“I’m not lying,” she pleads with me. But I am not one to plead with. Words do not touch me. Words are mostly empty. What matters are actions.
“My father was Ian Onto; I never knew an Antonio—we were in Berlin, and then we moved to England after his death because my mother had friends and family there—I never killed anyone.“
“So you are telling me you have never been to Sicily? That your father wasn’t the bastard who raped children, stole money, and betrayed me? You tell me he wasn’t a monster?”
“He wasn’t!” she shouts “And I—I didn’t s-say—I have been to Sicily as a child. M-My father had some friends there, one of them invited us for a stay—It was so—long—ago,” she says with a voice trailing off from weakness. She seems to have become unconscious again.
I slap her face, and her head shoots back up.
“Stay with me,” I say.
“I—“ she says, but her head sways and falls down again.
“It’s the third day,” says Kat. “She won’t make it any longer.”
I know what Kat is implying. I have waited so long that another day doesn’t matter. "I give you 24 hours,” I say, knowing how skilled Kat is at breaking others. I leave her and the foul smell in that cell behind and tear off the googles.
I’ll watch over the surveillance system.
I pour a drink, take the tablet, and sit on the couch. As I watchKat offer her water and free her from the hook, the girl falls heavily to the ground. I already know I will end her life, so it is satisfying to watch.
“Don’t move,” says Kat. “I’ll release your arms; it’ll hurt, you will not move.”
The girl nods. She screams when Kat removes the chains. Being chained up a time like that has long-lasting effects, painful and intended ones.
“I am going to play nice, as long as you tell me what you know,” says Kat. It’s the old good cop, bad cop technique. Only we’re not cops but killers.
“I don’t feel well,” says the girl. “I think I?—“
She vomits.
Pathetic.
“Here, drink,” Kat says, handing her the water bottle. She hesitates, hands trembling, and Kat forces her to drink. Risky move—I would never get so close to an unrestrained prisoner, but Kat thrives on the thrill, seeking danger and physical confrontation. Yet nothing happens. It almost feels sad—I wish she would try something; I would end her immediately.
“Eat this,” says Kat and holds one of these disgusting protein bars she loves to the girl’s mouth. I had the hope she might have stopped her obsession with them after being with her wife, Lilian, but I might have overestimated her influence.
“Now,” says Kat. “We have your little friend, you were travelling with, Luisa is her name. If you lie, try to escape or do anything I don’t like, I will kill her, understood?”
“No, not Luisa!” shouts the girl.
I have always admired Kat, and I do so right now. Because we did not take Luisa. Luisa is an innocent bystander, and we do not take innocent bystanders.
“Who were the friends in Sicily?” Kat asks.
“I—I can’t remember. I was six, I think, the only thing I do remember is that my father gave me Lolita that birthday,” says the girl in a weak voice.
“Who is Lolita?”
“A little stuffed animal, a sloth, we flew to Sicily, and he bought it for me because he had been so busy. There is this photo, my fatherkept it all these years, and it’s the only one I have from my childhood. I think it was a job he did; he showed us the house, I think. He was proud of his work. Or I was proud of him? I don’t know. I think it was because my dad was so important.”
“Are there any other photos or videos?”
“There might, I don’t know. I have none; my past is so blurry. My mother might have some, but you won’t get anything out of her; she had a viral brain infection and only remembers the immediate past.”
“How convenient,” says Kat, voicing my thought. I am certain the mother faked it to vanish.
“I’m sorry,” says the girl, and bursts into tears. Quite a show, but she learned from the best. The man who betrayed me for years—living a double life, feeding Giuseppe information and laundering money, taking power from me —he was a liar and an actor, too. One of the best.
