Dollars (Dollar #2)(55)

How could he take from someone who might’ve saved their entire life for this trip? How could he just remove someone’s property without a flicker of culpability or empathy?

You’re evil.

Trying to snatch the wallet from his hand, I glowered.

Give it back to him.

He chuckled, holding the cash out of reach. “Frustrating when the other doesn’t do what you want, isn’t it?”

I pointed at the leather, narrowing my eyes in reproof then pointed at the tour group. I didn’t stop to think I’d broken a very clear rule not to communicate. The audacity of his theft put aside my own issues in order to battle for someone else’s.

It’s not yours to take.

“What is ours in this world? Is anything truly ours? You were a belonging for a long time…but you’re a woman. Are you for sale? Was your incarceration unacceptable or merely an inconvenience to you?”

I had enough of this twisted conversation.

Shut up and give me that.

I jumped, stretching as he held the money higher. My spine screamed as whatever shock absorbers I should have had no longer operated for such activities.

Ignoring the pain, I tried to seize the wallet again, wishing I could scream to the group to halt and check their belongings.

Is this a worthy enough cause to speak?

To smear Elder with petty theft? Or could I fix this without giving up everything I had left?

Elder narrowed his eyes before dropping his arm and pressing the bulging wallet into my hand. “I haven’t stolen in a very long time. Until you, of course.” He licked his bottom lip, his gaze burning with hell. “I’m a taker, Pim, but I’m done stealing from those who don’t deserve it.” His voice darkened. “Go give it back to him.”

What?

“Go on. Before it’s too late.” Without another word, he stuck his far too dextrous hands into his pockets and strolled down the road.

I stood on my own amongst chaos.

A dilemma slammed into me.

The same one as before, only this time…I had money.

I had dollars.

I had time.

I had anonymity.

I could run. Right now.

I could hide. Straight away.

The cash turned heavy in my hands offering salvation as well as condemnation. Was it wrong to use someone else’s money if I needed it? Who had the power to justify who deserved it most?

Taking a step to the curb to cross the road, all thoughts of doing the right thing vanished. All I could think about was disappearing so Elder with his sexual threats and men like Alrik with his fists could never touch me again.

My heart wrenched tight on an invisible collar, yanking me to a stop.

You’re better than that.

Don’t become the criminal to justify a crime done to you.

The wallet hissed with slurs, calling me a thief—weak to take and wrong to keep.

My shoulders slouched.

No, I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t steal from another even if it meant my freedom. And Elder knew that. He’d made me face the truth by giving me yet another choice.

Choices.

I hate them!

This was the fourth in a long day of directing my life rather than having it puppeteered for me. How different would it have been if I never said yes to coming into Morocco? Could I have sun-baked on the deck and people watched as the port went about its daily bustle?

I could’ve avoided the almost kiss, the conversation with Dina, and the awful awakening that’d been prodded to open its blurry eyes inside me.

But I’d made those choices, and I had to live with them—just like I had to live with myself with whatever choice I made with the wallet.

Dammit.

Pirouetting, I broke into a jog, cursing the way my lungs wheezed and sweat rolled down my spine. I couldn’t call out for the tour group to pause and clambered back the way we’d come, trailing after them.

Not only had Elder given me the choice to steal or not steal and then the task of chasing after a wronged man with his robbed dollars, but he now forced me to break my silence for the second time in a matter of minutes.

Not trusting my tongue to form cohesive words, I swallowed hard, gathered my courage, and tapped the third man from the end on his shoulder.

He turned around, blinking with his camera in his hands ready to capture another picturesque memory of Morocco.

I held up his wallet.

Immediately, rage filled his face. His eyes narrowed, his tanned skin pinking with anger. He shouted at me in a language I couldn’t understand. Snatching his money, he waved at his friends, blabbering in animation.

I held up my hands, saying in unknown sign language that I’d found it in the gutter and returned to him.

A lie.

My badly orchestrated articulation didn’t work.

His friends joined in, pointing fingers, getting louder with their blame. One reached for my shoulder, yelling for the tour leader to bring reinforcements.

Terror unlocked the preservation gates inside me. I did the only thing I could.

I turned and bolted.

I ran, ducking around children and animals, weaving around women with shopping bags and men selling their wares. My knees bleated like massacred livestock; my tongue twinged from bouncing in my mouth.

But I didn’t stop.

Part of the tour group gave chase. Their foreign voices angry and whipping my back with memories of being punished. Of blood dripping, of tears falling, of silent screams shredding my throat.