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Eva

I really have no idea whether they’re bluffing. They don’t seem to have any compunctions about murder, just as a rule. We’re lucky that when we arrive at the station the fast train to Paris is set to leave in seven minutes. Neither of us talks much at the station, or on the train. Jonathan stares out the window as we speed past vineyards and lazy hills and postcard views.

The hour has almost elapsed when Jonathan says, “I can’t do this.” It’s not immediately clear what he’s talking about, but my first thought is that it’s us.

I want to take his hand but I’m afraid he’ll take it away. We haven’t exactly had a normal relationship, but if we had, I would say that our honeymoon period is over. Does he blame me for what’s happening? Is he afraid of losing me? Or does he think that loving me has made him too reckless, too careless, too out of control?

I tried to talk him off the ledge last night, but I’m not sure if he ever really came back. I thought we would have time. I thought we could work things out, but the chasm between us is widening. It was easy to be in love when we were only risking ourselves.

He looks at his wrist to check the time, but his watch is gone. We left it with the ashes and the bones, our stand-in decomposed bodies.

He picks up his phone and starts furiously texting, and calling Mas again and again.

I check the clock at the front of the train car.

“One minute,” I say. Jonathan goes completely still. We are both silent as the minute changes, and in some theoretical world—maybe even in this one—Mas is killed.

“Where do you think he’ll be?” I ask. “Where will we find him?” Dead or alive.

Jonathan rubs his wrist. “The office.” Would they really kill him in a doctor’s office? “He’s always the first one there. He’ll be alone, if he’s there.”

“He’ll be there,” I say. “He’ll be fine.” Jonathan won’t meet my eyes. He knows I’m the one bluffing. I know it, too.