He Started It(89)

“Are you drunk?” Eddie says.

“Not today, no. But even if I was, I could still see your phone code and get into it whenever I want.”

The phone.

I remember my own turned-over phone back in one of our first motels. I remember all the nights she stayed with us, or with Eddie, with plenty of time to search our phones while we slept. I remember all the things she stole on the first trip, without my noticing, even when I was sitting in the same van.

Always the sneaky one.

“What I know about you,” she says to Eddie, “is that your financial situation is fucked. Your bank account is basically empty, your house is mortgaged well beyond what it’s worth, and”—she pauses here to tilt her head and smile; I imagine that works well at her job—“you’ve got gambling problems that are a lot bigger than that man in the black truck.”

“You bitch,” Eddie says.

Portia smiles. “But what I found most interesting are those offshore accounts. Avoiding taxes, are we?”

“Oh please. Everybody does it,” Eddie says.

“That doesn’t make it legal. And it doesn’t mean you can’t get arrested for it,” she says, taking a step closer to Eddie. “Who do you think they’re going to suspect when we turn up dead? Some random stranger in the desert, or the guy that inherits all the money and has a gambling problem?”

Eddie doesn’t answer.

“So here’s the deal,” she says. “I’ve set up a transfer from your main account. Once we get back to civilization and get the cash part of our inheritance, you’re going to give all your money to me.”

“Like hell I am,” he says.

“Like hell you are. If you cancel or otherwise screw with that transfer, an e-mail will automatically go to the IRS, detailing all your bullshit,” she says with a shrug. “Because you can’t have the money if you’re in jail.”

Eddie clenches his jaw. “That fucking rule. I told Grandpa not to put that rule about jail in there. He was still so pissed at Mom.”

“Sucks for you,” Portia says.

Honestly, I bet Grandpa would be proud if he could see us now. His grandchildren have found themselves wrapped inside a devil’s knot. No way out unless someone dies or gets arrested.

“Well done,” I say to Portia.

“Well done?” Eddie yells at me. “Well fucking done? Jesus Christ, you really are pathetic.”

That’s me, the pathetic one. The sad runner-up to Nikki. Finally, I’ve come to accept my role. “Did you set me up, too?” I ask Portia.

“You bet I did. All of your money is coming my way, too. Your phone was even easier to get into.” Portia gives me a look that makes me feel worse than I did a second ago. “Otherwise you’re headed straight to a psych ward. Really, Beth. That journal? You need help. You really do.”

She’s right about that. She’s right about everything. We did use her. Portia was just a pawn in the game back then, too young to play or fight back.

“Screw this,” Eddie says. He takes a step toward Portia, I can practically see the anger swelling up inside of him. He looks just like he did back at the UFO Watchtower, when he got into a fight with Clemson. Anger always gets the best of him.

“What if I just shoot you?” he says. “I might end up in jail, but you’ll be dead.”

Portia walks toward him and stops just a couple feet away. “Go ahead. Kill me.”

His arm tightens and his face is red with anger, because Eddie knows he has lost this game. You always know when you’ve lost, even if the game isn’t over yet. Risk taught us that, and we still played it out to the bitter end. You have to.

Eddie points at Portia’s chest. A heart shot, then. Not the head.

When I see his finger twitch, I close my eyes.

Click.

Click.

Click.

I open my eyes to see Eddie looking at the gun. “What the hell?” he says.

Portia laughs. “You idiot,” she says. “I didn’t just steal your phone code. I stole all your bullets.”

Eddie lowers the gun and takes a deep breath, and his face slowly returns to its normal color.

Now he starts to laugh.

Not a small laugh, but a huge belly laugh that makes him double over. Portia and I exchange a look, like we’re both thinking the same thing. Eddie has finally lost whatever is left of his mind.

When he finally stops and wipes the tears from his eyes, he says, “Doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t matter?” I repeat.

“Nope. Not one bit.”

We’re interrupted by the music.

“I Think I’m Paranoid” blasts through the air. Everyone freezes for a second, and we all turn, looking for the source. The music grows louder.

It drowns out the sound of the engine, so we see the van before we hear it. The greyish-green van jerks to a stop right in front of us, music pouring out of it like a physical presence.

Behind the wheel, a woman with flaxen hair. She gets out of the car, all that wild hair flying, and she walks straight toward the three of us.

Nikki.

I knew it, I always knew it. I felt it in my heart, just like Mom did.

Portia takes a step back. I take a step forward because she must be coming to me, to see me, to hug me.