Chapter Thirty-Two #3
I don’t think, just hug her close, force her head down so that her lips are obscured by my shoulder, mine by her hair.
“I’m so happy to see you,” I say out loud.
Winona stiffens, but to my relief, she doesn’t pull away.
“Should I be worried?” she whispers. When I don’t respond, “Sean?”
I’m torn. On one hand, if I tell her that she’s in danger, she’ll want to know more, and her survival is contingent on her ignorance. On the other, she and Sophie are the only people in this cabin who don’t understand that they’re in a death trap.
“Try to trust me. And act as normal as you can,” I say, knowing I have no right to ask this of her, knowing that I don’t have a plan beyond a rusty nail, hope beyond a distant knight in shining armor and the finnicky technology on my left thumb.
Then, because I don’t know how much time we have before Leila decides that I’ve compromised one of her hostages, I let her go and shove the door open. “It smells so good out here!”
It isn’t a lie. Robbie’s prowess in the kitchen is not feigned, but despite his efforts I can barely eat. Next to me, Winona tries her best to join in the conversation, but she’s clearly muted, only chiming in to respond to Sophie’s endless questions and tell her to close her mouth when she chews.
And then, across the table, our warden. Leila is quiet as she eats, observing us with rapt fascination and only tearing her eyes away to give Robbie suspiciously syrupy smiles that Winona catches with a scowl.
Robbie doles out a meal for me from a large pot onto my plate, then sits to eat himself, as if to reassure me that the food isn’t poisoned.
But I am conscious of every bite I take, of the rim of the glass that contains my water, of the hungry stare from across the table.
The knife in my hand is dull, unlikely to cut through skin.
The fork wouldn’t make it deep enough, even with force.
There’s a large kitchen knife sticking out of a dish rack on the counter, but that would almost be impossible to steal away—
“Do you not like the food?” Robbie asks. “I can whip up something else, if you wait a bit.”
He sounds genuinely concerned, and part of me wonders if this concern is a reflection of his true personality, the one Leila has flattened and remolded to turn him into her henchman. If my stomach wasn’t already churning, it is now.
I push my plate away.
“No, no, it’s delicious, thanks,” I say, fighting the irony of expressing gratitude to my soon-to-be murderer.
I stand, make my way to the sink. Fury flashes across Leila’s face; I know it would look too strange for her to try to stop me.
Robbie cleans up after himself; there are no small paring knives left behind, just a couple of plates and a small teaspoon that I hurriedly slip into my sleeve.
I’m placing my plate into the sink when suddenly there’s a crash behind me.
“Sophia,” Winona says sternly, then, “Sorry, Leila. We can go into town and get a new set for you before we leave.”
Sophie has broken a glass. The remnants have skittered across the floor, one jagged piece landing by my heel.
I can see the dull reflection of my face on its surface.
Robbie’s left the room to get a broom, but Leila is still here, and though she’s facing away from me, I can see the tension in her shoulders, I only have a split second, there isn’t enough time—
A chair creaks backward, small footfalls.
Rose throws herself into Leila’s arms.
“Don’t be mad at her, cousin,” Rose says, and I startle at how well she plays at being an actual child. I don’t have the luxury to ponder whether she’s bought me time on purpose, and so I duck down, grab the shard, tuck it into my other sleeve, and feign a yawn as I walk back to the table.
“You guys need help cleaning up?” I ask.
Leila whips to face me, her glower contrasting with Rose’s conviction.
“You had a long day today, Dr. Sullivan,” Rose says. “Don’t worry. We’ll handle it.”
It’s the smallest olive branch, offered to me from the precocious girl who carries an aura too ancient for her small shoulders, and I would be foolish not to take it. Before I can be called back, I trudge down the hall to my room, pacing my steps. Onix follows me.
As soon as the door is closed, I drop to my knees and empty my sleeves of their spoils.
The metal of the spoon is thick; I have neither the time nor the tools to sharpen it.
The glass—well. It’s wide, arced, and would be difficult to wield, but it’s certainly sharp enough to slice.
I try it in different holds, imagining myself driving it into Leila’s neck—
Someone knocks, and I jolt.
“Be up at six in the morning tomorrow.” Robbie’s gruff twang rings into my room. “Leila wants you to watch the sunrise with her.”
I hear his implication like a death knoll. Possibly the last one of your life.
There is a jangle of keys, then a click as my door is locked from the outside.
I spend the next hour under the bed, leveraging the spoon under the nail to try to drive it out. It budges less than half an inch, and my arms cramp. I give up and take a shower, use too much bodywash, run the hot water until my fingers prune. I weep, then wash away the tears.
The people I love try to visit.
“Auntie Sean?” Sophie says through the door. My doorknob jangles, then jams. To someone else, “It’s locked.”
“Let her sleep, Sophie,” Winona tells her, wearily. “Today was a hard day for her.”
“She just found out about Dad, right?” Sophie says quietly. “They used to be friends.”
“That’s right,” Winona says. “So give her a little time.”
I hold my breath until they walk away, then roll back onto the floor.
I wish I could reach Julian, but I find it impossible to surrender to sleep.
It’s like my body wants to savor every last second it has left.
I wonder how Winona and Sophie will react when they realize I’m gone, what Leila will give them as an excuse.
If Leila intends for them to live at all, or if I’m simply assuring myself that she will to hold on to my last shred of sanity.
Whether I should have told Winona to take her daughter and run earlier this evening, or if that would have put them even more at risk.
My mind skips back to my childhood: remembering my failed attempts at playing soccer, the day I got my college acceptance letter, the trip to our family vet to put down my childhood dog.
When it thinks of Julian, it remembers the way his lips curl with amusement when I’ve said something that’s gotten under his skin, or how his fingers tap when he’s listening to music or his large hands stretch as they course over keys, and instead of reaching him I gasp against the keening despondency in my chest.
I watch the second hand tick and run my hands over my dog’s silken fur and think, Well, it was a short ride, but not a bad one.
Based alone on the number of patients who have lain on my catheterization lab table, my net contribution to the world has likely been positive. I’ve taken care of others. I’ve furthered my knowledge. I’ve made art. I’ve protected the people who mattered the most to me. I’ve fallen in love.
I want more of this life. Deserve it. But what I have now will have to be enough.