“And poor people have pressure not to live in poverty,” I counter. “One is about ego, the other is about survival.”
“What if it feels like survival though?”
I give him a long, lingering look. “Do you think your father would be less of a dick if he had less money?”
He chuckles. “I don’t think he knows how to be anything else at this point.”
“Did he grow up with money?”
“No. His father did, but he lost the bulk of his fortune in a bad business deal when my dad was ten. Pretty sure that was the day my father vowed to get it all back. Every penny and then some.”
“And he probably worked to make sure his children never found themselves in that predicament either.”
Charlie stares at the painting with a faraway expression. “I can see that. It doesn’t excuse being a tool though. You can endure hard times and use that experience to become a better version of yourself.”
I don’t disagree.
Slowly we make our way through the puzzles in the cabin. Morse code. Einstein puzzles. While he’s unraveling the mystery of the Escape Room, I feel like I’m making progress with the mystery that is Charlie Thorpe. Every personal comment reveals what seems like pertinent information and solidifies my growing attachment to him.
“How do you do it?” he asks in amazement.
“Do what?”
“Get me to talk about this stuff.”
“It’s called a conversation, Charlie. Humans have been participating in them for centuries.”
“Not this kind of deeply personal conversation. This isn’t me.” I sense a subtle shift in his demeanor. “How much longer do we have?”
“Not sure.” In truth, I stopped paying attention to our surroundings half an hour ago.
“Where are the rules? Aren’t they written somewhere?”
“We need to figure them out. Part of the fun is not knowing,” I explain.
Charlie shakes his head. “That sounds like hell to me. I would much rather have certainty.”
“The only certainty is that you’ll enjoy yourself if you go with the flow and stop trying to control the outcome.”
He tugs at the collar of his shirt.
“You look pale, Charlie. Are you okay?” I’m genuinely concerned. If his rock-solid body drops in the middle of the cabin, I won’t be able to budge him.
“This is your Escape Room,” he says. “How do you not know all the answers?”
“Gloria handles this. Feeling trapped fuels her anxiety, so she sets it up and then doesn’t participate.”
“Can you get us out of here?” he rasps.
His face has gone from pale to downright translucent. Shit. I scan the interior and suddenly remember the magnetic key that opens the emergency exit door.
“I’ve got you.”
We spill into blessed daylight. Charlie slides down the wall into a crouched position and I huddle beside him. “Are you okay? Should I get a paper bag or something?”
He shakes his head. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you get claustrophobic?”
