my phone between his hands. “Why didn’t you tell them?”
“Because I want answers.”
“So do I.”
“Well, we have lots in common.”
“You’ll get your answers. You got any other phones stashed around here?”
“No.” He’d already found and confiscated my bag of burners, but he looks doubtful.
“They’re going to be suspicious,” I say. “They’ll know something’s wrong if I don’t show next week.”
“It’s early,” Chris points out. “Let’s just see how today goes.”
I BEHAVE MYSELF IN the elevator. Chris cuffs our wrists together and holds my hand against his side, tucked beneath the edge of his jacket. We ride down with a neighbor from the floor below, and he doesn’t notice a thing.
I don’t try to get his attention.
The parking garage is quiet as we approach the pickup, and I balk when Chris opens the back door and nods for me to climb in. “Why can’t I sit in the front?”
“Because you’re a hostage,” he stage whispers.
“This isn’t funny.”
“I’m not kidding. Get in.” He grabs the coil of rope from the floor. “Hurry.”
“No.”
He raises his brows. “No?”
“No! We’re working together now. You’re going to show me Alex was a gambler, remember? I’m not trying to escape.”
“I worked with liars for ten years, Reese, and you’re one of the best. If I didn’t know who you were when we met, I still wouldn’t. Hell, I still don’t. Get in the car.”
“You’re awfully righteous for a guy who lied just as much as me.”
“Not that much.”
“The same amount.”
He grabs my free hand, cuffing it with the other behind my back. Before I can fight, he’s boosted me onto the seat, dumped me on my back, and looped an arm around my calves so he can bind my feet.
“Stop!” I protest. “That’s not necessary.”
“I’ll decide what’s necessary.”
“What do you think I’m going to do with my fucking feet, Chris? Drive the truck?”
I’m angry, but I’m also frustrated. And sad. And confused. And when he picks up the dirty gag from the floor, I panic. I kick hard, my feet smacking his chest when he reaches in to pull me to a sitting position. That thing is not going in my mouth.
“No!” I try to keep my voice down so I don’t justify his mission. “Don’t gag me. I’m not going to scream.”
“Stop fighting.”
But I don’t. I can’t. I thought the last three years were apathy, but they weren’t. They were build up. For this. Whatever this is.
I flop onto my back, even though it hurts my arms, and I kick with my tied feet as hard as I can. The back seat is so narrow it’s essentially a tunnel Chris can’t enter while I’m kicking, and when he finally manages to pin my legs to the seat and climb on top of me, I forget my promise and open my mouth to scream until he slaps his hand over it.
“Would you stop?” he snaps. Too much of his weight is on me, and it’s hard to breathe. I feel tears leaking out the corners of my eyes, and I know the second he feels them because he hesitates.
The man doesn’t like to see women cry.
“Please don’t,” I whisper against his hand. “I won’t say anything.”
His jaw tenses. “I have to.”
“You don’t.”
“Don’t take it personally.”
I clamp my lips shut when he tries to slide the dingy scrap of fabric over my face. “It’s very personal!” I say through my teeth.
“Don’t make it hard, Reese.”
“I won’t,” I mumble. “Just don’t gag me.”
He sighs. He turns his hand, and we can both see the shine of my tears on his fingers. After a second, he relents. “Am I going to regret this?”
“No. I promise.”
He raises a brow. “Well, that means a lot.”
In the end, Chris covers me with the blanket but leaves my head free, mouth un-gagged. In return, I’m silent for the trip across town. Even if I wanted to say something, I wouldn’t. I can feel the tension radiating from the front seat, and I’m sure any smart remark would result in us turning around and me being frog-marched back to my cell. For three years, I’ve considered my apartment a sanctuary, but I was wrong. It was a bubble, an insulator, and I no longer want to hide away from the world. I thought I knew as much as there was to know about my family, but if what Chris says is true, I knew nothing about the two men in my life, the only ones I’ve ever loved. Now I want answers, no matter how