“So how about we make a trade, huh? You want something. I want something. Let’s make this easy on each other.”
“I’m listening.” I don’t remember the last time my patience was so frayed. It’s holding by the tiniest thread.
“I’d like to know about what happened with Rachel. Yes, you know who I’m talking about. Wonderful.” He raises his eyebrows in contained pleasure. “In return, I’ll tell you who I am.”
“Exactly what do you want to know?”
“Oh, it’s not for me.” He cocks his head back toward the corner. “This one’s for Harvey. There are some things it’s his right to know. What with his position.”
“He doesn’t have a position anymore,” I say bluntly.
“No, I suppose he doesn’t…with you.”
Harvey twists in his seat, folding his thick arms. The room waits for me to speak.
“You know what I did to Rachel,” I say finally.
Older Me leans forward, his eyes shining. “But that’s the beauty of it, Aeron. He really doesn’t.”
There’s no getting out of this. It infuriates me to just play ball, but without it, I’m stuck.
I’d say I have nothing to lose, but we all know that’s not true.
“I think he read about it in an email,” I manage.
“Did you hear that, Harvey? You read about it. Do you remember what that email said?”
“No,” Harvey grunts. “I do not.”
“Aeron. Be a gent and elaborate, if you will.”
I breathe out through my teeth, though when the air rushes over the tiny splits in my tongue, I regret it. “I cut her * into ribbons. Good and proper. She bled like a fucking sprinkler and she had to get stitched up. There. Does that cover it?”
“I don’t know.” He presses his lips together. “Does it?”
“You’re fucking sick,” Harvey mutters. “Both of you, sickest motherfuckers I ever met.”
“Harvey’s not really one of us. But perhaps we can change that.” Older Me rubs his finely stubbled jaw, displaying neat, clean fingernails. “It’s useful to have a Jiminy Cricket around, though. Isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Maybe we’ll get him a top hat and make him tap dance. I think I’d like that.”
Harvey goes rigid, his eyes darting left and right. He’s afraid of this man. Shitting his disloyal, ungrateful pants.
“Anyway. The important thing here is, Aeron has obliged us. And so I’ll oblige him.” He leans in a little to catch my eye. “You really don’t know who I am?”
I chew on my lip. It’s dry as the rest of me. “Try me.”
“What if I told you that you named me, and I named you? Would you appreciate the symmetry…?”
I sit back, which in the bindings, means I move about a half inch. Panic hammers in the back of my throat. “I’ve seen your handiwork. You’re not one for symmetry.”
He knots his fingers—a quick, precise move. “The girls are always a little messy. Just the way it goes down.”
“Blood Honey.”
There’s that smile again, the one that makes the rest of the room a few degrees colder. “Indeed.”
“You didn’t name me.” I spit the words. Can’t help it now. “Jacob Lore was my father, and he’s dead.”
“He’s not your father, Aeron. But he is dead.” He gets to his feet, sighing. “Killed him myself.”
The next thing I see is his narrow, tight fist swinging toward me, and then there’s nothing but the splitting thwack as I hit the floor.
***
Help. There’s not enough space in my skull. Too much meat on the inside, getting bigger, growing hard. A liquid lump pushes down my throat and I need to choke it up, like—
Fuck.
Oh God, that’s better.
Gravity bends backwards. I’m moving; the chair is moving; there’s no damp wood against my cheek anymore, just stagnant air and my wet hair, plastered to my face, dripping down to my sodden t-shirt. I don’t see all these things—I just feel them. The room is pitch black, the darkness so thick that if I speak, it’ll burst. And my head. Jesus, my head. It throbs in dull flashes.