8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Ace
Maison is avoiding Dr. Deacon, every day looking worse off instead of better.
Carter is declining too, just emotionally instead of physically.
This lead on Mica might end up falling through, leaving Keaton in an even worse headspace than before.
Kellan is impatient and angry. Casey asks to use my computer so he can look up the after-effects of sepsis, a diagnosis he received after Jake all but fell on his knees and begged him to go see the doctor.
I catch Matt sneaking away from yet another meal, his plate untouched.
Nolan is latching onto Maison in a way that makes me a little nervous - for the both of them, really.
Bryce doesn’t stay in his room for longer than an hour at a time, so even if he’s sleeping with his light on, he’s not sleeping nearly enough.
Maybe I can’t be one to judge that, but he doesn’t have what I have - the fact that he’s still standing is a medical mystery that makes me think one of these days he might just give out.
I’m keeping it together.
I’m fucking trying to at least.
It’s just… things are crumbling. Turning to dust, more accurately. A fine substance that’s impossible to keep in my hands, filtering through the cracks of my fingers, catching on air every time I exhale.
It feels like any minute now, I’ll be dust too.
Then Matt comes in, with his big brown eyes and his fear, and he fucking trusts me.
He locks himself in with me.
Sure, he doesn’t communicate, doesn’t really respond to the words I fill the air with, but he stays. He listens. He looks where I point. He nods.
I have a million questions - about his fear, about Jake, about him leaving yet another meal without eating, about what really happened the night he spoke for the last time, about what he needs from us to get better - but none of it is my business.
Even if it was, I bet nearly all of those questions are ones he has for himself anyway.
Just because he’s the main character in his life doesn’t mean he understands any of it.
Hell, I’ve been the main character in my own story for decades and I feel like I’m still stumbling around life like a fucking baby deer.
I’m not disapointed when he leaves. I hope he gets some rest, and I hope he comes back if he ever needs to, but I'm not disappointed. I’m just glad to have given him a moment to breathe.
A safe place to hide, even if only for a few minutes.
I know what that’s like, to need a moment to catch your breath before having to face the world again.
I hope he’s breathing a little easier.
I already am. A few pounds of the crushing weight on my shoulders has been lifted. The crumbling has stopped. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who needed that moment. I’m glad we could share it.
The feeling lasts long enough for me to send a check-in message to Keaton and update the search parameters on the databases I’m using to find Elliot’s identity.
Then I notice movement on the camera feed displayed in the right bottom corner of my main screen. The one that’s most important to me. The one that shows the area outside of my door.
Just a few minutes ago, I caught a flash of movement and had Matt rushing in before I could even process the new development.
This time, the flash of movement has come to a halt and remains that way. Unmoving. Staring straight ahead.
Bryce Jacobson is standing at my office door.
I stare at the monitor, an ache starting to build behind my right eye. His shoulders are pulled back, his chin held high, chest puffed out - the picture of confidence and authority. His hands at his sides give him away, though. They’re trembling. It’s barely noticeable, but I see it.
He squeezes his eyes shut, his hands curling tightly into fists. I watch as he sucks in a breath big enough to have his chest heaving. He takes another. And one more.
Then he opens his eyes, lifts his hand, and knocks.
I enter the three-key sequence that sends all of my monitors dark and slowly stand from my chair, not wanting to move too quickly and give away that I was waiting.
He’s glaring by the time I open the door, any nervousness carefully hidden away.
It’s an impressive glare. Between the hateful fury in his eyes and his crossed arms hiding any trembling in his hands, he’s nearly intimidating.
Even the cuts and bruises on his face just add to the aesthetic.
If he was approaching someone else, they’d likely buy it, but I see right past the mask.
Interestingly enough, it’s too similar to the one Keaton likes to wear for me not to.
Maybe that’s why Keaton found himself attached to this one.
“Hey. Bryce, right? Do you need-”
“What were you doing with him?” he practically growls, cutting me off. If he was a cat, his hackles would be raised. Hell, my hackles might be raised at that tone. “Don’t deny it, either! I saw him coming out of here. What did you do?”
I put my hands up, already surrendering. “Nothing. We talked. I mean, I talked. He listened. That’s it. Nothing else.”
“Is he leaving here?”
“Not that I know of, no. If he is, that’s not what he was here for.”
His eyes narrow. “Then what did the two of you talk about?”
“That’s private,” I say carefully, fully aware this man has a stolen knife somewhere and definitely isn’t afraid to use it. “But I didn’t hurt him or anything, okay? He came in here all on his own. He stayed and left the same way.”
“No, he didn’t!” He steps toward me. I force myself to keep my feet planted. “Matt would never just - he doesn’t come by for fucking visits. What did you do to him? What did you say?”
“You’ll have to ask him that. It’s not my-”
He launches himself at me, managing a good hit to my jaw before I’ve got him held back with an arm pressed out against his chest. He can’t raise his fist this way, not his dominant one at least, but he can still swing it at my torso. I take each hit, trying to absorb some of his pain.
“He can’t answer!” he growls as he hammers at my side. “You bastard! You know he can’t tell me! You think just because - because he can’t talk, you’ll get away with this? You’ll get away with fucking with him? Huh? Becaue you fucking won’t!”
“Bryce-”
He steps away from me, my arm falling away as he moves back into the hall. The space between us is filled with his hurricane of emotions, just waiting to make landfall.
I try to stop it. He needs to calm the fuck down before the others hear. The last thing we need is a panic spreading through the house. Panic is the last thing any of them need to be dealing with, regardless.
I put my hands up again. “I didn’t do anything but talk, I swear. Okay? I didn’t lay a hand on him. And even if I did, I think we both know he’s plenty capable of communicating. Being voiceless doesn’t make him broken. It just makes him different.”
He falters. Every passing second has the anger draining out of him. There’s a whole lot of sadness beneath it. Anguish, almost.
“What do I have to do?” he eventually asks, his voice surprisingly steady.
“What do you mean?”
His nostrils flare, but the anger doesn’t seem to want to return to him. His hands are starting to tremble again.
He is so much like Keaton, it hurts.
“I know this game, alright? And I know that you’re in charge.
I’ve been watching. Travis was all wrapped up in Carter when he was here, and now he’s out doing a mission, which the boss doesn’t do.
Maison is a fucking hot mess. He’s not leading anything but his own way to rock bottom.
Jake is busy, but the kind of busy that a little worker bee is.
He has tasks, not control. The men outside aren’t allowed to come in, even if they’re invited by us.
The doctors are both definitely doctors.
That leaves you.” He sneers with the last word.
“You sneak around all the time. You barely leave this room - and now I see all of those computers? What are you doing, getting messages from operatives? Watching the video cameras I know you’ve got set up around the house?
Deciding what to do with us now? Letting us just pretend we’re free? ”
I try not to flinch at the half-truths that lie among the other accusations. His eyes narrow, so I might not have pulled it off.
“Yeah,” he says, more like he’s just confirming with himself, not even talking to me. “Yeah, you’re in charge. So what do I have to do? Tell me. Come on. Let’s get the next part of the game started.”
“This isn’t a game, Bryce.” I try for a smile, but I can tell it’s weak. “This is real. Jake and Travis-”
“Sure, yeah, undercover. Whatever. I haven’t decided if I believe that shit yet.
Maison’s real - Carter said so, but he and Travis hate each other’s guts, so maybe you have something on him?
Something on Carter? Maybe he’s playing the game and pretending because you said he could have Carter?
Was that the deal? It doesn’t matter. I’m not talking about them right now.
I’m talking about you.” He jabs a finger at me.
“You’re something else. You’re in charge.
What do I have to do to get them out of this? For you to let them go?”
“The others have left-”
“Or you killed them. You won’t show us any proof that they’re still alive.
Wouldn’t tell us their new identities or where they were going.
Told them they can’t contact us - not that you’ve given us phones to communicate even if we wanted to.
Did you sell them, or kill them? Was them wanting to leave the way to lose the game?
” He steps forward, tilting his chin. “How do I win it, then? What do you want?”
Fuck.
“Bryce-”
“I’ll do whatever you want,” he says, cutting me off.
His voice is as sharp as his unbelievable jaw and cheekbones, as icy as his glare, but there’s a wobble in his bottom lip.
He knows himself well. He’s got his teeth clamped down on it just a second after I’ve noticed.
If I had blinked differently, I’d have missed it.