Chapter Twenty-Six #3
The next morning, Julian leaves the hotel room early. I hear him get up, rummage around, and shock myself by drifting back to sleep before he returns. When he does, it’s with a duffel bag full of clothing and toiletries for me.
“I found the body butter you like,” he says soberly. “And I’m not sure what you use for your hair these days, but YouTube told me that this brand would probably work for your texture.”
He’s also managed to pick out comfortable clothing, sneakers in my correct size, and a coat that is both functional and nips at the waist. It’s striking how he seems no different from the man I thought I knew: still so attentive, so considerate, if a little more murderous than previously thought.
And still so irritatingly delightful to look at.
I’m starting to understand why characters in postapocalyptic TV shows are constantly sleeping together in dire situations; knowing the truth about Julian doesn’t stop my urge to trace a finger down the tense muscle in his neck.
We eat breakfast in the room because Julian’s too worried about being recognized outside it, a mélange of fruit, yogurt, and plasticky croissants from the hotel lobby’s free continental offerings.
“So what’s your plan for today?” I ask. The since I know I have no say in it is silent, but Julian is smart enough to pick it up.
“We have a long trip ahead still,” he says after a large swig of his burnt coffee. “I have a lot of safe houses scattered around the States. A few that Leila won’t know about. We’re heading to one of them.”
“And then what?” I ask. “I live out the rest of my life in the middle of nowhere? Take up homesteading?”
Julian’s expression darkens. He doesn’t know what comes next, and my pointing it out clearly frustrates him.
“And then we figure it out,” he says. “I try to talk Leila down—”
I let out a bark of laughter. I see Harold’s face again, his wide-eyed terror. He’d gone to the gallery to see his favorite artist and paid for that indulgence with his life. The staccato of my heartbeat reminds me of gunshots.
“Onix is in daycare for two more days,” I tell him.
“When the staff realizes they can’t get hold of me for pickup, they’re going to call Winona.
She’s going to call my job, realize that I didn’t show there either, and then she’s going to figure out that I’m missing.
” I pretend to examine my nails, French-tipped press-ons that I’m surprised survived last night’s ordeal.
“All I’m saying is that it won’t just be Leila who’s out there searching for me. ”
By the look on Julian’s face, he hasn’t yet considered that my absence will be noted.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” he says.
“We get there in under forty-eight hours,” I remind him.
Julian scowls, then snatches the remote from the desk and turns on the television.
He flips through channels—Hallmark, Cartoon Network—before settling on the weather.
A man in glasses announces that it’s going to be a balmy twelve degrees out today and advises us to bundle up.
Then a bar falls across the screen: Breaking News.
“A mass shooting occurred last night in Chicago’s Riverside suburb at Ulrich Art Corridor, resulting in the deaths of twelve people,” the severe-looking newscaster says.
The scene shifts to fluttering police tape and flashing lights outside the venue, then a presentation showcasing some of Rose’s works that were displayed.
“Elusive visual and performance artist Rose Callahan’s tour for her new exhibition, Transmogrification, ends in a bloody scene.
The shooter was found to be Peter Clements, a Riverside native and mechanic who has been described by family members as having become increasingly obsessed with an unknown woman over the last several months. ”
A white man flashes on the screen. He isn’t the one who attacked Rose, but his features—brown hair, ice-blue eyes, a plain, oval face—are equally unremarkable, and I can understand how the people who escaped the gallery could have mistaken him for Rose’s attacker.
The anchor confirms my suspicion seconds after it occurs to me: “Several attendees who escaped stated that Clements attacked the artist with a knife before opening fire on the remaining guests and ultimately taking his own life.”
They interview a detective. They believe Clements had an accomplice, someone who whisked an injured Rose, who has still not been found, off the scene and locked the doors behind him, trapping potential witnesses inside.
“We believe this attack was premeditated,” the detective declares, “and that the unknown accomplice is likely at large.”
They start the typical mass shooting talking points: thoughts and prayers, a press conference called by the mayor decrying this “enormous tragedy,” arguments about gun control and the availability of semi-automatic weapons, interviews with sobbing family members.
A pretty brunette, probably about my age, appears on-screen, tears streaming down her face as she tells the interviewer that her dad had been excited about the show.
“It was his retirement gift to himself,” she says.
Her name flashes on the screen, Ryan Fischer, and my vision blurs until I see Harold’s face—his genial smile as he greeted me in the gallery, followed by the gasping horror of his final moments.
I hear the gunshots again. They come fast, nary a thought of mercy between them.
Indiscriminate. I never really knew Harold, but I can imagine him as a good man who was beloved by his family.
And now he’s gone, all because he had seen their secret.
Julian cuts off the segment and stands.
“We’ve stayed here long enough,” he says. “We should get going.”
“What’s the point?” I whisper. I’m as good as dead as it is. My best-case scenario is a life on the run from a forever-young pursuer, one in which I grow old far from the people I love, the career that inspires and energizes me.
Julian doesn’t say anything. I can feel him standing, looming over me, searching for something to say.
“We have to get to our next destination before two,” he finally manages. His voice is low, mollifying, like he’s afraid that I’ll startle at its sound. “Someone will be meeting us there.”
I look up to see Julian looking down at me, sorrowful. His hand twitches toward me, then falls back to his side. I’m glad he doesn’t try to comfort me. I’m not sure I could withstand it without screaming.