Good.Let him run those numbers.
I take the plate when he’s done.Go upstairs.Wash it in the sink.With the brushed nickel faucet.The water runs smooth.
I check my phone.Nothing from Marin.Nothing from Javi’s friends.Nothing from anyone.The house is quiet.The road is quiet.The whole world is quiet in the way it gets quiet before something happens.
I don’t like quiet.
I spend the morning doing what I always do in this house—fixing things.The bathroom door upstairs sticks.The gutter on the east side.The back porch has a crack I’ve been meaning to fill since before Emily died.I work.I measure.I cut.I nail.I do what my hands know how to do while my head does something else entirely.
At noon I go downstairs again.Water.Charles drinks it without speaking.His eyes follow me the way prey watches a predator—not because it thinks the predator will strike right now, but because it knows the predator can.
“She’s coming back,” he says.Not a question.He’s reassuring himself.
“She’s coming back.”
“When?”
“When she’s done.”
“Done with what?”
I look at him.“You don’t get to ask that.”
He sets the water down.Leans his head back against the wall.Closes his eyes.
“You know this ends badly,” he says.Eyes closed.Voice flat.“For all of us.You know that.”
“Most things do.”
“She’s going to get caught.Or I’m going to die down here.Or you’re going to?—”
“Charles.”
He opens his eyes.
“I’m not your friend.I’m not your therapist.I’m the guy who feeds you and gives you water and makes sure you don’t choke on your own spit in the middle of the night.That’s it.So save the predictions for someone who wants to hear them.”
He closes his eyes again.I go upstairs.
56
Marin
David’s office hasn’t changed.Thirty-second floor.Glass walls.The kind of view that makes you feel like you own something even when you’re just visiting.I used to work three doors down from this room.I used to walk these halls in heels and think this was the only life worth having.
That was four weeks ago.Four weeks and a kidnapping and a basement and a ball gag and a kitchen table ago.
“Marin.”David stands.Shakes my hand.Looks at me the way people look at someone who’s been gone—checking for damage, finding none, deciding she’s fine.“You look great.”
“You know what they say, there’s something about Texas.”
He laughs.We sit.I pitch.
I’m good.I forgot how good.The words come back the way muscle memory comes back—smooth, fast, precise.I know this room.I know this language.I know how to make a man with a corner office and a view believe that what I’m selling is the only thing worth buying.
David leans back.Taps his pen on the desk.The tap that means yes.
“I’m not going to lie,” he says.“I didn’t expect this from you.After everything that happened?—”
