goes off. I walk toward the bathroom door and look around for any further signs of life, and as I get nearer I can hear Melody drying her body, the sound of the cotton towel gliding across her skin. I inhale and hold my breath to better hear, put one hand and one ear on the door. Though I’m certain she’s lived a transgressive life—her scamming of the government is proof enough—I can’t let go of viewing her as an ingénue, an innocent girl waiting to learn what the world has to offer. Granted, my world is not one worth emulating. Even now I disappoint myself, standing only inches away, separated by nothing more than a hollow wooden door, wondering just what that innocence might look like, how smooth and warm it would feel in my hands.
I turn around and sit on the edge of a small fold-out chair. I’ve made it so close to the end of my lifelong journey of righting this wrong that nothing will stop my completion. If Melody chooses to leave me here, so be it; I’ll make a struggled attempt at accepting it. Until then, the only way someone is taking her is over my bullet-filled body.
I stare at the muted television and watch the Weather Channel, try to read the lips of the meteorologists, find out the warm streak will soon be coming to an end. I have my ear trained on the door to the bathroom, shift my eyes on the door to her room. Whichever one opens first will be the decision maker.
Then all at the same time: The bathroom door opens, the mirror lights are flipped off, and Melody walks right in front of me and yelps.
“Oh, geez!” she says.
I race to cover my eyes. “You decent?” I ask softly, implying her loud voice is a bad idea.
She waits to respond. I hear her deep breathing. “You’re very polite for a captor, you know that?”
I crack a little space between my fingers, take a peek from the corner of my eye. She’s wearing a pair of jeans and a blue T-shirt that casually reveals the shape of her body, a mixture of cheap fragrances follow her out with a ten-second delay.
She backs up a little and turns to the side and I examine her body, note that I may have been way off on the style of jeans she wears, but spot on for the contour they needed to cover. Melissa was right; all these years of watching her left an impression.
“We have to leave,” I say. “Now.”
Our futures come down to her response to my demand. She slips her hands in the pockets of her jeans, nervously taps her thighs beneath the denim. Her hesitance, her keeping herself together here suggests she gave my late-night discourse some consideration.
She studies me, says, “Today is the last day of the rest of my life.”
Having lived an existence of distrust and confusion, she seems to find solace in ambivalence; she’s clearly sitting on the fence. Unfortunately, I don’t have time to try and talk her down. And as much as I’d love to grab her hand and yank her off, she’s been yanked all her life. The decision has to be hers, a choice that will carry a commitment strengthened by the exercising of her free will.
“Get it?” she adds.
I grab the remote and turn up the television to mask our conversation; she’s either too nervous to speak quietly or she’s trying to send a signal to the puker. At this point it’s more important for me to cover our words than to try and hear the marshal.
I step closer; she does not back away. “I promised I wouldn’t hurt you, didn’t I?”
“But you’re a liar. You’ve been in my life for no more than a few minutes and you wasted it by lying to me.”
“What did I lie about?”
“You said Sean makes forty grand a year. He actually makes fifty-three.”
I purse my lips; fifty-three does sound familiar. If nothing else, at least I know Gardner’s information was on the up and up.
Assuming everything else he gave me was accurate: “He confirm that he isn’t married?” She bites the corner of her mouth, shrugs one shoulder, and looks toward the blind-covered window. “If you ever see him again, ask.” I walk a little closer to the door. “Unfortunately, you probably won’t ever see him again. And if you do, you won’t live long enough to ask. You’ve got one shot at survival