I turn to the man, and he points to his eye, shakes his head, then points to his ear and nods.
Got it. No cameras, but there are audio devices here. I show I understand, and he raises a brow, tapping his fist to his heart, then his forehead. I have no idea if this is sign language or military hand signals, or just good old-fashioned ‘I’m doingthe best I can in a shit situation,’ but I’m not fluent in any of those.
He can tell I don’t understand, so he focuses on driving.
When we’re almost there, he clears his throat. “This one you’re just supposed to beat, unless his blood type is a match. Then tonight’s his last. Avoid his abdomen until we get the results back.”
“Will I get a weapon this time?” I ask, my voice so unlike what I’m used to hearing that I cringe.
“No. Fists only.”
Of course. Remembering my realization about Clara, it’s easy to see how little trust the only constant I’ve ever had has afforded me. My father doesn’t trust anyone. Which is why he has so damned much blackmail.
“Any thoughts on why my father hasn’t taken a liver from me or one of my siblings?” I ask, not worried about my father listening to the question. If Falk doesn’t know, then I want my father to give me an answer.
“He’s your father.”
“Hasn’t stopped him from fucking us all up in one way or another.”
Falk shoots me a look that says he’s not continuing this conversation, and I can’t blame him. Badmouthing the boss is a death sentence for him. I guess I have a perk or two in this shithole.
When we hit the bumpy road deep into the woods, I drift, and I force myself to focus on the grain of the leather of the seat under me, on the seam in my sock that’s not quite straight and digging into my pinky toe, on the lyrics of the old-school music Falk seems to like. I’m shaking by the timewe’re parked, and I throw myself out of my seat and half run into the woods, the bark under my palms rough and damp, the scent of decaying leaves pungent as water seeps into my sneakers.
“Are you holding it together?” Falk whispers, his voice not far behind me.
I tap my forehead against my new oak best friend. “Questionable.”
He says nothing, because no words help.
Eventually, he clears his throat. “Clara’s worried about you. She asks about you every chance she gets.”
“She’s free?” Tears once again threaten, every emotion I’ve spent twenty-two years burying ready to fling themselves loose after the solitude I’ve just survived.
“As much as she can be. She had one week of containment, but she was still let out to run. Your father’s worried that keeping her sedentary is why she isn’t pregnant yet. But that’s not it, is it?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“No, but I can for you. That handoff by one of your roommates this fall—that’s why she’s not pregnant, right?”
It’s my turn to be silent. But a few chunks of bark crumble into the leaf duff beneath me.
“You don’t have to confirm it. I just need to know why your girl still has so much damn hope, despite everything your father has on you two.”
I’m able to pull my forehead away from the tree, turning to look at this man in the half-dark of the floodlight from the cabin. Trust. Trust is what my father has never had, but whatClara has in spades. And it’s what I’ve decided I need. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“Because I’m one more meaningless death from killing your father.”
“That’s a dangerous confession.”
“If you want trust, sometimes you’ve got to risk getting yourself burned.”
I close my eyes, the scent of the woods so damn alive to my deprived senses. “It was a birth control shot. It’s only effective for 14 weeks, though, so we couldn’t come in with it already active. Getting that one shot to her was a huge risk. Having to do it twice seemed like asking for disaster.”
Falk shakes his head, the dark making his face hard to read. “That only gets you to around Christmas.”
“We only need to make it to the wedding.”
“And after that?”
