An Honest Lie(66)

She stood up, holding her hand over her own mouth; the room seeming to hum around her in a silent panic.

The voice was male. The voice was male. The voice was male.

“Fuck,” Rainy said. Then she started typing, her thumbs stiff with fear.

Where is Braithe?
Here with me  
Who are you?
Greetings, fellow bondservant! This is Paul!
Paul who? Am I supposed to believe you’re some rando who kidnapped my friend?
She was digging her fingernails into her palms, eyes tightly shut. He was addressing her in a way that was...familiar. A coil of a sentence misted through her brain, but when she reached for it, it was gone. Was this happening? This was happening. Her body felt wired. Her phone pinged, the sound violent in her ears. Paul had sent his response:

That’s the question, Rainy! Now you’re getting somewhere. Who. Am. I.
She tossed her phone on the bed, frustrated.

Paul was a Biblical name, one of the most important figures in the New Testament. What else did she know? Think. He was Saul before he was Paul...that’s right...

She paced in small circles, her brain really whirring now. He was a persecutor of the first church until he had a conversion experience on the road to Damascus, after which he became Paul. None of this made sense.

Paul who was converted on the road to Damascus, or Paul the Beatle, or are you your own fucked-up type of specialty Paul?
Choices, choices...
Okay...so what do you want?
Now that’s an interesting question! You’re really on a roll here.
Stop fucking around, you’re wasting my time.
On the contrary, you have all the time in the world. Braithe does not.
Rainy tried calling, but Paul sent her to voice mail.

“Dammit!”

We’re a little under the weather, Rainy. Let’s stick with texting for now.
Where are you?
But Paul didn’t answer her question. Instead, the reply read, I’m mostly up to date on Tara’s and Braithe’s texts. They never did figure out why you were so averse to their little predatory trip. Do you want to tell me? They spent hours talking about it and I gotta admit—I’m curious      

Rainy made her way over to her laptop. She lifted the lid and typed in her password.

You tell me something about you and I’ll tell you something about me.
When she hit Send, she thought she’d made a mistake. If someone truly had kidnapped Braithe, making him angry was the last thing she wanted to do. But everything about this guy’s tone indicated he enjoyed banter. But only if he has the upper hand, she thought. That’s how bullies worked. If she could keep his mood light, she might be able to get him to tell her something useful.

You like to play games! What a night you girls had playing games, wasn’t it?
Were you watching?
No. But I got the firsthand account from Braithe, and boy is that girl a talker when she is drunk. Yowza!
Braithe had gone to a bar the second night alone, hadn’t she? So, whoever this guy was, he’d positioned himself to meet her.

Where’d you meet?
That’s not important. What’s important is what I know.
She pressed her fists to her eyes, the coolness of her hands grounding her. She was hot and cold, scared and angry; every time this guy sent a text, the hairs on her arms stood up.

Which is what? she sent back.

It was getting dark outside; she could see the indigo of the sky above the strip. For her, time seemed suspended in this nightmare, but below her the city throbbed, unknowing.

I know that Stephen has no idea that his perfect wife is so unhappy. I’m wondering how I should tell him...
Why are you telling me this? I don’t care what you tell Stephen or anyone about Braithe. Are you a jilted lover, is that what this is? She rejected you and now you have her phone?
Guess again. Think carefully, Rainy.
She tried logging into her Facebook account; it had been so long it took her three tries to guess the password. She’d added Braithe and the rest of the girls long ago when they used the app to share information about their get-togethers. Eventually, they’d switched to text, and she’d stopped going on altogether. She went to Braithe’s profile and clicked on her friends; then, typing “Paul” into the search box, she waited for the results.

“Paul, Paul...” She tapped her fingers on the table as the computer filtered the results. There was no one named Paul among her friends. She went through Stephen’s friends next, then Tara’s, and finally Grant’s. There were Pauls—one of them was an ex-professor both Grant and Stephen were friends with; he lived in Minnesota with his wife now. The other was a youngish guy in Stephen’s friend list who turned out to be his cousin. When Rainy stalked the shit out of him she found out he was in Boston, going to college. He’d posted a photo of himself the night before at a bar with his friends. She checked out the bar before logging out of Facebook. She decided to say nothing else until Paul texted her again. She was going to need this as evidence...for the police. She searched “Saul,” too, but that landed her similar results. Whoever he was, she was certain that neither moniker was his real name.

Someone had Braithe, and police would take her seriously when they saw the texts, heard his voice. “You have to call the police,” she said out loud. “Right now.”

But she didn’t. Had Braithe been missing for twenty-four hours? Police wouldn’t do anything until then; she’d listened to enough Dateline specials to know that. If she was actively texting people from her phone, could she be considered missing or in danger?