the cavalry arrives to save the day. There’s no cavalry. The only person who might notice I’m missing is Rodney, and that’s a long-shot.
“On your cooperation.” He gestures to the couch. “Have a seat.”
“No.”
“Sit.” Something about him changes, hardens. But only a little bit, only slightly. Like his disguise fits him so perfectly that when the man beneath shifts, you see it. He’s done this before. He’s used to issuing orders; used to having them followed. This isn’t his first time.
But it’s mine.
I sit on the couch and he nudges the coffee table back and sits on it, our knees inches apart. I can smell his soap. See the faint ridges of dirt beneath his fingernails. It’s permanent, then. But it’s not from digging holes for plants. He’s been digging holes for other reasons.
“Let me see your ID,” I say.
He’s entirely unconcerned as he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, the same one he’s always carried. He takes out his driver’s license and passes it to me. It’s a New York state license. The name is Chris Sherwood. The address is down the street.
“Your other ID,” I say.
“That’s it.”
“Who are you?”
“I told you.”
“No,” I say. “You didn’t.”
He purses his lips slightly, like he’s disappointed in me. Like in this whole situation, I’m the worst person.
“What do you want?”
“You,” he replies.
For three years, no one has wanted me. Not for the right reasons. No one has known me; I haven’t let them. And now, hearing those words, you’d think it would make everything worse. That it would drive home the fact that no one does want me, and maybe they never will. But that’s not what happens. Instead, an invisible wall slides into place, separating the past from the present. This is how I feel when I think about my mother; she’s something I know about, not something I know. It’s like the bars that separate my father from the world, the dirt covering my brother’s casket. It’s a barrier. It’s distance. It’s armor.
If Chris wanted to hurt me, he could have. He could have done it any time. But something has changed. The game is different, the waiting has gone on long enough.
He needs something.
“Tell me why you killed Alex,” he says.
I slap him. I don’t plan it, so there’s no time for him to react or defend against it. I’m stronger than either of us expects. Lifting boxes of cans is a workout. Instinct propels me to my feet, leaping over the edge of the couch, sprinting for the door. I open my mouth to scream, but there’s no one to hear.
Chris catches me before I can grab the door. One arm around my waist, the other covering my mouth. I bite, feel his flesh pinch between my teeth. He swears and jerks his hand away, slapping it back to squeeze my jaw so hard I can’t open it again. We fall to the floor, the sick smack of bone against wood as Chris’s forearms take the brunt of the impact. My knee throbs, and I’m winded, but not crushed.
I fight. What the fuck. This isn’t a dream. I can kick. I can punch. The hand on my mouth drops so his forearm presses against my windpipe, dragging my head up. He’s somehow gotten onto his knees, one digging into the small of my back, the other leg crossing my thighs, subduing me. Trying to.
“Don’t,” he says, when I continue to flail. He’s not fighting, just holding me, his arm a gentle but effective pressure, cutting off my air supply until I’m weak. Until I’m limp and motionless on the ground, seeing through teary eyes, unable to move.
I’ve been in this position before, but the last time there was a lot more blood. There was glass. There was pain. There was my brother lying motionless, head turned away as though he couldn’t bear to face me after what he’d done.
I couldn’t move then, either. It wasn’t a dream. It was the ends of my bleached hair stained pink with blood, sparkling with shards of glass like diamonds. It was the screaming agony in my leg, the questions lodged in my throat. The way my brother had looked at me at that very last second before he said my name, then cut the wheel to the right. Hard. Too hard.
“Reese,” Chris is saying. “Reese.”
He shakes me a little, the pressure on my throat gone, his fingers tangled in my hair like a rein.