“Because I said it does. I want to know if anyone is looking for you.”
I lick my lips, buying time so I can think of how I should play this. Should I pretend there is someone looking for me? That would be better than the truth. Otherwise, he would know he could make me disappear and no one would ever know. “Of course people are looking for me.” I snort, but my reaction was too slow to be genuine.
“Who?” He stumps me with the single-word question.
The police, because I’m wanted in several homicides, but that’s not even true because I’ve done a fair job at covering my tracks until now. My mortgage company is going to want their money, but then I remember I’m on autopay. I have enough in my checking account for a few months. Surely my car’s been impounded by this point, so maybe they are trying to reach me.
“There’s no one,” he tells me, sounding resolute. “You live alone, and you don’t have one personal contact in your phone or computer, not even a text message.”
“You went through my computer?” That’s more upsetting than the truth I can’t deny. I’ve spent years perfecting being alone. There is no one. When I disappear, not a single person will know or care.
He runs a hand over his stubbled jaw, like some sort of villain. “Interesting stuff there, Max.”
Oh shit, how much does he know? I blow a raspberry from my lips, deflecting because I have no idea what to say.
“Do you want to tell me why I found the name and address of a dead man, who was found just a few blocks over from the club on the same night you happened into my alley, on your computer?”
I make another pff sound. I’m going to go to prison for the rest of my life. Jesus, if the past couple weeks have shown me anything, it’s that I won’t make it in jail with only my past memories to keep me company.
“Max.” I don’t know how he can say my name like a warning, yet there’s this underlying current, like he really just wants to know and won’t judge me for it. Maybe he won’t. I mean, I watched him kill a man with a single shot at forty feet. That doesn’t just happen. You have to train and practice to hit a moving target, not to mention he told me his gun would be tied to several other murders.
“See, I don’t get why you left a bunch of incriminating shit on your computer, but I can’t find anything about the people who hired you or proof of payment.”
He already knows. In hindsight, it was pretty fucking dumb to leave a trail of evidence on my computer. It’s really starting to sink in how lucky I’ve been. “You won’t ever find anything like that because I wasn’t hired by anyone,” I confess, not seeing any other way out of this. It’s not like I would admit any of it to the police if he does turn me in.
He relaxes back into the sofa. “You just enjoy killing people?” he questions without judgement.
“No, I hate it. Who likes to kill people? I’m not a psychopath.” I am defensive though.
“I know a few people.” He gives the smallest of shrugs. “So why did you kill them?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because I said it does, and I need to know if I was next on your list.”
“You weren’t,” I say too quickly. “Well, not yet. I was watching you to see if you deserved it.”
His eyes grow wide for just a moment. Maybe I should have just kept denying it. I’m kind of shitty at this communication thing. “You only kill people you deem deserving?”
“Yeah.” I continue wandering around the apartment but keep clear of the main door. I need to get him to trust me, which seems like a strange thought while I’m sharing that I’ve killed people with him.
“How did he make it on your list?”
“You found my list?” This actually surprises me. There’s only one place where I have all the names written down—a hand scrawled note I penned right after I was removed from my home when I was sixteen. Every name I could remember was etched in ink. I had no idea why I did it at the time. It was as if I needed to purge the names from my head because I thought it would help me forget what they did to my body. I managed to hold onto it for years, and every time I would think of it or see it, I got madder and madder until I was forced to take matters into my own hands.
The police obviously didn’t care. They were going to let my mother off with time served if she testified against the men she gave me to, and she only spent a few days in jail. Her house arrest meant nothing, it wasn’t even a real punishment, but I gave her what she deserved.
“No,” Winger replies, but it takes me a moment to remember what question he’s answering.
“Then how did you know about my list?”
“You told me.”
I give him an incredulous stare, trying to think when that could have happened.
“The night you were stabbed, you said, ‘At least I don’t have to add him to my list.’”
I remember thinking that but not saying it out loud. I was also pissed I didn’t find out who hired him before Winger killed him. I wonder what else I said in my pain-filled stupor. I could ask him.
