“Maybe it’s just because there’s nothing else to do,” Edie said, and Wes felt her snapping shut against him, drifting back to that secret, inward space that seemed, so much of the time, to be her habit and solace. He’d ended up choosing the Henry James novel to read because the painting of a woman on its cover reminded him of the painted woman on the cover of Edie’s Austen collection, and he’d thought that this might be the book she would want to read next, and then, maybe, they could talk again. She would talk to him, confide in him, again.
To be fair, there were a few other things to do in the shed, other than read. They’d been given a crude chess board, carved and painted by hand, and Marta and Ken had been playing a long, mostly silent tournament, every now and then switching off with one of the others. (Wes was quite good at chess, but playing it stoked his anxiety, so he usually begged off.) There was a deck of playing cards. Some scrap paper and pencil stubs. With these Wes had found himself staying up late last night, after the others had turned in, and making a list by moonlight:
Why do I think I like Edie? What is this about REALLY?
Because she is pretty? That’s shallow . . .
I hate her boyfriend and want to best him in caveman sort of way? Also shallow, immature.
We are trapped together in life-threatening situation. Members of group most obviously matched in age. Probably some instinctual/primal urge to plant seed before murdered.
Lonely?
Rebounding from Sonya?
She is nice and smart. But lots of people nice and smart.
And then, as was typical for him—he wished he had a tablet so he could organize his digressions—he was off on another tangent.
True? Lots of people nice and smart?
Or lots of people actually raging lunatics in shithole world?
Virtuz for nice and smart people and Virtuz tanked.
Pocketz is for a shithole world.
What does that make me?
He knew the list was silly, but he couldn’t stop himself. What someone like Sonya wouldn’t have understood was that he wasn’t as literal-minded as the list suggested; he didn’t actually go around making life decisions or reaching conclusions about the meaning of life based on bullet points. But writing the list, giving physical shape to his thoughts—the act actually unlocked in him something freer, more abstract. It forced him to face what he might otherwise turn away from. Like what he’d written on the back of the scrap of paper:
Why would she like me back?
What does it even matter? We’re going to die.
We’re going to die. The thought kept coming to him like a radio transmission, something his receiver would randomly pick up depending on how he tilted his head or where he moved in their holding cell. He saw it in the pages of the books he tried to read. In the eyes of the rotating crew of Ruby City guards. In a slant of light coming through the windows, in the red-orange leaf that pinwheeled off a tree limb and plastered itself against the glass. He saw it despite everything June had told him, despite the fact that he actually continued to believe most of what she’d told him. But he didn’t see his certainty reflected in his fellow captives. On Monday, the morning after Andy had left with the others, Berto had awakened from a sound sleep, yawned, stretched, cracked his neck with a satisfying grunt. “Knowing Anastasia’s out of here makes all the difference,” he said. “Whatever else happens, I can deal with it. She hadn’t even wanted to do this trip, really. I talked her into it. I couldn’t have lived with myself if they’d hurt her.”
Berto had glanced apologetically at Edie, seeming to think that his chivalry must reflect badly on Jesse. But Edie was staring off into the distance, lost in her own thoughts.
“I feel good. I feel hopeful,” Berto said. “As long as you’re here, Feingold. I’m sticking to you like glue.”
“Stick away,” Wes said with weak humor.
Wes himself felt good about one thing: that Marta had somehow managed to return her ticket, if only—selfishly—because he would have been so lonely without her company. She had been mum about how she’d pulled it off. All Wes knew was what the others knew: she had whispered something to one of June’s henchmen, been escorted out of the building, and returned maybe fifteen minutes later. When Andy collected the group a couple of hours later, she remained seated—and none of June’s people told her to come along. Wes didn’t even know why she had wanted to stay, if it was out of loyalty to him (a stab of guilt at that), or if she had also felt uneasy about the sudden offer of freedom—or what. He was looking at her instead of The Portrait of a Lady, mulling this over, when she lifted her face from the chess board she was studying, caught his eye, smiled. He waved back.
Marta, who’d also sneaked in the canister of Quicksilver, was full of surprises, he was finding.
She said something to Ken, then came stiffly to a stand and stretched. She crossed the room to join Wes.
“Who won this one?”
“No one yet,” Marta said. She leaned down, touched her toes. Bobbed a little, then put her palms flat on the plank floor. “I called a break. I needed a rest.”
“What are the stats so far?” Wes asked.
Marta stretched out beside him, taking his pack, with an unthinking familiarity, to use as a pillow. “I have eight wins, and he has ten.”
“Not bad. Isn’t he a doctor or something?”
“Neurosurgeon.” She lowered her voice. “I could beat him more often if I cared more. He’s a very fierce competitor. He needs to win.”
“You don’t?”
She shrugged. “Obviously not.” She put her forearm over her eyes. “Ken reminds me of my husband. My husband is a very good chess player. He taught me to play. And my husband needs to win, like Ken does. So I have a lot of practice losing. I am an excellent loser.”
“Your husband sounds . . .” Wes searched for a word. “Intense,” he decided.
Marta nodded from under her arm. “That’s a good word for David. A perfect word.”
“What does he do?”
“What does he do, what does he do,” she murmured. She rolled onto her side and propped her head up on her palm. Her eyes met his—and there was a frankness there, an intimacy that almost embarrassed Wes. “Wes, what if I told you that my husband is a very bad man?”
Wes waited for her to go on, lost. He shook his head slowly.
“Your would-be business partner. David Perrone?”
“He’s—your husband?”
She nodded.
“What? Wow. Wow.” He rubbed his temples. “Was June telling the truth about him?”
Marta nodded, a dropping of the chin so measured that he almost missed it. “Probably. I haven’t let myself think much about it over the years. I guess that sounds awful. I don’t know what he’s done. But what June said didn’t surprise me much.”