by Holly Hart
“Max?”
Movement, near my head.
“Who’s there?”
I can hear someone breathing, soft and regular. Sleeping, maybe. What was I—I don’t remember going to bed. And it feels like I’m still dressed: that’s my zipper digging into my back. And my feet are killing me. I lay down in my shoes?
“Mm—Max? Something’s wrong; I can’t....”
No answer. I’m starting to panic. This isn’t Max’s bed, or mine. The smell’s all wrong. Max’s room has a citrusy scent, mixed with those gardenias he’s got everywhere. And the Plaza screams hotel: coffee and bleach all the way. This place, though—this is somewhere old. Somewhere redolent with dinners and cigarettes, mothballs and life, decades and decades of it. And it’s quiet: too quiet for Manhattan.
I was having dinner. Max and I—I was about to tell him... Did he take it badly? Did I... What? Get drunk and crash at some fleabag? No way. I wouldn’t do that. And I don’t feel hung over, just tired and bogged down.
I open my eyes again. This time, they stay that way—I’m in a bedroom, old-fashioned but comfortable. Lived-in. The bed’s a four-poster, curtained and canopied. The furniture matches the wall paneling: dark and mellow. Mahogany, I think. I read something about that, recently. Keeps the spiders out, or....
I have no idea where I am.
Someone’s lit candles—dozens of them, arrayed along the dresser and windowsills. There doesn’t seem to be any electricity: there’s a clock radio, but the readout’s blank.
I turn my head to the side. It’s Wes, sleeping next to me. His back’s turned, but I know it’s him—those narrow shoulders, that prissy haircut. That strip of fishbelly skin above his collar. I cringe, horrified. Wes? In bed with me? Sleeping, like it’s the most natural thing in the world? I squirm away, rolling toward the edge of the bed. My faculties are returning, adrenaline pumping as my feet hit the floor.
“Kate?”
I bolt for the door—two steps, and my knees give out. I keep going, hands slipping on the worn rug, but it’s no use. Wes is stirring, and my legs won’t obey. My head swims and I collapse on my side. He gave me something. Outside the restaurant. I felt a pinch and woke up here—how long have I been out?
“What’d you stick me with?”
Wes sits up. “Don’t worry about it.” He yawns, jaw clicking. “It’s normally for dogs, but there shouldn’t be any lasting effects.”
He shot me up with...doggie Ambien? I struggle to sit up. “Where are we?”
“Home.” The bedsprings squeak as he stands. “At least for the next couple of days. Our new passports aren’t ready yet.”
New passports? He wants to smuggle me out of the country? Unconscious again? Can’t picture that going over too well. I press my back to the nightstand and curl up small. “Don’t....”
“I thought you could make me some soup, once you’ve got your feet under you.” Wes makes his way around the bed. He’s stiff. Limping. If I could get him near a window, a flight of stairs—one good push, and my nightmare would end.
For the moment, though.... “You want soup? Now?”
“Haven’t eaten in a while.” He hunches over, cradling his belly. “Stomach’s all in knots.”
I compress my lips to keep a sneer at bay. This again? “Is there even electricity?”
“No, but the gas is on. I’ve got matches.” He’s hovering at the end of the bed, picking at his bandages. Eyeing me up with something that looks a lot like fear. He twitches when I get to my feet, shuffling out of the way. “I know you don’t believe a word I say, but I’m not going to hurt you. Won’t even touch you, if you don’t want.”
Of course I don’t want. The thought of those cold, bony fingers anywhere near me... A chill runs down my spine.
“What kind of soup am I making?”
He smiles a shy little smile. “Uh...I have tomatoes. Leeks. Celery and peppers.”
“So...tomato, then.” Seriously? He couldn’t get something in a can? I’m supposed to turn a bunch of vegetables into soup, no blender or anything? There ought to be knives, at least. One of those heavy frying pans. A sharp spatula.
“My dad used to make me that. When I was sick.”
I narrow my eyes. “If you puke it up, you’re on your own.”
“I won’t.”
He leads the way to the kitchen, keeping a respectable distance. Sure enough, there’s a bag of raw tomatoes on the counter, next to a bunch of leeks, a whole head of celery, and two wrinkly peppers.
“Do I get a knife?”
He shakes his head apologetically. Rummages around in a drawer. “You can use this.”
“A spoon?”
“It’s all I have.”
Sure it is. Asshole.
I reach for the chopping board with a sigh. This is going to take a while.
Chapter 52
Max
* * *
“Did you try MattDanbury, capital M, capital D?” Carson drops onto the couch, groaning as he sinks into the cushions.
“Hours ago. You were there.”
He swipes his hand over his eyes. “Can’t remember them all. We must’ve tried a million. Face it: we’re stuck waiting for the cops.”
He’s probably right. But I can’t give up. Kate’s out there somewhere, scared, maybe hurt. I stare at the screen, bleary-eyed. If I can’t manage a simple feat of social engineering, what good am I?
“For all we know, it’s, like...A, dollar sign, two, three, A-S-D-Q. One of those random-ass passwords.”
“It’s not.”
“How do you know?”
“’Cause it’s not. Wes is sentimental. Fixated on the past. He’d use a word. Or words. Ones that mean something to him.” I type in blackmailandmurder2007. No dice. The iCloud logo reloads, blue and puffy.
“This is stupid.” Carson sits up again, reaching for his coffee. “Even if we do get in, even if Apple lets us track his phone, we’ll find it in a trash can. I’d have tossed mine by now, in his shoes.”
“Because you’re some big expert on kidnapping and murder?”
“Compared to you? Yeah.”
I’m not getting sucked into a pissing contest. “Come on. What haven’t we tried?”
“I don’t know.” He takes a swig of his coffee, grimacing at the taste. “Eugh. Cold. Uh...favorite food?”
“Cannelloni. We did that.”
“Fuck...first girlfriend? When’d he lose his virginity?”
“No idea.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “There was some girl after Kate left, but I don’t think they... What was her name?”
“Oh—Candace. Candace...Marshall?”
I try a few variants of that: no luck. “What’s his favorite song?”
“How should I know?” Carson swills more coffee. Sits up, sputtering. “No, wait. It’s some old Sicilian thing. Reminds him of his granddad. He used to sing it when he was trying to get to sleep.”
I raise a brow. “When’d you guys sleep together?”
“In high school. And we didn’t sleep together—I slept over. After the locker room thing. He had nightmares, or so he said.” Carson looks away, visibly uncomfortable. “Anyway. Yeah. Google, like, Sicilian music.”
“What, all Sicilian music?”
“I don’t know. It was, uh...hold on.” He hums to himself. “I knew the words at one point. I just need to...something like...vinni la primavera, la-la-la-la, la-la, la—I don’t know.”
“Don’t suppose you could spell that?”
“Sure. And I’m great at calculus, too.”
I flip him off. “Sing it again. I’ll see if Google can decipher it.”
Carson sings. I type. My first effort’s gibberish; my second returns a list of wineries. Not that crawling into a bottle wouldn’t feel good, but I need a song.
“Try vinni with two Ns.”
I do it. A YouTube video pops up—Si maritau Rosa. I press play, and a mournful tune fills the room. “This the one?”
�
��Yeah—yeah. That’s it.” He hums along, getting into the melody. “So type it in. What are you waiting for?”
Absolutely nothing. I try simaritaurosa, SiMaritauRosa, and—
“Ho-ly shit.” Carson leans over my shoulder. “That’s actually it?”
“Looks like it.” I can hardly believe it myself. “So I just need to do Find My Phone, and—”
“Wait.”
“What now?”
“Won’t it notify him if you do that? Send him an e-mail or something?”
Shit. Maybe. I don’t know. “Will it?”
“I think so.”
Awkward. But short of waiting for the cops, we’re out of options. “You think he’ll really be checking his e-mail right now? When he’s finally got Kate to himself? He’s only been waiting since high school.”
Carson shrugs. “I’m not stopping you. But we should go right away, if this works.”
Wasn’t planning on dawdling. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
I reach for the trackpad. “Here goes nothing.”
Chapter 53
Kate
* * *
So this is the life he’s got planned for us? One where I do the work of a minimum-wage employee, and he mopes around like a Victorian invalid, all pale and bloodless? I stir the bland, pinkish soup. It’s been simmering a while, and it doesn’t smell completely unappetizing.
“Is there salt?”
Wes lifts his head. “Mm? No. Forgot. I don’t cook much.”
You don’t say.
“Guess it’s ready, then. Are there bowls, at least?”
“Up there.” He points at the cabinet over the dishwasher. Really?—He expects me to serve him, too? Maybe wash the dishes? What’s next? Will His Majesty require his shoes shined? His hair brushed? His boxers fluffed and folded? Fucking Skidmarks.
I dish up his dinner and set it in front of him. “There. Soup. You happy?”
Wes stares into the bowl. If he complains, I swear to God—
“I don’t think I can eat this.”
“Seriously?”
He hugs himself, shivering. “I’ll try. If you want me to.”
What I want is to rub his hateful face in it. Scald him to a fetching shade of boiled lobster. Instead, I force a smile. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing.” Wes sniffs. “Nothing at all.” The spoon scrapes against the bowl as he toys with his dinner. I hover awkwardly, feeling like his mother.
“Well?”
Wes licks his lips, frowns, and sets his spoon aside. He pushes the bowl away, throat working as he swallows. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
So that’s it. He wants me to worry, same as always. Inquire after his health—You feel all right? Need anything? Anything at all? Well, that’s a game he can play alone. I whisk his soup away and pour it down the sink. I wrinkle my nose as the hot tomato steam hits me in the face.
“I really am sorry. You went to all that trouble.”
I reach for the pot and start to rinse it out. There’s no detergent, naturally; no scrub brush. Nothing to break up the ring of slightly-burnt vegetable goo. I scratch at it with my nail.
“I just—I feel awful.” His voice is thick and froggy, choked with tears. I turn up the water to drown him out. Sooner or later, he’ll have to sleep or use the bathroom. Sooner or later....
He coughs and blows his nose. “Ever since we came to New York, it’s like I swallowed a lead weight. My stomach—my throat—”
“Ever think you might feel better if you quit torturing your friends?”
That gets a ragged gasp out of him. I freeze, horrified. What was I thinking?—Is this the part where he shoots me in the back? Can’t let him piss me off. Can’t engage.
Wes makes a strangled sound. I set the pot on the drying rack and reach for the bowl. I’m being good—I’ll be good. Till he goes to sleep. Till he—
“I do think that.” Wes’s chair creaks as he turns to face me. “And it’s over now, I promise. I’d have called it off weeks ago, but Rachel had to—Kyle had to die, and if I stopped there—if I gave up, he’d have died for nothing.”
The bowl slips through my fingers, forgotten. “And now you’ve got me here, his death means what, exactly?”
“Everything. To me.”
“You’re sick.”
Wes smiles and holds out his hand. “I won’t do anything to Carson. Max either.”
I press my back to the counter. Wes drops his hand, and his smile fades too. “I’ll tell them they’re off the hook as soon as we’re out of reach. Doesn’t that help?”
“Help?” I choke back an incredulous laugh. “And where am I, in this fantasy of yours?”
“Oh, it’s pretty, where we’re going. Blue skies for miles. Fields full of wildflowers. It’s lonely, but you’ll be free. You can go out by yourself, walk around—whatever you want. There’s sun most of the year. Beaches, just like home. And the house... It’s big enough you wouldn’t have to see me, if you didn’t want.” He looks up, eyes bright. “You’ll like it. It used to be a stable. The ceilings are so high there’s swallows nesting in the rafters.”
Right. Because who wouldn’t want birds in their house?
“Don’t look at me like that. It’s nice.”
An awful certainty settles over me. “It’s your island, isn’t it? The one we all thought you made up?”
Wes nods. “It’s not really mine. It belongs to—never mind. No one goes there. We can make it our own. Fix up the house. Whatever you want.”
I glance at the pot. It’s not heavy, but if I hit him hard enough....
“Give it a chance. Please.”
“You know I’m a city girl.”
A door slams, far below. Wes starts and scrambles to his feet. “No! No one’s supposed to be—” He grabs for my hand. “Come with me.”
I back away, but it’s too late. He’s brandishing a pistol. I cower, but there’s nowhere to hide, no escape—
“I said come on!” Wes loops his arm through mine and hauls me out of the kitchen. We fly down the hall, across a vast, abandoned ballroom, and the night air hits me in the face as we stumble onto the fire escape. Wes nudges me with his gun. “Move. And keep quiet.”
He’s not going to kill me. No way he’d give up his sad island dream, just like that. I hitch in a lungful of air and scream fit to shatter glass.
“Stop it!” Wes gropes for my mouth. I turn my head to the side and shriek again.
“Kate?” Carson!—They’ve found me! I lean out over the railing, straining to see in the dark.
“Carson! He’s got a gun!”
“Yeah? So do I!”
Wes curses under his breath. “I won’t shoot you, but he’s fair game.” He nudges me again. “The roof. Hurry.”
“What’s the point? There’s nowhere to hide.”
“Leave that to me.” Wes shoves me hard and I start to climb. Once we’re up there—once we’re on the roof— Shit. If Carson’s here, Max must be, too. Wes and his bitter rival, at least two guns, and a five-story drop: in no world does that end well. I need to put an end to this before Wes does it for me.
I look up: no railing. No wall.
The second we hit that roof, he’s going over the side.
Chapter 54
Max
* * *
Goddamn door! Bad as a burglar alarm, acting like it’s going to hiss quietly shut and slamming to wake the dead. If Wes didn’t know we were coming, he does now. If he’s even still here.
I sprint across a moonlit lobby, up the stairs, and—Hell. This place is bigger than I thought. An immense sitting room gives on a domed library, and a balcony beyond. Empty archways lead to other rooms—all dark. All deserted. I flatten myself against the wall and cock my head. Wood creaks. A clock ticks on the mantel. And...there. There. Running footsteps, overhead. Third floor. Fourth, maybe.
I hunt for another staircase. Feels like the house itself is fending me off, carpets humping up
, furniture barking my shins. I brush a smelly curtain aside and find an alcove full of cat portraits. It’s like a maze in here. I barrel down a random hall, trying door after door, till, at last—“Hallelujah”—a narrow stairwell. The kind reserved for servants in a bygone age.
I take the steps two at a time, pausing at the first landing to listen. A scream rends the night: she’s here. They’re here.
“Kate!”
No response. But—there. Heels on metal. The fire escape. Carson won’t let them down, so...the roof. I hurtle up the stairs—fourth floor, fifth, and I come up against steel. A fire door. This must be it. I press my ear to the crack, but all I hear is the wind. Can’t go charging out like a lunatic. Wes could be armed. Probably is. If I startle him—
“Kate! No!”
Carson. Panicking. Never a good sign.
I barge onto the roof, and my breath catches in my throat. Kate’s there, Wes too, and he’s killing her. She’s balanced between this world and the next, one foot dangling over the abyss, the other wobbling on the brink. Carson’s frozen on the fire escape, Desert Eagle hanging at his side.
I don’t dare move or make a sound. I stand still as Carson, lungs burning with the breath I can’t let out. My mind’s screaming at me to do something—anything—but there’s a good thirty feet between us. By the time I make it over there—
“Please!” Kate claws at Wes’s jacket. He’s holding her back from disaster with one hand, inviting it with the other. Digging a pistol into her side.
“Kill me, will you?” Wes shakes her. Her foot slips, sending a shower of pebbles over the edge. My heart stops; my world stops—Kate!
“Wes!”
“I loved you. Gave you everything. My life, my home, my family—even Matt Danbury was for you.”
“I know!” She reaches for him, wobbles, and barely recovers herself. “Please. I see you. I know how hard it’s been. I promise—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Oh, Wes!” She clutches at his arm, fingers slipping, scrabbling. “Don’t. Please. I’m begging you.”
