WHEN I REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS, I was looking at myself. For a brief, disorienting moment, I thought you were me, Mace. I winced from my position on Richard’s rug as a wave of pain shot through my skull. There I was, or, rather, there you were, looking like me, looking at me, tears staining your cheeks as Richard pressed your face against the floor and forced himself inside you.
It was the wig that threw me. The wig I’d been wearing moments before was now on your head, its tendrils obscuring your face, allowing me to imagine myself in your position. All animosity I’d felt toward you vanished. We were the same. It could’ve been either of us wearing that wig, pinned to the floor.
It was difficult to say how much time had passed since I’d lost consciousness. The waitstaff had vanished, likely ordered out of the room by Richard. Sandro was still passed out, deadweight sinking into the couch above me.
You would be the only witness.
I rose from the carpet, careful not to make a sound. Silence filled the room, unbroken save for an occasional grunt from Richard or sob from you. I stepped slowly toward the wall covered in a collage of artworks. I selected Richard’s favorite—the George Condo painting depicting a grotesque orgy, with distorted bodies locked in naked chaos, their faces staring straight at the viewer—and removed it from the wall. Richard once boasted that the painting had cost him three hundred thousand dollars, a sum that came to mind as I held my makeshift weapon. Richard’s demise would be appropriately expensive.
The frame was heavy and gold, with sharp corners. My biceps strained under its weight as I carried the canvas silently across the room. Richard knelt on the ground, completely naked, hunched above your motionless body. His fleshy back jiggled with each thrust. You were still largely clothed, your pants bunched around your knees. I trod lightly, approaching Richard from behind. I raised the canvas far above my head, fixing my stare on the back of his skull, imagining the moment I would split it open with the gilded edge of the Condo. I wanted to batter him senseless. Erase him from this earth.
But God had other plans for me.
I brought the painting down, aiming for Richard’s skull, directing the edge of the frame like a dagger. Richard detected my presence and jerked to the side, so I merely clipped him in the shoulder, failing to deliver a fatal blow. He screamed and swiped at the painting, sending it clattering to the ground.
“What the fuck,” he yelled, scrambling to his feet. He clutched his bleeding shoulder. You curled into a ball on the rug, shaking in terror.
We all froze for a brief, terrible moment—you on the floor, Richard above you, me across from Richard. It was clear that this moment represented a threshold; our lives would be forever changed once we passed through.
And then Richard screamed, an animalistic howl that echoed through the room as he charged in my direction, blood streaming down his chest, dick bouncing between his legs, his gut swinging with every drunken stagger. I ran out of his house, across the gravel drive, into the wildflower field. Scamp appeared in the brush. He barked and nipped and circled. I looked back and there was Richard, bounding through the grass behind me, quickly gaining speed as I kicked the dog out of my way. I was headed for the pool house, uncertain of what I’d do when I got there, but it was at least a destination, one that would hopefully supply new options for ending this nasty game. Mr. Keller in the Pool House with the Gardening Shears. I looked back again and there you were, trailing behind Richard, the last float in our grim parade.
Finally, the pool. My feet slapped against concrete as I rushed around the perimeter of the water, surprised to find it glowing. Seb must’ve neglected his nightly duties and forgotten to turn off the pool lights. I turned to discover you and Richard struggling on the deck, lit from below by the teal glimmer of the water. Odd shadows rippled across your face as you attempted to hold him back. I reached the pool house, rushed inside, and flipped on the fluorescents. I squinted under the harsh glare and scanned the room, searching for a weapon.
“Jonah, watch out!”
But your scream came too late. Richard was already tackling me to the ground. I struggled under his naked body as he strangled me. Scamp rushed into the shed, barking and barking. But Richard was never one to let something stand between him and the thing he wanted.
Suddenly, you appeared above Richard. Seb was there too—perhaps he had heard shouting; perhaps he had remembered the pool lights. The two of you grabbed Richard’s shoulders and pulled him off me. Richard reared upward. You and Seb retreated from the shed and backed onto the pool deck. Richard stormed toward you, and Scamp circled, unrelenting in his furious yapping.
“Shut up,” you screamed at the dog, diverting your focus from Richard to Scamp for no more than two seconds. Just enough time for Richard to backhand your face.
Richard’s slap sent you sailing into Seb, who then staggered back and tripped over Scamp. Seb flailed his arms as he fell, hitting his head on a corner of the pool. Seb’s skull emitted a sick, wet crack when it struck the concrete. He slid into the glowing water, unconscious. We stood there in shock, considering his silhouette as it drifted, a stream of blood coursing around it.
You jumped in, Mace, and I followed. We dragged his body from the water. Richard looked on in horror.
“He’s still breathing,” you shouted. We knelt by his side, fully clothed and dripping wet. Chlorine stung my eyes and mixed with my tears.
“He can’t die here.” Richard’s rage morphed into fear.
“We need to call an ambulance!” I shouted.
“He can’t die here,” Richard repeated. Implying Seb could die, just not on his property.
“It’ll take forever for an ambulance to get out here,” you said. “We need to take him ourselves.”
“He can’t die here.”
“Grab his shoulders!” you yelled to me. “I got his legs.”
We hefted Seb’s unconscious body into the air and carried him across the wildflower field. Richard trailed behind.
“You were never here, understand?” Richard panted, his hysteria rising. “I don’t want this coming back to me.”
“It won’t,” you said, attempting to placate Richard.
“This never happened, you were never here, you found him in a ditch on the side of the road, anywhere but on my compound.”
“Here—lay him down in the back seat,” you said as we arrived at Richard’s BMW.
“This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening.” Richard spiraled into panic. “Do you know what something like this could do to me?”
“The keys,” you barked at Richard, who stared back blankly. “Give me your fucking keys.”
Moments later, we were speeding down the gravel drive—you at the wheel, me in the passenger seat, Seb’s crumpled body in the back. We reached the gate and a terrifying realization crossed my mind.
“I don’t know the code,” I said as we pulled up to the call box. “Do you?”
Pity darkened your face. “Yes.” You sighed. “Zero, eight, sixteen.”
Today’s date?
I punched the numbers into the box. Fresh indignation coursed through my body. There it was—Richard’s code finally cracked, the answer so obvious, so simple: his mother’s birthday.
The gate buzzed. We were free.
Later, after we’d hauled Seb’s unconscious body onto the concrete outside the emergency room, after we’d flagged down a nurse, after she’d checked his vital signs and asked for information about what happened, after we’d endured her unconvinced response to our foggy answer, after she’d said she’d be right back with help, you turned to me and changed the course of my life.
“Here,” you said, handing me a fistful of twenties. “Take it.”
I dumbly accepted the bills. “What do you want me to do?”
“Run,” you replied.