

“No, but they have ways of finding things out. Lydia, please - for his sake, do not contact him.”

“Then can you do me a favour?” He looked at her warily. “His parents were in a car accident in Boulder. His mom was critically injured, then she was upgraded to serious. Can you find out how she is doing for me? Please?”

“I will see what I can do, Lydia. Braxton has been trying to call one of your old phones. I had the number disconnected.”

Inwardly, Marissa cringed. She knew it was going to be very hard on Braxton to not be able to reach her, but she had to do as Brian – Mark – asked or he could be in danger. He would get over her and get on with his life, she was certain of that.

“Oh, Lydia – there is one more thing. I know we couldn't find a therapist to see you remotely, but there is a psychiatrist here – his name is Dr Alan Collins. Call the infirmary and ask for him.”

“How confidential is it?”

“The same as anywhere else. He cannot disclose what you say to him unless someone's safety is at risk or a child is being abused.”

“He won't tell anyone in the organization?”

“No. Why the concern, Lydia?”

“I just don't want word of my dreams about Tomas getting out. It's embarrassing.” She didn't want to tell him about her dreaming of Braxton.

“There's no need to be embarrassed, but no, he won't tell the organization about that without your permission. I think it might benefit you to talk to him. He's good, people really like him.”

“Okay, I will think about it.”

The days turned to weeks and before she knew it, she was in her third week at the compound. One more week until the cast on her wrist came off. She couldn't wait. A week ago, she had been escorted away from the compound to get x-rays taken. The doctor said she was healing well and he was certain she would be completely healed by the end of the four weeks Ryan Duncan had said she needed to have the cast on.

Mark called her and said he'd been able to find out that Braxton's mother was out of hospital and at home. She was expected to make a full recovery. Marissa was relieved. She'd been so concerned and felt terrible for leaving her new friend when he needed her. He had done so much for her and she could not return the favour. She knew it wasn't her fault, but she still felt awful about it.

Marissa saw Dr Collins a couple times, but then stopped. He was personable enough, but she could not warm up to him, and she did not trust him, even though she was assured that what she said to him was confidential. She could not tell him about the dreams about Braxton but fortunately, they were becoming fewer. Instead, she told him about the ones about Tomas beating her, even though she hadn't dreamt about that since leaving Denver. Mark aka Brian had assured her that Tomas had been reassigned overseas and would not bother her again, but nevertheless, she did not feel safe until she'd gotten out of the city it had happened in. Braxton had been right that the nightmares would stop when she felt safe again. When would the ones about him stop? she wondered. She longed to pick up the phone and call him, but she knew she couldn't.

One day after she was finished teaching for the day, Cara came into her classroom after her students had left. “My superiors need your help, Lydia”, she said.

“My help? With what?”

“There's a new recruit they need you to talk to, convince her it would be in her best interest to co-operate.”

“I don't know, Cara...”

“I am not asking. The organization has put a lot of resources into getting her, they do not want it to go to waste.”

“Okay. Where is she?”

“In a cell in the basement. I'll take you to her.” As they made their way to the basement, Cara filled Marissa in. “Her name is Nola. She is in a wheelchair.” Marissa did not ask why – she didn't want to know. “She has no family or even close friends that we can find, so they can't use that to get her to comply. That's why they wanted you to help.”

“I don't know how I can help, Cara. They got my co-operation by threatening my family.”

“I know. Don't tell her you know that she has no family or friends. If she volunteers that info, try something else. Try and get her to see that, even if she doesn't like bringing product home, the benefits of the job are good – travel to other countries where you can lie around on the beach until you have to return, most of your time is your own and the pay is good.”

“What if I can't talk her into it?”

“If you give it your all, you can return to your suite.” Marissa didn't ask what would happen if they felt she didn't give it her all. They stopped in front of a cell. Cara took out her keys and opened the door. The whole front wall of the cell was comprised of bars, like you see on tv. Marissa wheeled herself through the door. Ahead of her, against the far wall, she saw a steel toilet and sink. To her left was a bed with a thin mattress, she knew from experience that it was not very comfortable, as she had been in a cell just like this one when she'd been beaten for refusing to comply. “I'll leave you alone with her. If you need me, I'll be just down the hall.”

Cara slid the cell door shut. Marissa heard the “click” of the lock engaging. It made her uneasy, even though, theoretically, she could leave at any time. Theoretically. If Cara wanted her to keep trying, she could refuse to let her out. She tried to keep the memories of being in a cell down here from flooding her mind.

Wheeling her chair up to the edge of the bed, she looked at Nola. The “recruit” was lying on her left side facing the wall, her back to Marissa. She hadn't moved since she'd wheeled up to the cell. “Hello, Nola”, she said. “My name is Lydia. I'd like to talk to you.” There was no response. “I know how you feel, Nola. I've been where you are right now. Believe me, you can not win against them. You *have* to do what they say.” Still no response. “Nola, please turn over and look at me.”

When Nola still didn't respond, Marissa realized something. She didn't see the woman's upper body rise and fall which would indicate breathing. She reached over and nudged her shoulder. “Nola?” she asked. She felt for a pulse. Nothing. Grabbing hold of Nola's shoulder, she pulled her backward onto her back. Her eyes were open, fixed in a stare. “Oh my god. Cara!!” she called. “Cara!!!”

“What is it?” Cara said as she approached the cell.

“She's not breathing. I think she's dead!”

Cara unlocked the cell and entered. Marissa wheeled out of the way. Her supervisor tried to find a pulse on the unresponsive Nola. Giving up, she said “You can go back to your suite, Lydia”, before leaving the cell and running down the hall. Marissa wheeled to the elevator, but she couldn't get on without a key. Only supervisors could take it to the basement or out of it. She waited in the hall until Cara re-appeared with other staff members, running toward the cell. “Oh, I'm sorry, Lydia. I forgot you need a key to get on.” She opened the doors with her key and pressed the button for the first floor, holding it open until Marissa had wheeled on. The doors closed as soon as she let go.

Back in her suite, Marissa got a drink and switched from her wheelchair to the sofa. She was emotionally drained. She was pretty sure Nola was dead, probably due to the beating the Cartel had given her. This was driving home the point of how dangerous these people were. She wanted to call Braxton and tell him everything, but she didn't dare. As the tears streamed down her face, she vowed to find a way out that would not endanger him or her family.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two weeks earlier:

Braxton turned on to the highway leading out of Boulder toward Denver. His mother was finally home from the hospital and set up with home nursing care, so he felt he could leave. He had been trying for days to reach Marissa but she never answered or returned his calls. Then, yesterday, he got an “out of service” recording when he dialed both her cell and landline. He could not shake the feeling that something was seriously wrong. He knew she was expecting to be transferred to another city, but surely she'd tell him when she knew when and where to! And it wouldn't happen this fast – or would it?

The half hour drive seemed to take forever. Finally, he was on the exit ramp and heading into Denver. He didn't even go home – he drove straight to Marissa's. After parking in a guest spot, he sprinted to the door. Locating her buzzer, he noticed the name beside it had been removed. His hopes of finding her there sunk, but he pressed the buzzer anyway. No answer. He tried again with the same result. Next, he tried the superintendent's buzzer, thinking he might be able to get a forwarding address from her, but there was no answer there either. Dejected, he gave up and left the building.

Braxton decided to pick some groceries up on the way home. He'd left in a hurry and did not look forward to cleaning his fridge out, but at least it would give him something to do to take his mind off Marissa.

Finally, he was home. He took the mail out of the mailbox on his way into the house and threw it on the kitchen table with the mail that Gail, his neighbour, had brought in for him. He didn't feel like looking at it right now. Maybe after supper. He checked his office voice mail – there was nothing that couldn't wait until tomorrow, so he got to work on the fridge.

A couple hours later, after he'd had supper and cleaned up, Braxton took the mail and a Scotch to the living room. Before starting on going through it, he checked his home voice mail. Marissa's message was the first one. He listened to it a few times. There was something in her voice that told him she was under duress – like she didn't want to go but was being forced to. Before moving on to the next message, he saved it. He wasn't ready to delete her out of his life just yet, though the rational part of him said he needed to move on.

He flipped through his mail, separating out the junk. About halfway through, he came to a plain white envelope. It was handwritten and had no return address. He did not recognize the writing. Curiosity getting the better of him, he set down the rest of the mail and opened this piece. Inside was a handwritten note. His eyes went directly to the bottom. It was signed by Marissa. Braxton's heart skipped a beat. He went back to the beginning and read:

Dear Braxton,

I know I left you a voicemail, but I wanted to follow up with a written note. Please excuse the awful handwriting. I will be doing just a few lines at a time, taking breaks in between, as it's hurting my wrist to write.

By the time you read this, I will be gone. As I said, I've been transferred. I'm sorry, I am forbidden to tell you where. I know you are rolling your eyes at this, but if you knew why, you'd understand. It really is best if you don't know.

I hope your mom is okay. If I can, I will try and find out how she is doing.

Could you please do me a couple favours? Call Ryan and cancel my next appointment with him and tell Dr Maynard to give my surgery spot to someone else. I will get medical care where I am going.

I don't know if I should say this, but I miss you already. You will never know how much I appreciate what you did for me. I'm not only talking about the medical care, you have done so much more than that. You made me feel “normal” for a brief time – as normal as I can feel. I will treasure the memory of that dinner out and then going up the mountain until the day I die. And just lying on the sofa with you, watching tv. It was so comfortable, even if it was way too brief. Maybe if my situation was different, we could have ... well, there's no use lamenting it. It is what it is. Braxton, I hope you find someone worthy of you that you can be happy with. You deserve it.

I wish this wasn't goodbye, but it has to be. If I can, I will try to find a way to contact you and let you know I am okay. But please do not count on it. I have a feeling I'm going to be on a tight leash. I was on thin ice being friends with you. They probably won't tolerate that again. Take care of yourself. I will never forget you.

Affectionately,

Marissa

Braxton, like most men his age, had been raised with the belief that men don't cry. His training as a psychologist told him that was not true, but it was still hard to overcome that which had been drilled into him for so many years. After reading Marissa's note, he fought to hold back the tears. He finished his Scotch and went to the kitchen and poured another. He didn't even go back to the living room, he stood there at the counter and drank it. He decided he would call Logan, his friend on the police force, the next day and tell him everything and see if he could find her. He had another drink. And another. When he was feeling no pain, he lay down on his bed in the master bedroom. It still had Marissa's scent. He buried his face in the pillow she'd used and finally fell asleep.