I always thought murder-suicide was a strong reaction to the news of the verdict, but I never considered an ulterior motive.
“Prove it,” I say.
For the first time, Chris looks uncertain. “Prove it?”
“Prove that Alex was who you say he was, not the brother I knew.”
“And then what?”
“Then I’ll help you find the money.”
17
THE NEXT MORNING, I’M tidied up and fed and cuffed to the coffee table, watching a house-hunting show while Chris takes a shower. He won’t tell me where today’s excursion will take us, but if it involves getting out of the apartment and getting answers, I’m a willing victim. Perhaps it’s Stockholm syndrome, but whatever motivated Chris to agree to my offer intrigues me. He cares about this. Not me, I know, but the situation. Alex, maybe. The money, definitely. He wants answers, and so do I.
The couch cushions vibrate at 10:32 a.m. It takes a second to register the sensation, then it hits me: My phone. My real phone. I was supposed to be at the Food Bank at 9:30—it must be them.
I crane my neck to peer down the hall, but Chris isn’t lurking there, anticipating another failed escape attempt. The shower is still running.
I feel between the cushions for the phone, squeezed into its familiar spot. I can ask for help. Tell Lyla to send the police. Give her my real address. Entertain my second set of visitors in three years.
But that would mean more headlines. More attention. No trips to Madagascar or Australia or Yap.
And no answers.
But do I really want those answers? What if Chris is just biding his time, keeping an eye on me while his “roommates” search for the money he’s convinced I have? What if they get fed up and start lopping off body parts as an incentive? I’d be upset if they cut off my hair, never mind my arm. What if this is my one opportunity to put an end to things?
My fingers fold around the phone and I press it to my ear. “Hello?” I say, my voice low.
“R.C.?”
I straighten. I was expecting Lyla, but it’s Rodney.
“Yeah,” I say. “Hi.”
“Where are you? You were supposed to be here an hour ago. Lyla’s worried.”
I stare at the muted television. A retired couple tours a condo with ocean views and palm trees. They’re in Antigua. It looks nice.
I glance at my maps.
I hesitate.
“I’m sick,” I hear myself say. “I overslept. I’m sorry.”
“Are you coming in?”
The question makes me want to cry. What if I never go back? What if this is the last time we talk? What if the one sorta-friend I made in all these years never knows the truth?
But I have too many what-ifs and not enough answers.
“No,” I say. “I’m really sick.”
“Oh. Okay. I’ll tell Lyla.”
“Tell her I’m sorry,” I add.
“She’ll be all right. What goes around comes around, remember? She probably infected you.”
I smile a little. “Yeah. Probably.”
“You mind if I have your soda, then? The orange one in the fridge? It’s been there a while, and I want it.”
“Sure, Rodney. You can have the soda.”
“Cool. See you next week.” Having gotten what he wanted, he hangs up.
I stare at the darkening screen and weigh my options. It’s not too late. Three buttons. 9-1-1. The phone’s registered to this address. They’d have to send someone to check on me. I wouldn’t even need to say anything.
“I’m surprised.”
I squawk and jump in my seat, wrenching my cuffed arm and wincing as pain sears my wrist.
Chris calmly crosses the room and plucks the phone from my hand. He’s wet from his shower, wearing sweats slung low on his hips, a towel over his shoulder. His hair is dripping, rivulets of water running over his broad chest. There’s a faint bite mark on his left pectoral, right above the heart. I did that a week and a half ago, when things were much, much different.
I slump against the cushion and stare up at him stubbornly. His eyes are dark, his mouth a flat line. He’s angry, obviously. But if he heard the call, he knows I didn’t do anything to jeopardize his whole hostage scheme. My heart is thudding, but I keep my expression bland. For three years, I haven’t cared about much of anything, and now that I do care, I’ll do anything to protect it. To protect myself.
For a long moment he considers me, then comes to some sort of internal conclusion. He sits on the coffee table and rests his elbows on his knees, passing