Interesting. He hadn’t pushed her away from the door or even told her to back off. She was standing, barely a step from him. If she’d had the lighter ready…
“I need the toilet.”
He smirked. The weed had turned his eyes into a red-lined map of a country she didn’t want to visit.
“Uno o dos.”
“Pee. Come on. Please.”
He reached behind the door, came out with the hood. So they kept it on a hook out there. Another fact for the file.
She wasn’t going to normalize wearing the hood. She shook her head.
He tapped his fingers to his lips. “Un beso.”
“A kiss?”
“Sí, un beso.”
Could she risk playing this game? What would happen the next time he had the house to himself?
“Jacques told me no.”
“I don’t see Jacques.”
She shook her head. He raised his hands to her shoulders, pushed. She stumbled backward, barely stayed on her feet. He started to close the door.
“Okay. One kiss.”
She put a hand to his cheek, pressed her lips to his, darted out her tongue. Flirty and light. Just a touch, enough to leave him wanting more before she pulled away. Didn’t want to give him the wrong idea.
The wrong idea? Flirty and light? She ought to be clawing his face—
With Jacques and Lilly downstairs?
“That’s all?” He leaned in again.
“For now.” She kept her voice easy. “I really do have to pee.”
He pointed down the hall, mock-courteous with his black-painted nails. Badly as she needed it, she made herself walk instead of run, checked out the hallway. Two closed doors. A plain wood floor. The bathroom door open a crack.
The smell of pot grew stronger. She could hear someone speaking English downstairs, the voice strangely familiar, “You’re probably thinking, ‘My boyfriend said this was a superhero movie but that guy in the suit just turned that other guy into a fucking kebab!’ ”
Great. They were watching Deadpool.
* * *
The bathroom was small, a plastic shower-tub, a cheap sink. Not too clean. A narrow frosted-glass window. Not exactly as impassible as the plywood in the closet, but enough to keep her from seeing out.
In a glass on the sink, three razors. Calling her name. She wondered if she was maybe a little stoned herself, she felt weirdly loose. They’d hotboxed her.
She started to close the door. Rodrigo put a hand on it.
“I watch.”
“Forget it.” She was serious, too. She’d yell for Jacques.
He looked around. His eyes stuck on the razors. “One minute.” He closed the door.
She squatted down and pissed. Relief. Her stream mostly clear. Becks was big on making sure that one stayed hydrated, one’s urine remained colorless. Thanks Mom. Through the window she heard the faint growl of a big truck moving fast. Not close, miles away. But still proof that this house was somewhere near a highway. Not in some empty valley in the mountains or a farmhouse ten miles from the nearest road.
The razors weren’t even three feet away. But they were boy razors. Not leg-shaving disposables, certainly not straight blades. Multiple blades in a metal head. Even if Rodrigo didn’t notice she’d taken one, she didn’t see how she could pry the blade out.
Okay, best leave them.
What about a toothbrush? There were three in the water glass on the sink. If she taped the nail to the end of the brush, she’d have a real weapon. She reached for them—
“Almost done?” Rodrigo said from the hall.
She pulled back her arm. Not yet. He was paying too much attention. She knew she couldn’t keep putting off the real risks. But for now waiting seemed like the best move. Gathering information, finding weaknesses.
The door swung open just as she covered herself. His eyes went straight to the sink, the razors.
“You took one.”
“No.” She didn’t have to fake the tremor in her voice. Downstairs Deadpool merrily shot bad guys. “I promise.”
Her fear seemed to please him. He stepped out of the bathroom and pointed at the closet, Go, then. Without a word she walked back to the closet. Hating herself. What progress had she actually made? Found a lighter she was afraid to use and a razor she was afraid to steal?
Worst of all, when she heard the deadbolt snap in place she felt not fear or anger but relief.
20
Barcelona
Rebecca knew the Mossos detective. Not personally, but the type. He was compact, no-nonsense, wearing a button-down blue shirt and neatly pressed khakis.
He stood next to Rob Wilkerson on the Passeig Marítim, where the city’s narrow central