Clad in Purity, She Journeys Far Away

I was tortured for three whole years in an underground prison camp in an overseas war zone.

It wasn't until I was barely clinging to life that a man I knew all too well pushed open the door.

Francis Henson walked in with his arm around his secretary, Brenda Summers, his tone offhand.

Keep her breathing. Don't play her to death. I still want to take her home.

Brenda laughed prettily, swinging a set of luxury car keys in her hand.

"Mr. Henson, she always used to sneer that I had no education, that I wasn't fit to be seen in public."

"I'd love to see how high and mighty she is now."

Francis let out a cold laugh.

"To let you get even, I spent thirty million buying up this mercenary camp and staged this whole kidnapping."

"Those torture tools were all custom-made. Only pain, no risk to her life. It cost me quite a bit of effort."

I looked at my own broken body, closed my eyes in despair, and died in that bitter winter.

But after I died, why did he kneel before my grave and weep until he went blind?

The mercenary yanked me by the hair, dragging me out of the dark cell.

But I couldn't feel any pain.

Because my soul had already left this broken body and was drifting coldly in midair.

My face was caked with dried blood, my clothes long since torn to rags, the exposed skin covered in whip marks and burns.

All ten fingers were crudely wrapped in rough gauze, blood already soaking through it.

Francis stood outside the iron gate.

He pressed a white silk handkerchief over his nose and mouth, brows drawn tight.

"Get her out here. The smell in this place is unbearable."

The mercenary leader nudged my stiff leg with his foot.

"Mr. Henson, she doesn't seem to be breathing."

Francis didn't even lift an eyelid.

"Playing dead is her specialty. Don't bother with her."

"When she left three years ago without a word, she should have known this day would come."

"Wrap her in a blanket and throw her in the cargo box in the back."

"Don't let her filthy blood ruin my seats."

Brenda leaned into Francis's arms, fanning the air in front of her face in disgust.

"Mr. Henson, she reeks. She's all slop and blood."

"Do we really have to bring her back?"

"If the media back home catches a picture of this, it'll hit the company's share price too hard."

Francis patted her shoulder gently, his voice turning soft.

"We'll do it your way. Take her to the medical station nearby first."

"Once she's cleaned up and has learned how to be an obedient wife, we'll bring her back home."

The mercenary leader took a heart stimulant syringe out of the medical kit.

"Mr. Henson, her condition is very bad. She needs this injection right now."

Brenda strode over and snatched the syringe out of his hand.

"Wait. She's just pretending to be passed out, trying to win sympathy."

"If we give her the drug now, wouldn't all the punishment before this be wasted?"

"Mr. Henson said it himself. She has to remember this lesson for good, so she never runs again."

The mercenary leader hesitated, turning to look at Francis.

Francis rubbed his temples, a little impatient.

"Enough. If Brenda says no, then no."

"She's plenty healthy. She was a long-distance running champion back in school. She won't die."

The mercenary leader opened his mouth as if to say something.

He crouched down and reached out to feel my carotid artery.

It had long gone cold, with no pulse at all.

Brenda leaned in close to the leader and lowered her voice.

"The balance will be wired to your account this afternoon. Plus another five million."

"You know very well what should be said and what shouldn't."

The leader looked at the bank card Brenda held out to him and shut his mouth at once.

He waved a hand, signaling his men to carry me away.

Francis had already turned around and was striding toward the off-road vehicle parked in the yard.

He didn't even glance back at me once.

Brenda trotted after him, a triumphant smile on her face.

The leader took out his phone, snapped a photo of me being lifted onto the truck, and sent it to Francis.

In the photo, one of my hands hung limp over the edge of the wooden board, all ten fingers a bloody mess.

Francis sat in the back seat, looked at the photo on his phone, and gave a cold laugh.

"Once she's back home, lock her up in the suburban mansion."

"She's not allowed out without my permission."

"I'll grind that temper out of her myself."

Brenda turned her head, her voice sweet and cloying.

"Mr. Henson, you're so good to me."

"Now her ladyship should never dare look down on me again."

Francis closed his eyes, his voice low.

"She has no right to look down on you."

Cold wind blew across the desolate camp. I couldn't feel the cold, but I felt lighter than I ever had.

I would never have to face him again.

Three days after his return, the old Henson estate threw a lavish dinner party.

The great hall blazed with light, guests circling with glasses in hand, laughter rising and falling.

I hovered in the air above it all, watching, and felt nothing stir in me.

Francis sat on the sofa, deep in conversation with a few important business partners.

He looked energized, untouched, as if nothing had happened at all.

Louisa Henson came over with a glass of red wine and settled beside him.

"Francis, where's that woman now?"

"Hasn't she died out there yet?"

The smile at the corner of Francis's mouth thinned. He set down his glass.

"She's getting treatment overseas. She won't die."

"She was too willful. Vanished without a word for three years. She has to pay some price for that."

Louisa gave a cold snort, her voice thick with disgust.

"I told you from the start she wasn't good enough for you. That cold face all day long, like the whole world owed her something."

"Brenda's so much better. Considerate, sensible, and she can actually help you in your work."

Right on cue, Brenda came over carrying a plate of fruit, a meek smile on her face.

"Ma'am, please don't say that. My sister just has a strong personality."

"When she's well and comes home, I'll be sure to apologize to her properly."

Francis pulled Brenda's hand and drew her down to sit beside him.

"You did nothing wrong. You don't need to apologize to her."

"These three years were her own doing. She has no one to blame but herself."

After the party ended, Brenda followed Francis back to our marital home.

She walked into the master bedroom like she knew it by heart and pulled open the wardrobe.

She took out my favorite silk nightgown.

She changed into it right in front of Francis and spun once before the mirror.

"Mr. Henson, do I look good in this?"

Francis stood in the doorway, watching Brenda in the mirror, his gaze gone slightly distant.

He walked over and slid an arm around her waist.

"Beautiful. From now on, anything in this room, you take whatever you want."

Brenda laughed sweetly, pulled out her phone, and snapped a photo of herself in my nightgown.

She deliberately framed the wedding photo into the background, then posted it to her social media feed.

Francis saw it and said nothing.

Early the next morning, the housekeeper hurried in and handed Francis a document.

"Sir, this came from the young mistress's lawyer."

Francis frowned and tore open the envelope.

Inside was an asset-protection notice, demanding confirmation of whether I was alive or dead and the state of my marriage.

Brenda watched from the side, and her expression shifted just slightly.

She waited until Francis stepped away to take a call, then lifted the document out of his reach.

"Mr. Henson, my sister's lawyer really does love to meddle."

"She's still resting abroad. How could she be sending something like this?"

"Let me handle it. I'll have the legal department deal with them."

Francis hung up and nodded.

"Fine, you take care of it."

"Tell that lawyer, if she wants a divorce, she can keep dreaming."

Brenda walked out of the study with the document and immediately dialed an overseas number.

"Shut that lawyer up. Forge an authorization letter in Carly Fox's name."

"Change every contact address of hers to that hospital your camp recommends."

The mercenary leader's voice came through the line.

"Miss Summers, this is going to cost you double."

"That woman is stone dead. If anyone digs it up, we're all finished."

Brenda gritted her teeth.

"You'll get your money. Just do it clean."

She hung up, went back to the study, and stood meekly behind Francis.

He was staring at his computer screen when he suddenly spoke.

"Brenda, what's the word from the medical point?"

"Why hasn't Carly called me this whole time?"

Brenda's chest went tight, but she let a wronged look cross her face.

"Mr. Henson, the doctor over there says my sister was badly hurt. She's still unconscious."

"And... the mercenaries said she woke up once."

"The first thing she said was that she never wants to see you again in this life."

The hand holding the fountain pen clenched all at once, knuckles going white.

"Doesn't want to see me?"

"Who does she think she is?"

He gave a cold laugh and slammed the pen down on the desk.

"Then let her stay out there. If she's got the nerve, she can spend the rest of her life never coming back."

But that night, while sorting through a drawer in the study, Francis came across the old passport I'd left behind three years ago.

A slip of paper, gone slightly yellow, fell out of the passport's inner lining.

It was the unsent draft of a divorce agreement.

It carried only my signature, the strokes clean and decisive.

Francis stared hard at that name, his face darkening to something terrible.

He dialed his assistant.

"Look into it. Find out exactly how Carly left the country three years ago."

The assistant worked fast. By early the next morning the results of the investigation were on Francis Henson's desk.

Francis stared at the report in his hand, his brow knotting tight.

Only a one-way ticket on record?

She didn't even take a suitcase?

The assistant kept his head down, looking a little tense.

That's right, Mr. Henson.

We checked the airline records. Mrs. Henson only bought a single one-way ticket abroad.

And every bank card under her name has had no transactions at all since she left the country.

Francis's face darkened.

No transactions?

I told the mercenaries they could give her some freedom when it was appropriate.

Brenda Summers came in carrying a coffee. She heard the words, and her eyes flickered.

She set the coffee on the desk and coaxed him gently.

Mr. Henson, don't read too much into it.

Someone as proud as she is would never let herself suffer.

Maybe she moved the money out some other way.

Francis ignored her and kept turning through the report.

The woman in the photo was thin, carrying nothing but a very small handbag.

There was no expression on my face, my eyes staring blankly ahead.

Francis's finger traced over my face in the picture.

He suddenly remembered the last time we fought, three years ago.

When he came back the next morning, I said only one thing to him.

Francis, let's get divorced.

He'd thought I was just throwing a fit. He sneered.

Carly, don't threaten me with divorce. Without me you're nothing.

After that, I disappeared.

He assumed I'd left the country out of spite, so he deliberately didn't come after me, wanting me to taste a little hardship.

He'd even paid to buy that mercenary camp, purely to help Brenda stage an abduction.

He wanted me to know that without his protection I couldn't take a single step abroad.

But it had never once occurred to him that I might truly never come back.

Mr. Henson, this is an email the medical station just sent.

Brenda's voice cut into his thoughts.

On the screen was a somewhat blurry photo.

A woman in a hospital gown lay on a bed, her head wrapped in bandages, only half of her face in profile visible.

The doctor says her wound got infected. She needs a second surgery.

They're asking whether you want to keep paying the medical costs.

Francis looked at the photo, and a strong sense that something was wrong rose up in him.

The woman was wrapped in bandages, but her frame seemed a little taller and bigger than mine.

And her wrist was bare.

Where's her red string?

Francis asked abruptly.

Brenda's face went white in an instant.

She scrambled to explain.

Maybemaybe they took it off during the surgery.

Mr. Henson, if you're worried, I'll call over there right now and ask.

Francis stood up and picked up his coat.

No need. I'll go myself.

Brenda rushed to block his way.

Mr. Henson, you can't go!

The doctor says she's very unstable right now. Seeing you would make her worse!

And she left a letter. She said if you come to see her, she'll kill herself on the spot.

She took a neatly folded sheet of paper from her bag and handed it to Francis.

The writing on it was crooked and uneven, and it really did look a lot like mine.

Francis, don't come see me. I hate you.

Francis looked at that line, cold sweat breaking out in his palms.

He looked at Brenda, and a trace of suspicion crept into his eyes.

She really wrote this?

Brenda nodded hard.

It's true, Mr. Henson. Why would I lie to you?

Francis said nothing, but the chill in his eyes made Brenda shiver despite herself.

He stepped past her and strode out of the office.

Book the next flight out. To the camp.

When the helicopter set down at the desolate camp, the swirling dust nearly blotted out everything in sight.

Francis was the first one out, indifferent to the sand and wind, straight for that underground cell.

Brenda struggled after him on her high heels, her face a picture of misery.

Mr. Henson, slow down, it's too dangerous here.

Francis paid her no attention.

He kicked the rusted iron door open.

The cell was empty, nothing but moldy straw and the sharp reek of rot.

Francis circled the cell once and finally stopped in a corner.

On the ground sat a battered red suitcase.

He crouched down and opened it with trembling hands.

No clothes inside. Only a half-knitted gray scarf and a divorce agreement stained with blood.

That scarf was the birthday present I'd meant to give him three years ago.

Francis looked at it, and his eyes went red in an instant.

Carlywhere are you?

He got to his feet and searched the camp like a man gone mad.

Carly! Come out here!

Stop playing around, I'm taking you home!

His voice echoed through the empty camp, but nothing answered.

Then a man with a bad leg came out from behind the ruins.

He was the mercenary lieutenant who hadn't gotten out in time.

He looked at Francis and let out a cold laugh.

Save your breath. That woman died a long time ago.

The words hit Francis like a bolt of lightning, and his whole body went rigid.

He lunged over, seized the man by the collar, and hauled him up.

What the hell are you talking about!

I was here just three days ago! She'd only passed out!

The man spat and pointed toward the cold storage.

Three years ago. The very first day you people sent her here, she fought back, so they tore out all her fingernails.

After that, all she got to drink was spoiled slop. There was no way she'd last.

What you saw was nothing but a corpse.

It was this Miss Summers who paid our boss a fat sum to hide the body.

And to play along with her act, sending you fake treatment reports at regular intervals.

Francis's pupils shrank hard, his mind gone blank.

He turned his head and stared at Brenda, unblinking.

Brenda went ashen and dropped to her knees with a thud.

Mr. Henson, it's not like that, he's lying!

They forced me into it, they wanted more money!

Francis let go of the mercenary and walked toward Brenda, step by step.

Brenda, you lied to me.

You told me she was still in treatment. You made me believe she was alive!

Brenda sobbed until it tore at her chest, clutching at the leg of his trousers.

Mr. Henson, I did it for your sake.

If you'd found out she was dead, you'd have fallen apart.

And it was you who said to punish her, you who said just keep her breathing

Francis kicked her away.

Shut up!

He ran behind the cold storage like a madman.

He knelt on the ground and clawed at the dirt with both hands, wild with it.

The gravel cut his fingers open, blood everywhere, but he didn't seem to feel the pain.

At last his fingertips touched something hard.

A black plastic bag.

He opened it, and inside was a small pouch of grayish-white ashes.

Carlyno

With shaking hands he reached for the ashes, tears falling in great heavy drops onto the sand.

Brenda crawled to his side, crying, and grabbed hold of him.

Francis whirled around and clamped his hands around her throat.

You lunatic! You killed her!

She couldn't breathe under his grip, her face flushing red, and still she broke into a ragged, stuttering laugh.

Ha haFrancis, spare me the devoted act.

If you hadn't signed, if you hadn't sent her here, how could I ever have touched her?

The one who really killed her is you!