The Fall(22)
“Don’t think you know me.” My hand stayed locked; my decision whether or not to pull the trigger still not made. I could end it, end it all right here.
“I don’t, and I don’t want to.”
The words were cruel, the kind that usually you would snarl at someone in order to hurt them. But he hadn’t done that. They lacked any weight when they’d left his lips, no emotion, no sting. It was simply the truth as he saw it.
I didn’t want to shoot him and I wasn’t sure if that made me relieved or angry. “Have you ever known anyone?” I asked before I had a chance to stop myself, my voice quieter than it had been as his hand lowered my gun without resistance.
Something inside me told me I knew the answer. The coldness wasn’t an act. I’d seen men hardened by time, used bad choices as an excuse for crime and some who had shown no remorse. But the longer I looked at Michael, even with only a few words spoken between us, I saw that he was presenting himself honestly. This was the only way he knew how. I hadn’t wanted to see it, but out of the two of us, he was the one being authentic.
“We’ll leave soon.” He avoided the question, nothing betrayed in his words or his eyes. “I’ll tell you when.”
He turned, the large expanse of his shoulders my new view as heavy footsteps took him out of the room. I assumed the drive was with him, possibly in a pocket. He hadn’t even confirmed he’d retrieved it, the whole subject sidestepped completely. Maybe it had burned with the rest of my house.
It was weird. How he was able to speak and say so little. Not just with words—his body, his face—a locked vault. And nothing was really confirmed or denied. No black, no white, just an endless stretch of gray.
“I need to eat,” I said loudly, even though I was the only person left in the room. “You might be able to live on air, but I need food.”
It was probably more than just an empty stomach that made me alter my thoughts. It was easier to deal with something tangible like food rather than the minefield in my head. And last night’s dinner had been hours ago, with nothing more than some water, the Advil and a cup of coffee going into my belly since. Adrenaline would only allow me to ignore biology so long. I’d slept because I needed my head in the game, and I had to eat if I was going to be able to stay standing.
“You want to eat, make yourself food,” he called from the other room, not bothering to give me the courtesy of a face-to-face. “There’s no room service here.”
No shit, *. I flipped him off even though he couldn’t see it, the childish reaction making me feel marginally better. My quest for food was going to be a solo venture.
When we’d arrived last night, I hadn’t gotten a chance to really explore the layout of the house. But this morning before I’d been marched into the basement and locked up like an animal, I’d done my best to get a feel for where everything was. You never knew when your life might depend on knowing where the closest exit route was, and which wrong turn would back you into a corner. I committed to memory each window, each door—every single detail of each wall and crevice in case some day it might be relevant.
The Brownstone had been heavily renovated in its interior, the spacious rooms on the bottom floor more open than a house of this vintage would have otherwise been.
My feet moved mechanically to the back of the house, completely ignoring Michael as I made my way to the kitchen. It had been updated, just like the rest of the house and the modern appliances looked untouched. The thinnest film of dust covered the oven door, the only hint that it wasn’t as freshly installed as it looked. He didn’t spend much time in here, and if he did, I was guessing the microwave saw most of the action.
His refrigerator didn’t wear the same signs of neglect. While not old by anyone’s definition, the double stainless steel doors had some minor scuffmarks, their sheen matted in certain places from handprints.
Pulling open the large French doors, I was expecting to find an array of condiments and beer. Sure, it was a typical bachelor stereotype, but he hadn’t given me much else to work with. Instead I found the clean interior shelves lined neatly with Tupperware containers. Each one contained fresh vegetables, fruit or lunchmeat.
I blinked, half expecting the carefully lined containers to disappear, but they didn’t, my hands reaching for them as my stomach grumbled. I was hungrier than I’d thought, the smell of roast beef wafting up my nose, making my mouth water as I ripped open the first lid.
Placing the makings of a sandwich on the kitchen counter, I pulled open the pantry doors in the hopes of finding some bread. Like the fridge, the shelves were neatly lined. Items stacked with military precision with all the labels facing outward.
It was so meticulous. Even in his personal living space, everything was exactly how he’d placed it. It was so strange that a man who seemed to live his life in chaos would be afflicted with what looked like a severe case of OCD.
My hunger overrode my need to continue my psychological evaluation of Michael, locating a loaf of bread on the third shelf and carrying it over to the counter with the rest of the food. Plates and cutlery were easily found; a cabinet here, a drawer there—and I had everything I needed, assembling my sandwich as I went.
It tasted even better than I’d expected, my teeth biting into the pillowy softness of the bread as an unsuppressed moan escaped my lips. I didn’t care if he heard me, taking another mouthful of food while I stayed standing at the counter.