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“Both.”
“What if only one of those things is possible?”
I slide a hand across the mattress until I’m touching the handle of the knife. “I think everything’s on the table, don’t you?”
He responds with an eye roll and a sigh, as if bored by the idea of me actually using the knife.
“Look at you acting all tough,” he says. “I have to admit, even this weak attempt at threatening me is a surprise. I might have underestimated you a little.”
I wrap my fingers around the knife. “More than a little.”
“There’s just one problem,” he says. “Some unfinished business I’m not sure you’ve thought of yet.”
In all likelihood, he’s right. There’s a lot I haven’t thought of. None ofthis was planned. I’m working without a script now, improvising wildly and hoping I don’t fuck it all up.
“I’m not going anywhere.” He moves his arms as far as they can go, the ropes binding them to the bedposts stretched taut. “And you’re clearly staying. Which leaves me curious about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“What you plan on doing with TomRoyce.”
BEFORE
I let the phone keep ringing, too stunned to end the call. For his part, Boone doesn’t bother to answer it. He knows who’s calling.
Me.
Trying to reach the same person who had called Katherine Royce.
“I can explain,” he says at the same time the call transfers to his voicemail recording, bringing two versions of Boone to my ears. They wind around each other, performing a surreal duet.
“Hi, I’m not available to take your call. Please—”
“—listen to me, Casey. I know what—”
“—your name and number, and I’ll—”
“—thinking, and I can assure—”
“—you back.”
I tap my phone, cutting off the recorded Boone as the real one gets up from the kitchen counter and takes a step toward me.
“Don’t,” I warn.
Boone raises his hands, palms up, in a gesture of innocence. “Please just hear me out.”
“Why were you calling her?”
“Because I was worried,” Boone says. “I’d called her the day before, not getting any answer. And when I saw you break into the house, I called one last time, hoping that we were wrong and she was there avoiding me andthat you barging in like that would force her to answer the phone and tell me she was okay.”
“Avoiding you? You told me you barely knew her. That you’d only met once or twice. You said the same thing to Wilma. That seems like a lot of concern for someone you claimed not to know very well.”
Boone sits back down at the counter, a smug look on his face. “You have no right to judge. You hardly knew Katherine.”
I can’t argue with that. Katherine and I were barely past the acquaintance stage when she disappeared.
“At least I didn’t lie about it,” I say.