I stand at the door of the cabin, my left index finger tracing the curve of the shining silver shackle to where it snakes through the rusting loop above the cabin door handle. I still hold the gun in my right hand. It dangles at my side, the weight a physical reminder of who I am and what I’ve done.
Lauren Branch exists on the other side of the door. I tuck the pistol into the waistband of my pants at the small of my back. Then I reach into my front pocket and pull out a set of keys. I stare at them for a second. If I close my eyes, I might still see shining silver, the thick brass disc engraved with a Ford Motor Company logo. Now the luster is gone, long covered with a layer of damp, clinging rust. The hair on my neck stands on end.
Staring at these keys, I imagine the part they will play in this. I’ve staked so much on what they are. On what they represent. Our lives hang in the balance and a simple lie will tip the scale.
Still mesmerized, I pull a plastic evidence bag out of my back pocket. I ordered it from some true crime fan site. I drop the keys in and run my fingers along the seal. With a final look, I slip the bag into my pocket before fishing out the second set, the one with a key for the padlock. I hesitate before unfastening it, partly because I am afraid of what I will see. Not that I think she has escaped. Or that something worse has happened. I’m not even worried that someone found her, rescued her while I was returning her car to the city. Instead, I am afraid to see myself again in the fear that will shine from her eyes.
When I get the lock undone, I pause only a second, taking a deep breath before swinging the door open. Lauren is there. Alive. Flesh and blood, not just dried bone. Her chest heaves and her eyes are open, watching me. In them, I see the fear I expected. But something else, too. Judgment? Confusion? Neither makes any sense. Without meaning to, I glance at the tarp. I wonder if she felt any curiosity. If she thought to drag herself to it. To peel up the plastic and see what it hides.
Turning away, I walk slowly to the far corner, where I left a six-pack of bottled water. Taking my time, I peel the plastic off and take one in my hand. I look at it, even picture giving it to her. Helping her drink it. But I pause.
I don’t like Lauren Branch. Not at all. I’ve watched her for a long time, even before I knew. Even before all of this started. She is a young person who feels entitled to more than she has earned. She uses words as if she thinks they are weapons. As if they are something more than paper-thin speed bumps. Worse, she uses her face, her body, her smell. I’ve seen her do it over and over again. Like those things represent some greatness. Some accomplishment. Not just random genetic gifts bestowed down a long line of past benefactors.
I don’t like her, but I don’t want to hurt her, either. Not really. I stand up and turn, looking at her again. I see those same traits, those factors that make her a human, a person. I can’t care about those, though. Instead, I need to see a bishop, a knight, or a pawn. I have to move her. Use her. It’s nothing more than that.
So I bring her the water.
“I can take that off. The tape on your mouth. If you promise to stay quiet.”
Her lids flutter. She looks back at me and I see more. Revulsion, maybe. Or frustration. I hesitate. But her chest is rising and falling so quickly now. And her face turns a dark red. I think she’s having trouble breathing, so I kneel down. Lauren flinches again but checks herself. I see the effort for her to remain still as I reach for the tape. I begin to pull it off as gently as I can.
“Just know,” I say. “If I hurt you, it’ll be your fault.”
The tape sticks to her lips. The skin around her mouth turns a burning red. Blood blossoms at the corner. I continue to pull and she yanks her head the opposite way. The tape tears away from her swollen mouth.
“What the fuck!” she screams at me.
I rear back. She is looking at me, but it is most definitely not fear. It is something that, oddly, reminds me of my brother.
“What is wrong with you?”
“I . . .”
Her head tilts like she is speaking to a young child. “You didn’t have to be so fucking rough, you know?”
Her response makes no sense.
“What are you talking about?” I say.
She frowns. “He didn’t tell you?”
It is all so surreal. I abducted this woman. Doesn’t she understand how much danger she’s in? Fighting or crying or cringing, I could understand all that. But this. She radiates an air of superiority.
“Who?” I ask.
Lauren Branch shakes her head. “God, Liam. Drew. I’m in on his plan, you moron.”