him to a chair, and torture him until he tells me who he is and what he wants and why he’s doing this.
Then we’ll go from there.
I’ve been accused of a lot of things, torture not among them, and for good reason. I’ve never hurt anyone, even if the guilt does its best to convince me otherwise. I couldn’t sleep for a week after my father’s arrest, and not for a full month after Alex’s death. It was only when I went to get my cast removed and the doctor got a good look at me that he prescribed a high dose sleeping pill which, at the very least, would knock me out long enough to help me forget the urge to jump off the roof. I didn’t take them, because even if people were willing to let me forget, I didn’t want to. I needed to remember. I’d been oblivious to things for too long. Never again.
It takes two hours, but eventually the apartment looks comfortably lived-in. The green velvet sofa faces a wall of bookshelves and a vase of drooping tulips sits on the small wooden dining table. The striped drapes are pulled back to reveal the second floor of the art gallery across the street. A scented candle waits on the bedside table, a box of condoms beside it, the sleeping pills tucked into the medicine cabinet. It smells like lemon and bleach and every surface shines, sanitized to surgical standards.
I have three sets of handcuffs stashed in one of the kitchen drawers, along with a package of plastic zip ties for back-up. There’s also a hammer, two knives, and a small blow torch—everything I could buy at the hardware store without drawing unwanted attention. I’m taking my torture tips from the movies.
The rest I’ll improvise.
THE NEXT MORNING, AS planned, I visit the grocery store to stock up for my big date. Chicken, potatoes, asparagus, French bread, two bottles of wine, a six-pack of beer. I still get my groceries delivered sometimes, but if something goes wrong with the plan and Chris is found tied to a chair surrounded by a half-eaten meal, I don’t want a delivery boy remembering my order.
The grocery store is overpriced but close to my apartment, so I walk home with my bags instead of taking a cab. It’s the beginning of March, and the first signs of spring are finally starting to appear. Snowdrops and daffodils fight their way through the frozen earth, wealthy bankers shed their designer winter wear for the new spring fashions, and everything feels briskly, brightly alive.
Except me, of course. I’m dressed in basic black, sunglasses shielding my face, eyes on my feet. I manage two blocks aboveground before anxiety overtakes me and I duck into a stairwell, immediately feeling my nerves ease. I cover the rest of the distance to my apartment underground, then pause and pull out my burner phone, calling up Chris’s contact and staring at his picture before sending a text with my mother’s address. See you soon, I add.
He replies right away. Can’t wait.
I stuff the phone back into my pocket and use my elbow to hit the elevator button. It arrives quickly, and I get in, traveling alone to the fourteenth floor and entering my quiet apartment. For three years this place has felt like a jail cell, but now it feels like a sanctuary, my paranoia an unnecessary precaution that’s finally justified.
I toss my coat on the couch and drop the bags on the floor, then move down the hall to take a shower to prepare for the evening. I condition my hair and shave my legs and moisturize all over—just a woman hoping to please her boyfriend. He’ll be happy until the pills kick in.
I have an hour until I leave for my mother’s place, so I crack open the cheese plate I bought and make myself a snack, studying my maps as I chew. I admire their myriad holes, my expert marksmanship.
I collect the red dart and toss it at the world map, sinking somewhere into the blue expanse of the Philippine Sea. I approach and peer at it, seeing that I’ve landed on a miniscule island called Yap. I sit at my computer and look it up. It’s part of the Federated States of Micronesia. It has an airport and white beaches and coral reefs home to manta rays and sharks. It does not have an extradition agreement with the United States. It has potential.