Tamsin frisked him for weapons, found a 9 mm. Smirked and tucked it in her belt.
Concrete stairs led to a basement. I dragged him down, letting the chair screech and crash on each step. Startled cries emitted from the hood. The air was damp, dewy. I positioned the chair beneath a lightbulb and plucked the hood off while Tam yanked the cord.
Blood painted frantic wings across his face, as if he’d bitten a live animal. He cowered.
“Hello, Jay,” I said. “How’s that shoulder?”
“You may speak,” Tam said. “Say hello.”
“Please. I’m out of the game. I stopped that night, like you said.”
“Good boy.” I squatted at his feet, testing his bonds. “We’re not here about that.”
His eyes rolled from me to her and back.
“We’re here,” Tamsin said, leaning on the shoulder she’d shot, making him wince, “to talk about the past.”
I fished the phone from his hoodie. Locked, of course.
“Tell me the password now,” I said, “or tell me after I’ve broken all of your fingers.”
He told me now.
I scrolled through his contacts. “It’s been a while, Jay. How’s it feel to be the victim again?”
Crito frowned. “Do I know you?”
I glanced up at him through my mask. His gaze ricocheted between my mouth, my eyes, the only features visible.
“You seem very familiar,” he said.
“Are you shitting me?”
His frown became confused.
Impulsively, I tore the mask off. Not like it mattered—he knew full fucking well who I was. “Surprise, motherfucker.”
Still no recognition, only suspicion.
Bizarre, but who knew what game Jay would play to get out of this. Back to his phone.
Tamsin said, “What made you like this, Crito?”
“Huh?”
“What made you a bottom-feeding misogynistic piece of shite?”
He shrugged. “I’m not a misogynist. I’m a humanist.”
“And I’m the bloody Queen. What do you call the way you treat women?”
“Equality.”
Tam snorted. “Your head’s so far up your arse you could lick your tonsils. What do you know about equality?”
His eyes darted to me, then away. “I know it already exists.”
“Right. That’s the height of male privilege, mate.”
“You women always talk about male privilege. But you have female privilege, and you never admit it.”
“What, pray tell, does ‘female privilege’ entail?”
“Being a victim. A martyr. Having people automatically believe whatever you say if you cry.”
My jaw tightened.
“Sure,” Tam scoffed. “Like they believed the bruises on my body. Like they’ve believed all the girls who were beaten and raped, whose abusers walked free.”
Blood pounded in my head. I focused on the phone.
The contact names were familiar: guys Black Iris had gone after. All aliases, Greek philosophers and founding fathers. Typical. To these fuckwits masculinity was a white savior jerking off atop the world.
I kept scrolling.
“Your kind,” Tam said, “will never know how easy you have it. The only way you could understand is if you’d been born female.” She grasped Crito’s jaw, made a fish face of his mouth. “Or maybe if you were transgender. If you had to enter into a world of misogyny just to be yourself. Give up your male privilege, feel what it’s like to be seen as a girl. If life were fair, you would’ve been. You would’ve suffered with a body you couldn’t stand. You would’ve felt the anguish and hatred that you bring women.”
The phone screen shivered. I didn’t argue, but I thought, You’re wrong, Tam. If life were fair, nobody would suffer. Regardless of gender.
I said, “She came to see you, didn’t she?”
Tamsin frowned. Crito’s demeanor changed: no longer self-righteous, but wary.
“Answer me.”
“There were two,” he said edgily.
“Who were they, Jay?”
His gaze refocused, and I saw the moment it happened: when past and present aligned. He stuttered, then said, “Sofie?”
My hand shot out of its own accord. The phone glass cracked on his jawbone. Blood spattered the concrete.
“That name is fucking dead,” I said, my voice still soft.
He coughed red, cringed. Tongued a loose tooth. “I can’t believe it’s you.”
Tamsin smacked his cheek, and he moaned. “Answer the question. Who came to see you?”
But he was looking at me now.
“Two girls,” he said.
“What did they look like?”
“They wore masks, like you. One was tall, blond. Other was short with dark hair.”
Tam and I locked eyes.
A tall blonde and a short brunette.
What a coincidence. Just like Blythe McKinley and Laney Keating.
“Did the blonde have tattoos?” I said. “An accent?”
“I don’t know. The other one did the talking.”
“What did they want?”
He spat a glob of blood on the floor. “To deliver some flowers to your place.”
The bouquet, with my deadname on the card. “Which you did.”
“Nah. I’m out of the game.”