“Everybody shut up,” Lamonte says as he steps forward.
In the quiet, wind crashes on the roof like waves on the shore. The air in here is tundra cold, which Nomi’s grateful for because it’s keeping her alert. She’s trying not to panic, so breathing cold air through her nose helps. Her skin feels like it’s been sandpapered, and her taped hands pulse with constricted blood. She thinks it’s quite likely that she and Simon will die here, and she’s trying not to take it personally.
“Now,” Lamonte says in forbearing tones, “we were discussing what happened to the kid.”
“Fucking dipshit there killed her!” Ray moans, gesturing at Simon. “Then he slashed me with the goddamn box cutter—”
“What?” Nomi says.
“Shut up,” Lamonte says, whether to her or to Dinkins, she’s not quite sure. “Claude, did you check if the kid is really dead?”
“Not yet,” Ameche says.
“You can check if you want,” Simon says quietly, “but I cut her pretty good.”
“You didnot,” Nomi says. But she’s looking at the blood on his face and hands, looking at his detached expression. Oh god, this is not good.
“I had to.” He’s looking stonily at the floor.
“No.” She swallows hard. “No, I don’t believe you.”
“Believe me, don’t believe me—it doesn’t really matter.”
This is a joke. A trick. “Tell me you didn’t kill Brittany.”
“‘Tell me you didn’t kill Brittany ...’”Ray Dinkins makes the words sound whiny as he screws up his face. “Did you not listen? He fucking killed her! I saw it with my own eyes!”
“Shut up, Ray,” Lamonte says. “Claude?”
“Sure, boss,” Ameche says, and leaves Simon to start toward the office door.
Simon looks at Nomi and sighs, as if this is all very tedious. “Nomi, listen to me. I want you to think back.”
“What?”
“All the way back, to when we first met.”
“What?” she repeats, blinking. A choking feeling is bubbling up, like rising damp.
“‘I’ve just come from Guatemala. I have amnesia.’” Simon is impersonating himself. “‘I need to find myself, but you can’t run my fingerprints. Now do you see why I need your help?’”
“No.” The damp is in her throat, clotted and foul.
“What the fuck is he talking about?” Dinkins says.
But Simon’s eyes are fixed on hers. “It was fun, following you around. I got to see Cevolatti’s body. You let me sew you up—you let me into your home. I got to join in the game. It’s a good game.”
“Agood game?” Nomi feels heat in her cheeks. “What do you—”
“The very best game of all.” Simon grins at her discomposure.
“No,” Nomi whispers. “No, no, no ...”
“It took a long time to get you to trust me, but once I won you over ...” Simon smiles, blood on his teeth. “Don’t you remember what the report said, in my file?Deceptive and manipulative behavior.”
Her throat is very dry. “Stop talking. Please stop talking now—”
“Oh, and there was another one, wasn’t there?” Simon looks upward, pretending to think about it. “That’s right—a fundamental lack of empathy. Remember that one?”
