Replica (Replica #1)(104)

He was getting agitated. His hand was shaking again. She was worried he might accidentally discharge the gun.

“We’ll listen,” she said. “We’ll listen all you want. Isn’t that right, Pete?”

“Sure,” he said. His voice cracked. He licked his lips. “Of course we will.”

“Keep going,” Rick Harliss said, giving Pete a nudge in the neck again when he started to slow down at a yellow light. Instead Pete sped through it. “Highway,” Harliss said, when they came up on signs for I-27, and a sour taste flooded Gemma’s mouth. Somehow getting on the highway made everything seem irreversible. Not like she would have rolled out of the car at a red light, but still.

She closed her eyes. She needed to focus. “Okay, you want to talk. So let’s talk, okay?” She’d heard once that in abduction situations it was important to share personal information, to get chatty, to humanize yourself. “Let’s start with names, okay? This is my friend Pete. Pete has terrible taste in music—”

“Shut up,” Harliss said. “I’m trying to think.”

“—but he’s a decent guy, all around, really. Probably the most decent guy I’ve ever met.” Gemma realized, even as she said it, how true it was. Poor Pete and the mess she’d dragged him into. And he’d never complained, not once. If they made it through without getting shot or butchered, she was going to buy him a lifetime supply of gummy bears.

She was going to kiss him.

“Gemma,” Pete said softly, and his voice held a warning, but she didn’t care.

“And my name is Gemma Ives,” she said. “Germ Ives. At least that’s what the girls in my grade always called me, because I was sick a lot as a kid—”

“I know who you are.” Harliss’s voice cracked. “Jesus. Stop talking, okay? You’re making my head hurt.”

Gemma pressed her hands hard into her thighs, digging with her fingernails, letting the pain focus her. She was scared to anger him further. But she had to make him see that she understood, that she knew him. That she was on his side. She had to buy them time. “I know who you are, too, Mr. Harliss.”

Pete sucked in a sharp breath. For a split second the silence in the car was electric, and she worried she’d made a mistake. She was in too deep to stop now. She had to keep talking.

“You used to work for my dad, didn’t you? I must have been just a little kid. But still. That day at the gas station. My dog recognized you. After all these years, he knew your smell.”

“What did your dad tell you about me?” Harliss asked. He sounded like he was talking through a mouth full of nails.

“He didn’t tell me anything,” Gemma said. She didn’t dare risk turning around. “I read about you. I read about you and about your girl—Brandy-Nicole. She disappeared when she was just a baby.” Harliss whimpered. “I know you think that the Home Foundation had something to do with it. But I’m telling you, Pete and I don’t know anything. We’re just as confused as you are—”

“Bullshit.” The word was an explosion. Pete winced and Gemma bit her lip, trying not to cry. “Your dad was in it up to his neck. Don’t tell me you don’t know. It was all because of Haven. It was his fault they needed money. It was his fault they started grabbing kids in the first place. Your dad knew. He fucking knew all about it.” Rick Harliss took the gun from Pete’s head for just a second, just long enough to wipe his nose on his sleeve. Before Gemma could do anything, or even contemplate doing anything, it was back. “They took her from me.”

“Please,” Gemma said. “We can help you. We’ll get people to listen to you. But please just let us go. . . .”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. He did sound sorry. They were coming up on an exit for Randolph. He gestured to it with the gun. “Pull off here. This is far enough.”


He directed them to a Super 8 motel. They climbed out of the car. Gemma first, carefully, conscious of the gun angling in her direction as if it were a live thing, a dog snapping at its tether, trying to get loose. Pete and Rick Harliss left the car together. Rick kept his gun, now concealed inside his sweatshirt pocket, trained on Pete’s back. He herded Pete and Gemma together, forcing them to walk side by side directly in front of him, so they shuffled awkwardly toward the lobby together, bumping elbows. Rick Harliss kept stepping on Gemma’s heel. It would have been funny if it weren’t so awful.

“Some knight I am,” Pete said quietly. He found Gemma’s hand and squeezed. When he tried to let go, she interlaced their fingers instead. “I’m sorry, Gemma.”

She almost couldn’t speak. “You’re sorry?” She shook her head. “This is all my fault.”

“Quiet,” Harliss said as they jostled together through the door. Gemma felt like a Ping-Pong ball bouncing around a tiny space. She was sure the receptionist would notice something was wrong—she was desperately hoping for it—and kept trying to telegraph desperation through her eyes. He’s got a gun. He’s got a gun.

But the receptionist was flipping through a magazine and barely even glanced up at them.

“Can I help you?” She had long pink nails with faded decals on them. Sunflowers.

“We need a room.” Harliss pulled out some crumpled twenties and placed them on the counter.