Chapter Fifteen #3
His face is mostly shadow in the fading light, but I can still make out the angle of it, the alertness in his posture.
For a moment neither of us speaks.
The waves fold in and out beside us. Somewhere behind us, the house glows through the trees like a second horizon.
Then I say, “So this is where you disappeared to.”
His mouth shifts, barely. “I didn’t disappear.”
“You were gone all day.”
“I was around.”
“That’s a very vague answer.”
He looks back out at the water instead of at me. “I know you don’t like those answers.”
“I don’t think anyone likes those answers, not exclusively psychologists.”
That almost earns me something that might be amusement.
I stop beside him, leaving space between us. The sand is firmer here, damp and cool beneath my feet.
He stands with his hands in his pockets, looking out at the sea. I look out at the sea too.
For a minute, that’s all we do.
Then I say, “I saw a light farther out earlier. I think it was a boat.”
He doesn’t react much, but not reacting is its own reaction with him.
“Patrol stopped in to check on something for me,” he says.
“Ah,” I say.”
I turn my head slightly, studying his profile.
He feels it. I know he does. But he doesn’t look at me.
“What about supplies?” I ask”
“What about them?”
“I noticed that there isn’t enough food for three months and anything fresh would spoil anyway. So I assume there’s a supply run.”
“Yes” is all he says.
“That’s another vague answer.”
“Yes.”
I let out a breath through my nose. “You really commit to the bit.”
That gets a glance from him finally.
“The bit where I don’t give you information on the comings and goings of this island, should you feel like you might attempt an escape?”
I scoff, even though that’s exactly what I was thinking.
“No. I just had a fabulous grilled cheese and tomato soup, and if you’re going to make disappearing for multiple meals in a row a regular thing, I’m going to need more of it.”
His mouth shifts again, a little more this time. “So this is about menu planning.”
“Exclusively,” I say.
That earns a low breath that sounds a lot like a laugh.
“I’ll make sure to add them to the list and keep that in mind,” he says.
“Please do. I’d hate to be blindsided by an empty refrigerator.”
He looks back out at the water. “There won’t be an empty refrigerator.”
“Well, good.”
“Teresa,” he says. “The comings and goings of this island are random. There is no rhyme or reason, intentionally. Where the patrol boats dock is a small floating structure a few klicks away. And the only way to get to the mainland from there is by helicopter. The helicopter only comes when I call, and I can’t be compelled. ”
He turns to face me fully.
“You are here for the duration of the three months.” His voice is direct and firm.
“After which time, you will be taken back home safely. In case it isn’t obvious yet, I have no intention of hurting you unless you do something to jeopardize me or my family.”
His words send a chill down my spine, but I do believe that he has no intention of hurting me.
It’s not me being na?ve or stupid or believing that he’s not capable of it.
But working with violent offenders as long as I have, I’ve got a pretty good sense of the ones who are needlessly violent, the ones who enjoy violence, and, though his reputation may say otherwise, Vito isn’t one of those people.
“You are a smart woman—brilliant, in fact,” he continues, “and so I assume you’ve gathered on your own that nothing said on this island is to be repeated once we’re off of it.
Chances are, these circumstances”—he gestures to the island as a whole, then to the luxurious clothes I’m wearing—“would make them doubt your story and render you unreliable to the authorities, even if you tried. So don’t. ”
I hold his gaze, even as that chill lingers.
“That wasn’t exactly a comforting speech.”
“It wasn’t meant to be comforting.”
“You succeeded,” I say.
For a beat, neither of us moves. The waves fold in and out beside us, soft and indifferent.
Then I say, “So that’s it? I’m supposed to just take your word that in three months, you’ll send me home after telling me your deepest darkest secrets, and this all… ends?”
“Yes.”
The certainty in it should make me feel better.
It doesn’t.
I fold my arms loosely over myself and look back out at the blackening water. “You keep talking like three months is a fixed point. A deadline. Like something happens then.”
He says nothing.
And in the silence, I feel my pulse pick up just a little.
“There is something,” I say.
His voice, when it comes, is flat. “You’re pushing again.”
“Yes,” I say. “Funny how that keeps happening.”
That almost earns me another flicker of amusement, but it dies before it fully forms.
Instead, he says, “Go back to the house, Teresa.”
I turn my head and look at him fully now. “That sounded suspiciously like an order.”
“It was.”
“And if I don’t feel like taking one?”
His eyes hold mine in the dark. “Then stand here and be stubborn. But you’re not getting anything else out of me tonight.”
That, at least, I believe.
I turn to start my way back across the island.
Surprisingly, he falls into step beside me.
The sand is cool now, packed firmer near the waterline, and the waves keep folding in beside us with that steady hush that has already become too familiar.
The air is warm but the heat gone with the sun. Ahead, the house glows through the palms, all warm light peeking through the shadowed leaves.
Vito walks beside me with his hands in his pockets.
He is close enough that I can feel him without actually touching him, and that should not be as distracting as it is. The evening has loosened something in both of us, or maybe the session did. Or maybe it was already there and I’m just finally too tired to pretend otherwise.
Either way, the silence between us isn’t empty.
It feels loaded.
I glance at him once from the corner of my eye.
His face is mostly shadow in the dim light, but I can still make out the hard line of his jaw, the set of his mouth, the controlled stillness he carries even when he’s saying nothing.
I hear myself say, “You know, for someone who keeps insisting impulsiveness is your problem, I’ve yet to actually witness it.”
He doesn’t look at me.
“That sounds like a setup.”
“It’s a question.”
“No,” he says. “It’s bait.”
I smile faintly despite myself. “You’re learning.”
“I’m learning that you like to poke at things.”
“That is more or less my profession.”
He lets out a low breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Closer to irritation.
The breeze lifts my hair off one shoulder, then lets it fall again.
I keep walking.
“So,” I say, “can you give me an example?”
That gets his attention.
He turns his head just enough to look at me. “An example of what?”
“Your impulsiveness. Outside the warehouse.” I lift one shoulder lightly. “Just a regular, everyday impulse you’re prone to.”
His expression hardens a fraction.
And there it is.
Not anger. But irritation, definitely.
“Drop it,” he says, and I can hear the edge in his voice.
I don’t.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be.”
We keep walking. The dark outline of the cabanas is closer now, low and elegant against the palms, the gauzy curtains stirring faintly in the breeze.
I say, “That’s the problem with labels, though, isn’t it? If you can’t identify what they actually look like in practice, they stop being useful.”
He says nothing.
I go on anyway, because I know I should stop and I don’t want to.
“Warehouse aside, I haven’t seen you fly off the handle. I haven’t seen you do anything rash. I haven’t even seen you interrupt me, and that probably deserves some kind of award.” I glance at him again. “So, what does impulsive look like in your day-to-day life?”
“Teresa.”
Just my name.
A flat warning.
I should leave it there.
I don’t.
“Seriously,” I say. “What is it? You buy things you don’t need? You get in your car and drive too fast? You decide at midnight that now is the perfect time to knock down a wall—”
“Drop it.”
That one is sharper.
I look at him fully now.
His gaze is still forward, but his whole body feels tighter. The line of his shoulders. His mouth. Even the rhythm of his stride has changed slightly.
I should absolutely stop.
Instead I say, quieter now, “I can’t help if I don’t know what I’m dealing with.”
He turns his head and looks at me then.
Even in the dark, his gaze lands on me like a hand closing around the back of my neck.
“We are done for today.”
That was definitely a tone that left no room for argument.
And yet…
The pulse in my throat jumps.
I know I am pushing.
I know exactly what I am doing.
Maybe it’s a little dangerous of me to push him into it, but despite his urgency and impossible timeline, he’s just not willing to open up. And if he won’t do it on his own, I have no choice.
I will admit that part of it is curiosity.
Another part of it is because the tension between us has shifted into something that’s making it a little harder to breathe.
The air of danger that’s snapping around him now is doing things to me, sending little sparks along my sensitive skin, making me want to dive headfirst into the water for relief.
I look away first, out toward the black-blue water, and force my voice to stay light and easy.
“Then I guess I’ll have to keep waiting.”
“For what?”
“To see it.”
He makes a sound under his breath.
We’re closer to the cabanas now. One sits just ahead of us, open to the beach, the curtains moving faintly. The path narrows a little between the sand and the low plantings.
I should stop talking.
Instead I say, “Or maybe you don’t actually want my help.”
That gets him.
He stops walking so abruptly that I take another step before realizing he’s no longer beside me. I stop too and turn back toward him.
From our spot behind the cabana, the lights surrounding the front and inside catch only part of his face, throwing the rest into shadow. But I can still see the look in his eyes.
Hot.
Direct.
Done with me.
I should be intimidated.
Instead, something hot and achy twists tight inside me.
He takes one step toward me.
Then another.
I hold my ground, but barely.
“You think I brought you here for what? Because I’m a masochist?” he asks.
His voice is lower now.
Closer.
I swallow once and hate that he probably notices that too.
I say, “Maybe you did want my help originally. And then you realized it was going to be too hard.”
I know for a fact that statement was pushing it too far, but I did it anyway.
Because, apparently, I’m the masochist.
His gaze drops to my mouth for the briefest second and comes back up.
My breath catches.
This is a terrible idea.
Whatever this is, wherever this is going, it is a terrible idea.
I know that.
And still, I don’t move.
Still, I don’t step back.
The breeze moves between us, warm salty.
He takes another step closer, and now there is almost no space left.
My skin feels too tight.
“Careful, Doctor,” he says, voice low.
The warning should cool me off.
It does the exact opposite.
And then I say the dumbest thing yet:
“Nah, you seem to be doing enough for both of us.”
Then I turn on my heel to continue walking to the house.
I don’t make it two steps.