Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(31)

“I could, but there are already companies that specialize in weapons. Common items such as those most prop guys just order out of catalogues. I might design a custom trophy, say, for a scene where the underdog finally wins. Mold the top out of plastic, mount it on a custom wooden base; then you would apply gold leaf as the finishing touch. Then later, as part of the movie promotion, we might create dozens of tiny replicas to give out to studio heads, critics, whomever.”

I nod. What he says makes perfect sense. So why am I sure he’s lying to me?

I hear myself say: “Three-D printers can be used to build plastic guns.”

“True.”

“Do you do that for movies?”

“Again, common set pieces such as fake guns are cheaper to get out of catalogues.”

I look at him. “Do you make real guns?”

“Why? Just like Hollywood props, real guns are cheaper when ordered out of catalogues . . . or purchased on a street corner.”

“But a plastic gun would be untraceable.”

“I believe street dealers are pretty good at filing down serial numbers or removing them with acid.”

“You researched this.”

“Because these were the arguments you brought up when I first suggested buying the machine. Three-D printing is changing the world, from manufacturing to medical science to, yes, movie props. I’m trying to keep us cutting-edge. But you see danger everywhere.”

He’s right; I do. Which makes me wonder what happened to trigger such an acute sense of paranoia.

“Do you like your job?” I ask him now. I’m curious for his answer.

“Yes. It’s creative, tangible, flexible. We can live anywhere, work any hours we want. We are very lucky to be able to do this.”

“Do I like our job?”

He shrugs, no longer meeting my eyes, which makes me suspicious. “You like painting, and part of this job is painting. But lately . . .” He glances up, studies me. “What do you think, Nicky?”

“I want to quit,” I hear myself say. “I want out.”

“In order to do what?”

I open my mouth, but I can’t find the words. “I don’t know. I just want . . . out.”

“We moved here for a fresh start. We’d been living in Atlanta, but you said you missed snow. So we did some online research, came up with New Hampshire. Soon there will be plenty of snow here. The question is, will that finally make you happy?”

“Why don’t I remember falling down the basement stairs?”

“The concussion wiped it from your mind.”

“And I fell outside, months later? Shouldn’t I remember that?”

“Another concussion, another blank spot in your mind.”

“I don’t remember driving around last night. I don’t remember putting on my coat, grabbing the keys or climbing behind the wheel. I’m not that stupid, Thomas. I should remember at least one step of the process.”

“Maybe not. The doctor said there are no hard-and-fast rules with post-concussive syndrome.”

“Did you get me drunk?”

“What?” For the first time, he draws up short.

“Did you pour me the first glass of scotch? That’s what the detectives want to know. Did you get me drunk and then put me in the car?”

“Of course not!”

“Who, then? It’s not like we have any friends.”

Thomas’s temper has flared. He rakes his hand through his hair, takes an agitated step forward. “No one poured you a glass of scotch. I never even saw the bottle in the house. You must have purchased it on your own. After you left. Because whether you remember driving off or not, you weren’t here, Nicky. I searched high and low through the house for you. You were gone, and so was the car.”

“I don’t remember—”

“August 24, 1993. We walked to Café Du Monde for fresh beignets. You hadn’t tried them yet, so I fed you half a dozen. And then, when you were still laughing and saying they were the best thing you’d ever had, I kissed you. Our first kiss. It tasted like cinnamon and powdered sugar. I’ve never gotten tired of kissing you since. Do you remember?”

He takes a step closer to me. His eyes are dark, riveting. I say, “Yes.”

“Three nights later, in a small hovel of an apartment, single mattress on the floor, not even a TV set for entertainment, we make love for the first time. Afterward you cried, and I panicked, thinking I’d hurt you. You just cried harder and told me to hold you, so that’s what I did. Sometimes you still cry after sex. So I still hold you, just like I did that night. Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“September 1, 1993. Production has wrapped and the movie is done. This is it. What happens next? I ask you. But you won’t answer me. You won’t even look at me. So I grab you by both arms. Stop, you say. You’re hurting me. But I don’t. I lift your chin; I force you to look me in the eye. I love you, I tell you. I love you and I need you. Stay with me, and I’ll give you the world. Anything you want. Just be mine. Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“I will keep you safe, even if it costs me my own life. I promised you that. Do you remember?”

I can’t look at him anymore, but there is no way to turn away. He has me pinned against one of the folding tables, and he is right before me. So close I can feel the heat of his body, smell once again the scent of his skin. I feel weak in the knees.