Chapter 14
Chapter 14
At first, Jane thinks it’s an earthquake.
She’s been through enough of them to know she should not be sitting out in the open. Instinct guides her to scramble toward the dining room table closest to her—awkwardly, with her bound ankles and hands—but she makes it only a few inches before the deafening noise and shaking stop as quickly as they started.
And then: silence.
Jane glances at Sissy first—mother’s instinct—to make sure she’s OK, then at Dan, and then Brick, who has left his position in front of her and is now at the glass front door, peering out into the dark night. Then she glances around the room at the rest of the bewildered faces mirroring her own. She knows they’re all thinking the exact same question: What the hell was that?
But, as the shock wears off and Jane realizes everything and everyone in the restaurant is unharmed, she notices Brick’s calm demeanor—as if he’s not only unsurprised by the explosion, but expected it—and it dawns on Jane that she knows exactly what it was.
A bomb. A bomb in a van, to be precise, triggered by opening the van door.
She knows because it’s exactly what the terrorists in her book did—create a booby trap, in a van half a mile down the entrance road to the teahouse, to stall any police that might try to come to the rescue. And she knows without a shadow of a doubt, the same way she knows her own name or knows the exact way Dan sticks his tongue in his cheek when he’s concentrating, that these terrorists have done the same.
What she doesn’t know is why . She remembers reading somewhere a few years ago that humans think coincidences are really rare events, when actually they happen all the time. You meet someone and realize you share the same birthdate or that your parents were born in the same small town, or you always happen to glance at the clock at the exact same time every day, and you think: What are the odds?
What are the odds her daughter is at the same restaurant—taking it hostage, no less—the exact same night that she and Dan happen to be dining there? And what are the odds that the events throughout the night have been eerily similar to a book she wrote? And that it all feels a little more calculated than two people realizing they have the same birthday? She doesn’t think it’s a stretch to say, objectively, that added together it feels like much more than a coincidence. It all must be related somehow, but how?
And more important, if someone—if Brick —is following the plot of her book, then…this is bad. Oh, this is really, really bad.
She doesn’t know she’s said it out loud until she hears Dan saying, “It’s OK. We’re all OK.” And Jane doesn’t know if Dan’s trying to convince her or himself.
“No,” Jane whispers, crawling the few inches back to Dan. “No! It’s not OK. We’re not OK. We have to get out of here. We have to get her out of here.”
“I know. I know!” he says. “But look, we’re all OK.”
Before responding, Jane surreptitiously glances around so as not to attract Brick’s attention again, but in the aftermath, he seems to have forgotten about Jane and Dan altogether, confidently pacing like a military commander and shouting orders.
“Lyle—the roof. See what you can make out,” he says, and Lyle nods and heads out the front door.
“Tink, are you set up?”
“Almost.”
“How much time until Otto’s arrival?”
“Forty minutes, give or take.”
Brick nods, and Jane keeps her head straight forward, whispering out of the side of her mouth, “We’re not OK, Dan. Don’t you understand? I think that was a…a bomb.”
“A bomb?”
“Yes. An IED made from two propane tanks rigged to a Taser in the front seat of a van.”
“That’s…oddly specific.”
“I know. Because it’s exactly what happened in my book.”
Dan carefully keeps his face trained forward as well, but she can feel the concern waft off him and then senses it turning into full-blown irritation. “This again?”
“Yes, Dan! I think they’re…following it or something.”
“Really, Jane?” Dan hisses. “Were there two people in your book out for tea on their anniversary and then their daughter showed up with a gang of hoodlums, taking everyone hostage?”
“No, of course not, but—”
“And did a chef get shot and nearly die ?”
“Well, no,” Jane admits. Her brain is working overtime. “But that had to be a bomb, right? A booby trap to keep people away, just like in my book. And maybe…I don’t know, maybe Sissy gave them the book?” She’s mostly thinking out loud at this point, but even as she says it, she knows how unlikely that is. Sissy was twelve when Jane’s book was published, and she was utterly disinterested in reading (a heartbreak on its own to Jane, an avid reader)—and it’s even more unlikely Sissy’s picked it up since.
“For the love of God, Sissy’s never read your book,” Dan hisses, confirming Jane’s own thoughts. “ No one’s read your book, Jane! This can’t be like your book because no one has read it.”
Jane stares blankly at her husband. Dan isn’t an unkind man. He rarely even raises his voice. Like any married couple, they’ve had their arguments over the years, of course, and Dan has said some terribly mean things in the heat of the moment, but Jane thinks this might be the cruelest thing Dan’s ever said to her, even if it is true.
“What is going on with you?” he continues. “I know you’re in a…weird place, but is this some ego thing? It’s like you want this to be about your book because you need the validation or something.”
Welp, Jane stands corrected. This is the meanest thing Dan’s ever said to her.
“An ego thing?” she breathes, all at once furious with Dan while simultaneously wondering if he’s right. Is she seeing similarities because she wants to? And worse—is this what he thinks of her? That she’s fragile and selfish and egotistical? It’s an unflattering portrayal, to say the least. And it’s what she fears, deep down, is true. That she yearns for success with her novels because she needs the external validation. There’s nothing worse than the person you’ve been married to for half your life holding up a mirror to your worst characteristics and hating what you see.
And if that’s what Dan really thinks of her, no wonder he’s cheating.
Dan exhales a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice once again calm, soothing. “I’m worked up. It’s this whole…situation.”
Jane says nothing, because what is there to say?
Suddenly, Sissy stands up, grabbing both Jane and Dan’s attention, and takes a few steps to the center of the room. Her fists are clenched, her eyes are closed, her feet are rooted to the ground, and her body is vibrating, quivering. It’s a familiar stance to Jane, one she’s seen hundreds of times since Sissy was a toddler. Dan had even named it: the Teapot, as it’s similar to the bubbling and rattling and steaming of a kettle, right before it announces its boiling with its high-pitched scream.
“Oh no,” Dan says.
“Uh-oh,” Jane says.
“Brick!” the girl shrieks. The same shriek Jane heard just recently—hours before, actually, in relation to Sissy’s losing her phone charger—and she gets a small jolt of delight that she is not, in fact, the only person in the world to be on the receiving end of Sissy’s anger. “What the hell was that? You said the bomb was fake. Just in case the police were called, so they’d have to call the bomb squad. You said no one was going to get hurt!”
“See?” Jane hisses. She feels a jolt of righteous energy at being proven correct. Again. “It was a bomb.”
Brick remains calm in the face of Sissy’s vitriol and puts a hand up. “Listen. I had to put it there as a precaution. And it’s a good thing I did, otherwise whoever detonated it would be up here by now.”
“And what if whoever detonated it is hurt? What if they died ?”
Jane has been watching their exchange like a spectator at a Ping-Pong match, as though waiting to hear something that is going to suddenly explain what her daughter is doing with these…these…gun-wielding maniacs.
Brick waves her off. “It’s mostly a flash-bang—more bark than bite. I’m sure whoever it is is fine.” Sissy glowers at him, but Brick just flashes her his overly straight-toothed and glowing smile. Then he winks. “Trust me,” he says in his muddled but charming brogue. And suddenly Jane understands. Oh, does she understand. Sissy’s in love with him. In lust , technically, but to an eighteen-year-old girl, the words are often one and the same. Jane knows because she used to be one.
“Well, shit,” she mutters. She can’t exactly blame Sissy. She wouldn’t be the first young woman in the history of the world to make terrible decisions based on brooding good looks and an accent.
“What?” Dan whispers.
Jane gives her head a small shake as she continues studying her daughter. Sissy doesn’t look mollified, exactly, with her hands still on her hips, her brow still low and furrowed over her fiery eyes, but she sets her mouth in a straight line, apparently done pressing him for now.
Lyle comes bursting back into the room, clearly winded, like he ran all the way down from the roof. He stands with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
“Well?” Brick says.
“There’s a fire. From the explosion,” Lyle says. “And flashing lights. Police lights.”
The police! Relief floods through Jane—someone managed to call the police! She blinks. Wait—was it her? Did her text message somehow go through? She sits straight up as it hits her that the police coming would be the worst possible outcome for Sissy. And it could be all her fault.
No, wait! It had to be Javier, right? She glances in his direction, but he stares straight forward, not looking at anyone.
“The police,” Brick repeats, frowning. “The van just detonated. How did they get here so fast? Unless—”
“The police!” Sissy shrieks, cutting Brick off. “We were supposed to be in and out in fifteen minutes and now the police are here?”
“They’re not here ,” Brick says. “They’re halfway down the hill. And they won’t be coming up anytime soon, as protocol will dictate they bring in the bomb squad to sweep for more IEDs before proceeding. And the nearest bomb squad is at least ninety minutes away in Santa Barbara.” His brow furrows, and Jane can see the wheels in his head turning. “But it is very interesting they’ve turned up so soon. It means someone has called them.” He jerks his head toward Jane.
“Me?” Jane says, startling at the sudden attention. Though she has to admit, any other person would likely come to the same conclusion. She had a phone. The police were called.
Brick levels the barrel of his gun even with her face, and Jane wilts. “The truth!” he demands.
Her vision narrows to only the black hole from which a bullet could exit at any second, and she suddenly understands the difference between general fear and acute. She swallows. “I didn’t have service.” Then she adds: “I would have! I wanted to.” She stops short of admitting to the text message, but she hopes the half-truth is enough to make Brick believe her. Anything to remove the gun from her direction. The barrel’s gaze bores into her.
“Do you think it could have been Otto?” Tink says.
Brick shakes his head, still eyeing Jane. “No. I doubt he suspects anything. Besides, if he did, he would have called his private security, not the police.”
“You can check my recent calls!” Jane says, taking care not to say texts and hoping he doesn’t call her bluff and check it all. “It wasn’t me.”
“You could have deleted them.”
“I don’t know how to do that!” Jane retorts. This, at least, is 100 percent true.
Brick stares at her a beat more, then—finally—lowers the gun. “Search them all again,” he barks. No one moves.
“Who?” Caden asks in a small voice.
“I don’t care! One of you.”
Caden jumps to action, approaching Vaughn and Paisley first.
“Do not touch my daughter,” Vaughn says. And though she isn’t the one with the guns and the power, Caden freezes. Vaughn looks across the room at Tink. “ You may search her.”
Brick rolls his eyes in an exaggerated display of irritation. “Goldie, you search the women; Caden, the men.”
To Jane’s surprise, it’s Sissy who nods.
“ Goldie? ” she whispers to Dan as Sissy walks over to Paisley.
“Apparently that’s her nickname,” he replies.
“She doesn’t even have blond hair!”
“My thoughts exactly!”
Jane watches her daughter stand the women up against the window one at a time and pat them down—and her heart flutters as she realizes Sissy will likely come to search her as well. She mentally prepares for what she’ll say when Sissy is in front of her. Time will be limited, and she’ll need to focus on the most pressing questions—but which are those? There’s so much she wants to know: Why? When? How? But those aren’t nearly as important as getting her daughter out of this situation she’s in altogether. Out of harm’s way.
Finally, Caden comes over and helps Dan to his feet. And Sissy is ten steps behind him.
Given the circumstances, Jane can’t help the morbid thought that creeps in—what if this is the last time Jane gets to speak to her daughter? There are so many things she wants to say:
You are my literal heart walking around outside my body.
Please be careful.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
What she actually says—or hisses, more accurately—when Sissy crouches down in front of her: “A gun , Sissy? Seriously?”
Sissy’s eyes flash with defiance—which Jane recognizes as the default reaction to any words that come out of her mouth lately—but behind it she sees something else: Fear? Regret? Or maybe Jane just hopes that’s what she sees.
Truth be told, Jane’s had trouble deciphering Sissy’s expressions for months now. It’s something Jane has worried about relentlessly, or maybe grieved is the more accurate term—the happy-go-lucky child Sissy once was, who wore all her emotions so plainly on her face. Fell and bumped her knee? Pure agony and tears. A spontaneous stop at a drive-thru for a milkshake? Oh, the joy! But lately Sissy’s face has been a crossword puzzle for Jane to solve, a hard one like the Sunday New York Times , with no answer key to flip to. And while Jane knew it was the natural order of things—teenagers needed to have their own private thoughts in order to cleave themselves from their parents, create their own separate identities and lives—now it’s clear she didn’t worry about it enough.
Instead of responding, Sissy stands and takes a step backward.
“Wait,” Jane says, trying and failing to keep the desperation out of her voice. “You didn’t search me. She didn’t search me!” she says, realizing at once the absurdity of telling on her own daughter to the apparent head of the terrorist organization she’s a part of.
Dry amusement crosses Brick’s face as he flicks his eyes toward Jane. “Are you hiding another phone?” he asks.
“No,” Jane says.
Sissy smirks and pops an eyebrow, and Jane is once again amazed at Sissy’s innate skill for making her feel like she has done something wrong, when Sissy is holding a gun. And to make matters worse, Jane has done something wrong! She had one chance to talk to Sissy and she said the wrong thing. Jane can’t remember the last time it felt like she’d said the right thing to her daughter. “Mine are all clear,” Sissy says to Brick.
“Same,” Caden says, after finishing with Dan and telling him to sit back down.
Brick stares at them both. “You sure?”
Caden nods. “No phones.”
“Then who called the police?”
Caden shrugs, and Brick growls. “OK, well, we need to finish setting up. He’ll be here soon. We have to get everyone back to their tables.”
“What?” The skinny man with glasses who was in the kitchen with Dan steps forward. “Why? That’s not part of the plan.”
“Plans change,” Brick says. “Otto’s coming by helicopter. Presumably he’ll be able to see directly into the restaurant through this giant picture window here—and if he sees a line of handcuffed people sitting against it, he may become suspicious.”
“Oh, good point.”
Brick gives a sharp nod, as if to say: Thought you’d see it my way.
“Isaac, Goldie, make sure all forks and knives are off the tables. Jeremy, Lyle, we’re going to keep people’s ankles tied, hands free. Anyone tries anything, they get dealt with. Let’s move.”
Jane stares at Sissy as she begins gathering all the forks and knives off the tables, and as the countless questions rattle through her mind again—Why? When? How?—a new one takes center stage: Who? And Jane thinks it’s astonishing that though she’s been with Sissy for every single day of her entire eighteen years on earth, it’s quite possible Jane has absolutely no idea who her daughter is.