me, no matter how many times we’ve been through this. I curl my legs beneath me and move into the hollow of his arm.
“How do you know for sure?” I say. I’ve asked this question a thousand times, just to hear the answer.
“Because I killed him, Annie.” He turns my face up to his to show me how unflinchingly certain he is. “I watched him die.”
I start to cry then, because I know that he believes what he says to be true. And I want so badly to believe it, too.
“Do you need to start up the meds again?”
I don’t want that. He leans forward to put his drink on the table. I move back into him, and he wraps me up in his arms and lets me cry and cry until I feel all right again. There’s no telling how long this can take. But he’s always so patient.
2
I descend a narrow, rusting stairway and walk quickly down the long hall, steadying myself against the walls. The lighting is dim and flickering. I struggle to remember what my cabin number is—203, I think. There are five men on board other than the captain, and I don’t see any of them.
I reach my cabin and fumble with the lock for a second, then push into my room. A small berth nestles in the far corner. Beneath it is a drawer where I have stowed my things. I kneel and pull out my bag, unzip it, and fish inside until I find what I’m looking for—my gun. A sleek Glock nine-millimeter, flat black and cold. I check the magazine and take another from the bag, slip it into the pocket of my coat. The Glock goes into the waist of my jeans. I’ve drilled the reach-and-draw from that place about a million times; my arm will know what to do even if my brain freezes. Muscle memory.
I consider my options. Once again suicide tops the list for its ease and finality. Aggression comes a close second, which would just be a roundabout way toward the first option. Hide and wait comes in third. Make him work for it. Make him fight his way through the people charged with protecting me and then find me on this ship. Then be waiting for him with my gun when he does.
The thrumming in my chest has stilled, and I listen for the sounds that will signify that the fight has begun, but there’s only silence and the distant hum of engines. I’m not afraid at all—or else fear has become so much a part of me that it has come to feel like peace.
3
My father is a tattoo artist and a pathological liar. The latter is nearly the only thing I can count on, that, likely as not, every word out of his mouth is a lie. He truly can’t help it.
“How are you, Dad?” I’ll ask.
“Great,” he’ll say enthusiastically. “I’m packing.”
“Packing for what?” I’ll say, skeptical.
“I’m taking a Mediterranean cruise, heading out tomorrow.”
Or:
“Did I ever tell you I was a Navy SEAL?”
“Really, Dad?” I’ll go along, half listening. “When?”
“Served in Vietnam.”
“Wow. Tell me about it.”
“I can’t; too painful. I’d rather forget.”
That’s how it goes. It doesn’t even bother me anymore, partly because he usually doesn’t lie about anything important. Just weird stuff. Almost like hiccups, they seem to bubble up from within, unbidden, unstoppable. I generally play along, because in spite of all the lies there’s something true about him. Even though he was a lousy father, he loves me and I know it, always have.
When he comes to the phone, I can hear chatter in the background, the hummingbird buzz of the tattoo needle. His shop, Body Art, is located on Great Jones Street in NoHo. And though it’s a hole in the wall, barely five hundred square feet, people from all over the world travel there for my father’s skill. Rock stars, supermodels, even (it is rumored) rebelling young Saudi royals have been beneath my father’s needle. He’d told me this for years, but naturally I didn’t believe him. Finally he sent me a Village Voice article about him, and I realized he’d been telling the truth. How about that?
“Everything all right?” he asks, lowering his voice when he realizes it’s me.
“Great,” I say. “We’re doing great.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I know he heard the lie in my voice. Takes one to know one. I listen to him breathing as he ponders what to say. I remember a lot