“No. Camera’s not on yet,” I say smoothly, walking past her.
Limping past her. Falling down those concrete stairs at the jail didn’t do me any favors.
Lasering in on the next few action items in my sequence of events, I march into her apartment, the layout a mirror image of my own. There’s a guest bathroom I’m going for. I press my ear against the wall.
Nothing.
I go into the guest bedroom.
Nothing.
Kitchen, living room – nothing.
Master bedroom – jackpot.
Men’s voices, muffled and indistinct. They’re in the bedroom.
Is Lindsay?
And then the voices change, coming closer.
Followed by the higher-pitched tone of a woman talking.
Emotion floods me, shoving all the adrenaline out through my pores, my body turning into air and dust. She’s alive.
Alive.
Relief fills me like a balm, a cure, an antidote.
I give myself exactly five seconds to feel it all.
And then I stuff it right back in my internal box of emotion.
Feelings cannot be in charge of me right now.
Lindsay will die if I let that happen.
I pull out my toolkit and get started. Step one is simple: establish visuals.
“What am I supposed to do, Drew?” Tiffany’s hovering over me, nervous. “Do I have lines? Is this improv?” She says the word improv like she’s worshipping something.
“Yes. One hundred percent improv,” I assure her. That’s probably the only non-lie that I’ve told her. “Your first job is to go to my apartment and slip this note under the door. If someone answers the door, you’re in character.”
“In character?”
“You can’t tell them I’m here, or that this is a reality television show.”
“Won’t they notice the cameras?”
“The cameras will all be hidden.” I realize I need to be more persuasive with her. “You do understand, don’t you?” I take on an authoritarian tone. “I need to make sure we have a professional on this show. You really are in the business, right?” I up my skepticism level to an almost comic level, hating that I have to do this. One ear is perked, listening for Lindsay’s voice. So far, everything’s gone quiet on the other side.
“Of course!” Tiffany gushes. “I’m a pro! I practically live on camera 24/7.” She plucks the piece of paper from my hand and shuffles off, reading as she walks. “Wait. This is a note telling them I’m having work done on my pipes.”
“Yes. Just a friendly note from one neighbor to another.”
“But everyone who lives in this complex knows that I would never leave a note, silly. That’s so rude. I would knock on the door and -- ”
“No!” Panic gets the better of me for a split second, enough to yell loud so that she jumps. “You need to stick to the script.”
“I thought there was no script.”
“We don’t have lines, but we have guidelines,” I emphasize. Get a fucking grip, I tell myself.
And then I hear the men on the other side of the wall talking. A pause.
Followed by the sweet sound of Lindsay’s voice.
“Okay,” Tiffany says, wary. The way she’s looking at me makes it clear she’s not sure what to think, but she’s going along with it anyhow.
“Just slip it under the door. If someone answers -- ”
“Why would someone in your apartment answer?”
I wink. I lie. “It’s part of the show.”
“Gotcha. So they’re actors?” She fluffs her hair, which mostly means she pushes the helmet of hair up an inch.
“No. They’re unsuspecting real-life people who don’t know what’s going on over here.” Another truth.
“Oh!” Her eyes brighten. “I love being in on the joke and they don’t know!”
Joke.
Right.
I look at the wall and contemplate my first move. Goal number one is to get a fiberoptic camera through a light socket or a tiny hole in the wall, to establish a visual without breaking the line. I can’t think too many steps ahead, because I have to pivot if this goes south. All I can do is focus on this step.
The drill and other tools will make noise. My premise is weak. But having Tiffany go to my apartment is part of the ruse. I wait until she comes back.
It gives me a chance to assess myself. I look down.
I am fucked.
Chapter 7
Lindsay
“What do you want to know?” I offer.
“Why would you give us confidential information like this?” Stellan asks, turning to John. “I smell a set-up.”
I laugh. “You seriously think I’m offering fake information? Okay. Fine. Go ahead. Go ahead and kill me. Then you’ll never know if I could have told you something you could use to protect yourselves.” I shrug, as much as you can shrug with your hands tied together. “Kill me. Ruin the chance.” The words come out with a strange detachment as I stop caring.
I just...stop.
A switch flips in my head. It’s a relief. I am my blood. I am my heartbeat. I am each breath.
But my mind doesn’t matter any longer.
No one is coming to save me.
Not Daddy.
Certainly not Mom.
And obviously not Drew.
We fool ourselves every day into thinking that we have forever. Maybe we have to. If we thought about the fact that we’re going to die someday, maybe we couldn’t really live. Waking up, brushing our teeth, slogging down coffee, and doing whatever we need to do to check off our To Do list requires a belief that there’s no end.
Because if you knew there was an end, wouldn’t you live differently?
See, I know there’s an end.
It’s staring right at me.
“Where’s the weakness in your father’s security?” John asks.
Stellan smacks his arm. “She doesn’t know the answer to that.”
Because I don’t care, I say, “Helicopter mechanic. All it takes is planting a guy on that team to sabotage Daddy’s helicopter.”
They stare at me.
“No way. That’s what Anya said, too,” Stellan whispers.
Anya. Anya and Jane. Of course. Of course they betrayed me. Betrayed Daddy. I’m beyond caring, right? The information flows over me like a river of logic. Makes sense.
But how are they connected to Nolan Corning?
Tap tap tap.