Chapter 17
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Daylight crept beneath the curtains, illuminating a single square of carpet.
The phone rang. Jack grappled for the receiver, lifted it groggily to his ear.
“Wake up, motherfucker!”
Jack glared at the clock. 7:03 a.m.
Fuck.
The police refused to investigate. Jack chewed on his nails, wondering if he should mention that he’d actually confirmed there was a body.
Probably not unless he wanted to spend all day explaining to a suddenly attentive police force why he felt compelled to dig up a grave, which he certainly didn’t.
When he hung up, hopelessness dug at his insides, threatened to tear him apart.
Jack took a long shower, then made his way down to the lobby, where Boris was once again hunched over his magazine.
There was no real acknowledgment in his face, no flicker of memory when Jack approached. He remained as bored as ever.
“Hey,” said Jack, careful to speak gently, just in case something had changed overnight.
In case somehow, some way, Boris remembered.
The possibility chewed at the dregs of Jack’s heart.
Sometimes he couldn’t help but let himself think, at least for a moment, how nice it might be if someone else understood (even if he’d never wish this absolute hell on anyone). “How are you?”
“Fine,” said Boris, eyeing Jack suspiciously.
“That’s good,” said Jack cautiously. “Doing alright after last night?”
Boris’s eyes narrowed. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t remember?”
“No,” snapped Boris, scowling. “What the fuck am I supposed to remember?”
“Well, uh, you were out in the woods.”
A snort. An eye roll. “Yeah, fuck no. I wasn’t in any damn woods. I was right fucking here, like I always am.”
“I’m pretty sure you were in the woods,” said Jack, a little frantic even though he’d known better than to expect anything. “I saw you.”
“Don’t know what the fuck you were doing in the woods, but I wasn’t there,” Boris snapped. “Leave me the fuck alone.”
“Yeah, OK,” said Jack, holding up his hands, taking a step back. “Uh, just—Can you remind me of the date?”
Boris groaned, tipped back in the chair, and turned to the guest ledger. After a long pause, he said, “It’s the seventeenth. Need anything else?”
“Uh, no,” said Jack. “Thanks for your time.”
“Yeah, sure,” said Boris. “Go be creepy somewhere else.”
“Yeah, that was my plan for the day, actually,” said Jack, slapping a hand on the counter. “See ya later."
“Later,” Boris grumbled, gaze already downturned.
Jack stepped onto the street, heavy-hearted and lonelier than ever.
He milled aimlessly across town, staring up into the sky, wondering if aliens really could be responsible for everything wrong in his life.
It was a mistake to spend time with anyone, let alone Boris, who he saw every single day and felt he had something of a rapport with.
Of course, Boris wouldn’t remember anything.
And while Jack had hoped that might be the case last night while Boris was vomiting and panicking, he would now give anything for the opposite to be true.
Last night, they were friendly. Teammates against Jack’s curse and Boris’s nightmares.
Last night felt like a breakthrough. (The mere memory of Boris’s proposition had his hands tingling, his heart racing.)
And now Boris had no memory of anything, and Jack was alone in this stupid, eerie town, blanching at the prices of specialty candles and thinking longingly of home.
By mid-afternoon, he was exhausted. The sun beat down heavily and he’d sweat through his suit. Not that it much mattered. Tomorrow morning, it would be immaculate, as if fresh from the dry cleaner.
Maybe he could work on Boris. Maybe Boris would remember if Jack just told him what had happened. But it would be cruel to remind him of the corpse, to force him to relive that trauma (if it were indeed possible).
When he returned to the hotel, Boris was on the phone, grumbling into the receiver. Reluctant to make eye contact after this morning’s disastrous conversation, Jack breezed past the counter, only stopping when Boris said, “Hey, three-oh-nine, you got a phone call.”
“I do?” said Jack. A little thrill ran through him, followed by a flash of disappointment. It was probably just Dan, eager to yell at him some more. “Who is it?”
“Dunno,” said Boris. “Some lady. You got thirty seconds, and then I’m transferring her to the room. You wanna know, you’ll be there.”
Jack bolted up the stairs and down the hall. He fumbled with his room key just as the phone began to ring.
Leaving the door wide open, Jack raced to the bedside table, snatching the receiver from its cradle with such force that it nearly flew from his hand. “Hello?” he said, heart in his throat.
“Good, you’ve answered,” said a voice. Smooth. Feminine. Disinterested.
“I have,” said Jack. “Have you been trying to get ahold of me?”
A laugh, short and clipped. “Come to the house on the cliff. 1380 Castle Drive. Come after three p.m. I’ll be waiting.”
A click. Dial tone. Jack stared at the receiver.
1380 Castle Drive. The house on the cliff.
What a fitting name. He’d seen it before, once or twice.
A literal fucking castle on the edge of a cliff, turrets and towers climbing toward the sky.
Massive windows overlooked the grey beach.
Pale stone glittered in the sun, nearly blinding from across the bay.
A string of lights lit the veranda in a glow that could only be described as romantic, mysterious, indulgent.
It hadn’t even occurred to him to wonder who lived there, who owned it. Anyone residing there lived a life far divorced from his own.
This had to be some kind of trap. Even thinking about going there felt illegal. More than that, it felt impossible that he, a meager secretary, the son of blue-collar workers, could ever set foot there. This was preposterous. Ridiculous.
There was no way. This couldn’t be a serious request.
It ate at Jack’s bones like a revelation.
All afternoon, he thought about the house, the voice on the phone. Should he go?
What was the worst that could happen? Even if he was robbed or attacked, he’d only suffer for a day before waking up in the hotel room again.
On the other hand, he was generally averse to suffering of any kind and felt he’d already endured quite enough.
No, he should just ask Boris what he knew about the place.
Then, depending on the answer, he could scope out the castle from afar.
Jack was no private investigator and probably wouldn’t glean any useful information from a stakeout, but the semblance of a plan made him a little less vulnerable, a little braver.
Even so, trepidation gnawed at his gut.
“Hey,” he asked Boris. “Know anything about the castle on the cliff?”
Boris shot to attention so quickly that Jack took a step back. “Yeah. Don’t go there.”
“Thanks, but what if I’ve been invited?”
“Don’t. Go,” said Boris, emphasis on each word.
“Why. Not?” said Jack, mirroring him.
Boris groaned and threw his arms wide. “Because that’s the mob house, idiot.”
A chill shot from Jack’s spine to the tips of his fingers. The temperature in the room became subarctic. “The mob?”
“Yeah, the mob. Listen,” said Boris, lowering his voice. “They don’t live here, but they own some restaurants and stuff around town. Keep your head down, don’t do anything stupid and you’ll be fine. Don’t go to that fucking place.”
“I don’t think I have a choice,” said Jack, trying and failing to fight down panic.
“Yeah, no. There’s always a choice. You can tell them to fuck off.” Boris crossed his arms and glared. “Unless you owe them.”
“Great advice,” said Jack dryly. “And of course, I don’t.”
“I’m just telling the truth, buddy.”
“Thanks for your help,” said Jack, turning to leave.
“Be fucking careful!” Boris bellowed after him. His voice echoed through the lobby, so loud that a couple passing on the sidewalk outside paused to stare at them through the dirty window.
Jack gave them an awkward little wave. Boris buried his face in his hands.