I take a small bite, mainly to be polite. Then my stomach gives a ravenous bellow, and the rest of the treat soon disappears.
“There’s some leftovers in the fridge,” she says, tucking her legs up on the couch and leaning closer. “Chinese. I’m pretty sure it’s a universal rule that takeaways always taste better the next day.”
And just that small observation makes my heart cramp so bad that I have to stop breathing. There are a thousand similar statements in my memory, all issued by my mum. The thought she won’t ever say something like that again hurts so badly that my physical injuries pale in comparison.
I want Caylon to be awake and holding me.
Instead, I led him straight to a monster who tore his body to shreds. He should be in hospital, not in bed trying to pretend that some expired pain meds and a good night’s sleep will see him through.
“I’m so sorry I got your son hurt.”
Effie scoots closer, taking my hand to squeeze it, then continuing to hold it as a new flood of tears threatens. “Thank goodness that’s what you’re crying over. For a sec, I thought you were averse to Chinese food and then we wouldn’t be able to be friends.”
The lighthearted comment makes me laugh, and that helps my breathing. When Effie hands me another gummy worm, I take it, curling my legs up beside me on the sofa in mimicry of her.
“You don’t have to worry about Caylon,” she says, eyes jerking to the television screen when a geyser of blood erupts from a slit artery. “It’ll take more than a beating to keep him down. Those doctors didn’t stand a chance at keeping him in hospital. He’s always completely convinced he knows best.”
“Yeah,” I say with a sniff. “I noticed.”
“Don’t know where he gets it from,” she continues, moving her arm so it’s around me instead of holding my hand. “I’ve always been overwhelmed with second thoughts, but he just strolls through life, thinking everything will work out, and it usually does.”
Her voice is as warm as her touch and I snuggle closer to her. She tugs a throw off the back of the sofa and spreads it across our laps before slinging her arm back around me, cuddling me like I’m her daughter.
“I’m so sorry.” She strokes my hair, her mannerisms so like Caylon that I have a feeling of déjà vu. “I saw what that monster did to you. Did to your mother.”
I take a full minute, maybe more, to recognise her words and place them in perspective. “You s-saw?” A stab of horror more piercing than anything the flickering screen in front of me could convey hits me, sends adrenaline racing through my bloodstream, ready to fight.
“Not in real life,” she reassures me. “On the computer.”
Judging from her tone, she clearly thinks that’s better, but the explanation hits me as a thousand times worse.
“I’m on the internet?”
Effie tilts her head to the side, stares at me quizzically, then shakes her head, holding up one finger as she leaves the comfort of the couch. I watch her leave the room, then reappear a moment later, this time with a laptop in her hand.
I bend my head forward, used to the gesture hiding me behind a swathe of long hair. Shocked anew that it now doesn’t, I put up a hand as shelter.
Part of me wants to see, wants to know how bad it is. The rest of me wants to run. I’m not sure how to survive being so exposed. I don’t want to learn.
“Here,” she says in her light, cheerful voice. “Caylon was researching this man weeks ago, and I tried to help but it came to a dead end. Then, when he was gone, I got worried and looked again. This time I found a way through his—”
She breaks off as she glances at me, astonished to find me white-faced and too fearful to look at the small screen.
“No. It’s not…” She pats my knee and rearranges it so I’m leaning against her while she props the computer on my lap. “This is his private feed, from inside his house. It’s not a free-for-all.”
I stare between my fingers as she flips between camera views, showing me what his internal CCTV must capture. She wisely steers clear of the lobby and nearby rooms. I glimpse Wilbur’s motionless foot at the edge of one view, but she quickly moves to another.
“There’s a system capturing the recordings and storing it on his hard drive,” she further explains, showing me screens as though I should understand what I’m looking at. “There’s footage of you in a folder, here.”
She stops with it on screen, not clicking through to its contents, and turns beet red. “I’m sorry for snooping. Once I understood what I was looking at, I got out of there.”
“That’s okay,” I say with a frown, then stumble over my next question, terrified of the answer. “And can anyone access this? It’s just… sitting there if you know where to look?”
“Goodness, no. It took me weeks to get around his security. I just… Caylon hasn’t been himself recently, and I wanted to help. Has he…?” She moves away from me slightly, clearing her throat and brushing at her cheekbone with the heel of her hand. “Did he tell you about me? About the illness?”
“He said you’re schizophrenic and that he might be. Is that what you mean?”
She gives a sad smile, nodding. “Yeah. That pretty much…” She trails off, frowning into the middle distance. “I thinkhethinks it’s worse than it is.” After a second, she laughs and shakes her head. “But it’s hard to know if I’m tracking anything accurately because that’s how it works. Everything gets processed the same up here”—she taps the side of her head—“regardless of whether it comes from outside or originates inside, you know?”
