Cristina slaps the clipboard on the desk. “We won’t worry about the funding. We’ll crack the problem and collect on the back end.”
“Fine.” The two of them bend over the laptop as Cristina’s fingers race over the keyboard.
Beckett raises his head and catches my eye. He has been listening. Thank God. I wish we could talk it out right now, but I don’t want Cristina and Phil to hear us.
Back when I was researching my next book, the one that will come after Bloody Heart, Wild Woods, I pulled on that thread, searching for more information on Spiegler, and instead of leading me to my parents, it sent me down a rabbit hole. Tracing James Spiegler took me from one website to another, from government labs to prison studies to university faculty.
Chilled, I realize another place those digital bread crumbs led—this location. This abandoned missile silo that had been converted into a house by James Spiegler. Clearly it’s been updated since then. Now the connections—my parents, war crimes, enhanced interrogation—narrow down to a single question.
My body goes as rigid as the metal slats I’m gripping. What’s going to happen to me and Beckett?
It doesn’t matter if we talk to each other or scream or cry. Cristina and Phil don’t care if we overhear them, and they haven’t bothered to cover their faces. I’ve known what that means since I first saw Cristina—they won’t be letting us go.
Desperate, I look back at Beckett. For a moment I feel for him the way I used to, back when we could communicate with a glance. Silently I tell him I need you.
He reaches up for my hand, but it feels like he’s pulling me down, sucking my strength.
My mind is spinning with images of prisoners hooded, electrocuted, abandoned. I slide to the floor, sitting beside Beckett with my back against the wall. His hand is the only warmth, the only comfort. It’s not enough, but it’s all I have.
We’re no longer lost in the woods; we’re in the maw of the beast.
CHAPTER
15
AVA
CRISTINA AND PHIL leave, and when the door seals shut behind them, Beckett and I are alone in the darkness of their scientific lair with the faintest hum of electronics and just enough ambient light to discern the metal gate. The cold seeps into my bones, and my mind won’t stop turning over everything I’ve heard, trying to follow these crumbs of information to a real conclusion.
I let go of Beckett’s hand and stand up. Now we’re finally able to talk together, and this time we won’t fire off questions or flail around struggling to figure out the basics.
There’s a pale-blue light from the security panel and another from a power strip by the computers. As the minutes crawl by, our eyes adjust and it’s easier to see.
Scanning the room, I notice a small red light in one corner near the ceiling, and I think it must be a camera. I turn my back on it.
Beckett hoists himself to his feet, just a shadow beside me. “Did you hear them talking about Nancy and Walter? Is this about a ransom?”
“I don’t know. I think it’s more than that.” I’ve been unfair to Beckett. He was paying attention, not just zoning out. But he processes everything verbally, and I wish he’d be quiet so I could think.
No such luck. “Because you’re a big-deal writer? Just pay them. You must have plenty of money. I’m not worth a ransom, not on my salary. Nobody pays to read literature.”
Familiar irritation flares inside me. He means I’ve got money only because I’m a sellout, pandering to the masses—that’s his favorite excuse for failure, believing he’s unappreciated and artistically better than me. It still stings a little, as though my pursuit of my dreams cost us our marriage. That’s exactly why I wrote my first novel in secret, when I was supposed to be marking student compositions or working on the collection of interlocking short stories that would have been my thesis. A garland of unhappy relationships, generation after generation of ennui.
“They don’t want my money.” You idiot. Even if they do, paying it won’t set us free. They’ve already shown us too much to let us go. I can’t believe he hasn’t picked up on that, but then, he’s historically terrible at noticing anything outside his own head. Beckett is solipsism on two legs.
Whatever their end game, it’s not as simple as bind, torture, kill—no, this is something less personal, more scientific. Or at least, Cristina thinks it is.
But as a writer, I know something she doesn’t—it’s always personal. We all tell ourselves stories to justify our actions, but believing your own story is a foolish mistake. The more personal Cristina’s motivation, the less she might even realize it, and that could give me an edge.
Beckett’s still talking. “I bet you’ve got money to pay them. Or Walter. Your folks must have a ton saved up.”
He’s putting the information together, but it’s taking too long. Hearing him make every mental step out loud might kill me. And I know I’m being unfair, but my teeth are gritted as I say, “They were talking about research, about SERE—”
“Your parents won’t pay for me, of course.” Beckett runs both hands roughly through his hair, like he can wipe the slate clean. “What am I even doing here?”
I try again. “They were talking about military torture techniques—”
“So they might make torture videos and send them to get your folks to pay up? I think your publisher would pay more.”
“Just listen for a minute. They were talking—”
“I have been listening.” His gaze darts past me in constant motion. “They’re coming back tomorrow to get started, they’re not covering their faces, so they’re not going to let us go even if your parents pay them—or your husband, your new one.”
The pieces are falling into place, but I’m irritated instead of relieved that he’s caught up. Not only is he ignoring everything I’ve been saying; now he’s taking a swipe at Glenn? “Not that new. I’ve been married to Glenn twice as long as I was married to you.” Oh, it feels good to say this. After all, it’s his fault our marriage failed.
“So where is he now? Why didn’t they take him?” Beckett asks, like he’s trying to imply something.
“Because you were easier. Glenn’s a fighter.” That feels even better. In a horrible way, quarreling with Beckett feels so right, not least because I’m so good at it.
He flushes, and I know I’ve hit him where it hurts. “Then the two of you are a great match. That’s probably what happened. You were a total bitch and he set this up to get to your money. Let me guess, you have a prenup, right? He gets nothing if you dump him.”
I will not flinch, but my nails are cutting into the palms of my hands. “He’s got nothing to worry about.”
“You think he’s not cheating on you?”
“Because he’s not jealous of me. How long did it take after my book deal for you to start sleeping with students? A couple weeks?” I pitch my voice high. “Congratulations, honey, on your success; now I’m going to start screwing around.”
His eyes narrow, and one corner of his lip twists into a sneer. “Maybe if you hadn’t been such a stone-cold bitch—”