I give in—more through desperation than anything else—and take a long gulp. The water is lukewarm and bitter, and it’s an effort not to spit it out. Even swallowing kills, but I down another few swallows because things are suddenly fucked and I’m going to need it.
Harvey puts the bottle down—right next to where my ankle is cuffed to the chair leg—and then rises to look at me. He runs a hand over the rough black spatter of stubble on his cheeks. His eyes are swollen, narrowed to oily slits.
“What the fuck’s going on, Harvey?” I repeat.
“I’m not permitted to answer that.”
Memories queue up in my brain, each one demanding to be experienced and analyzed just so I can make sense of what’s going on. I know we had dinner. I know we went back to the villa. I know we were drunk, and talking, and the room was cool and smelled like fresh flowers. My Leo was there, telling me things and asking questions and then—
“Where’s Leo?” I demand.
Harvey turns his back and swaggers back to the chair. “I’m not permitted to answer that.”
“Where are we? Are we still on the island?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself.” There’s no joy to his tone, no malice. Harvey’s hardly the life and soul of the party, but he’s never cold; just focused. Now he seems exhausted. Resigned. Reluctant, even.
I have to rest my tongue. This is goddamn ridiculous. Adrenaline crests in my veins, hot and raw, sending waves of nausea through my stomach and jerking my pulse to high speed. I don’t remember anything after getting home from the villa, but now I’m bound to a chair with a motherfucker of a headache, reeking of sweat and piss. God knows how long I’ve been here.
There must be a way to reason out of this. To get Harvey to talk. He’s sure as hell not my guy anymore—that much is obvious—but maybe, if I play this right, I can get a few words out. I’ve got no other choice.
Back in his corner, Harvey lights a cigarette. The lighter flames for a second and Harvey glows orange; then smoke curls around him, pale fingers in the dark.
Smoke reminds me of Leo, and it’s like a fist to my already aching gut.
“Didn’t know you smoked,” I croak.
Nothing.
“I’m guessing there’s a lot I don’t know about you. Judging by the current scenario.”
He casts a brief glance at me, cocks one eyebrow, then takes a deep drag.
“And I’m not gagged, so I’m guessing you want me to talk. Or someone does. I know you’re not our killer.” I force my mouth to moisten, rolling saliva over my throbbing tongue. “Tell me you’re not an accomplice, Harvey. I thought you were better than that.”
“I’m not permitted to comment,” he repeats in that dull, gravelly voice.
“Why? You afraid of something? Somebody got your balls in a vise, that it?”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and blows a ring of smoke toward me. The air turns acrid as it hits me in the face.
“You were never afraid of anything,” I go on. All the while, I’m trying to listen to what’s going on around us: the ocean’s white noise crashes below us, but there are no footsteps, no other voices. Nothing offers a sense of place or time except for the slivers of sunshine slipping under the garbage bags, but we’re (hopefully) still in the fucking Maldives, where the sun shines for eighteen hours out of twenty-four.
“I know you’re not doing this by choice,” I try.
Still nothing.
God, I want to punch a wall.
“I know you wouldn’t do this without good reason.”
Harvey picks up a tin cup and takes a noisy swig. “What you know, sir, is jack shit.”
Time for a change of tone. He wants the upper hand. Let’s be fucking honest, I’m tied up and can barely think straight—he has it.
“So what do you want me to do here?”