He frowns deeply. “Can I guess what’s—”
“This doesn’t concern you, brat.”
His eyebrows straighten out and his mouth drops. In fact, his entire face falls. I’m not usually so brusque with him.
Goddammit. This is the last thing I need right now. “Lev—”
But he’s already scampered off into the gaming room where he likes to hide out on those rare occasions when he can be coaxed out of the basement. Groaning inwardly at my own impatience, I drop the duffel bag and box off in my office and then go after him.
He’s ignored the leather sectional, the recliners, and the beanbags. Instead, he’s sitting cross-legged on the carpet with his controller in hand and his headphones shucked off to the side.
“Lev.” He flinches but he doesn’t look at me. “Can you put that away for a second, please?”
He does it reluctantly. His fingers rake through his hair again and again, a sure sign that I’ve agitated him.
“I’m sorry about being short with you. It’s been a long day and things have been stressful at work.”
He’s not one for maintaining eye contact in general, but when he’s upset about something, I’m hard-pressed to get him to so much as look anywhere in my general direction.
“I don’t want you to think I’m mad at you, okay? I’m not. I’m just tired.”
That gets a tiny reaction. His hand falls to his lap.
I pick up one of the free controllers. “Can I play with you?”
After a long, drawn-out pause, he nods. It’s just the smallest of inclines but from Lev, it means a lot.
We play for half an hour with not a word spoken between us. Lev’s eyes are glued to the screen as his fingers fly over the buttons with amazing speed. He beats me effortlessly, but that’s fine. He has his domain. I have mine.
“I want my basement,” he blurts when the game ends. “I don’t like the upstairs room.”
I glance at him, though he stays looking at the screen. “You’ll get it back soon. I just need a little more time.”
He doesn’t say anything but his hand runs through his hair again. It’s a stark reminder that the little siren in the basement can’t stay there forever.
For more reasons than one.
16
ALYSSA
I’ve gotten used to being alone.
It’s better that way. I’m most comfortable when I’m by myself.
At least, that’s what I used to think. Before I realized what being alone truly meant. As it turns out, I had no freaking clue.
Sure, I lived alone and traveled alone. But I was always surrounded by people, by noise, by new experiences or old friends. When I traveled, I got to see new cultures and try new foods and I’d fall into bed at night too tired to think about the things I didn’t have anymore. And when I was at home, my days were filled with visits to Mrs. Heidegger down the street, hangouts with Elle, that kind of thing.
Now that I don’t have my phone, I realize how much I relied on it to fill the dark in-between moments.
It’s been at least twenty-four hours, if not more, that I’ve been trapped in this basement with no company, no sunlight, and no hope of getting out anytime soon.
The walls are closing in.
I’ve combed through the entirety of the basement looking for something to distract me. There are plenty of video games but I’ve never really been much of a gamer. Elle’s future husband, on the other hand… The man’s obsessed. Elle likes to joke that she’s his second love. He would be thoroughly impressed by the collection on display—but me? Yeah, not so much.
But it’s the only option I have left, so when I come up empty on entertainment options, I turn to the TV.
That’s demoralizing on its own, because it takes me half an hour just to figure out how to turn it on. I swear, remotes like those are designed specifically to make a person feel stupid.
Some tech god takes pity on me and an accidental button press pulls up a nature documentary. That’ll suffice. I watch giraffes migrate across the savannas for three or four hours before my brain says enough and I fall into a restless sleep.
I wake up to darkness with my stomach rumbling. I find a bag of chips in the kitchen and feast, pretending I’m a sub-Saharan lion with a fresh kill. After a while, though, I get sick of that as well. The basement is so quiet that my own bodily functions are magnified and I’ve just discovered how much I hate the sound of my own chewing and breathing.
The walls are closing in.
I’m scared and agitated and tired and still hungry when I hear the bolt of the door unlock. I bounce upright, but the sudden motion makes my head spin. I’ve been staring up at the ceiling for so long that my vision is marred by black spots and gold stars. By the time my eyes adjust, his silhouette takes shape in front of me.
Here’s the thing about me: I’m not an angry person. I’m not a confrontational person. I pride myself on being able to handle most situations with calm and patience.
But after over twenty-four hours locked in a basement with no windows, no human contact, and no connection to the outside world, I don’t feel like myself at all. I feel feral.
I swing my legs off the island and jump to the floor. The only thing that keeps me vertical is the anger coursing through my body.
“You absolute piece of shit,” I snarl.
Uri arches an amused brow. “Good evening to you, too.”
He rounds the island and starts putting down the bags he brought with him. I can’t see any of my things, but I note fresh vegetables, some fruit, a package of chicken thighs.
“‘Good evening’?” I repeat. “‘Good evening’? That’s all you’ve got to say?”
He doesn’t even give me the dignity of standing still so that I can look him in the eye while I let him have it. He just moves around the kitchen, unloading the groceries, as though this situation right here is totally normal.
For all I know, it is totally normal for him. Maybe he gets off on abducting unsuspecting women and keeping them in his weird, childlike hideaway to do God-knows-what with.
“Why don’t you sit down?” Uri suggests coolly.
“Don’t tell me what to do! It’s been a whole freaking day and I haven’t seen daylight once.” I pause for a moment, waiting for him to interject. He doesn’t, which only pisses me off further. “I told you in the morning that I don’t do well in cages. I can’t breathe in here! I can’t move in here! I can’t… I can’t think in here!”
That last part is not entirely true. My real problem is that, left to my own devices, I think too much.
I think about the four muddled years of college that I basically stumbled through in a grieving daze.
I think about what the statute of limitations on returning your parents’ calls is before you’re officially labeled a bad daughter.
I think about all the different career options I’ve cast aside in favor of a job that would allow me to leave the country any chance I got.
But mostly, I think about Ziva. And I ponder how different my life would have been if she had lived.