“You’re going to break his heart.”
“No, I’m not,” I say. “That’s sort of the whole point. If I really thought leaving him would break
his heart, then I probably wouldn’t be leaving him in the first place.”
My best friend, Jen, does not look convinced.
Boxes fill a good half of the room. What a mess. Who knew you could accumulate so much junk in only twelve months? At least we weren’t together so long that I can’t re— member who owns what. One year is about the sweet spot for this issue in relationships, apparently.
“The fact of the matter is, we’re not in love. We have no business being engaged, let alone getting married.” I sigh. “Have you seen the packing tape?”
“No. He’s just such a nice guy.”
“I’m not debating that.” I climb to my feet, then head up the stairs to the second bedroom. Thom’s unofficial work— out room/home office. Not a room I normally go into. But it only takes a bit of rummaging to find what I’m looking for. Whatever else might be said about them, insurance assessors are organized. The bottom drawer of Thom’s desk has a neat stash of stationery. I grab a couple rolls of thick tape.
“And leaving him this way…” Jen continues as I head back down.
“How many times have I told him we need to talk? He’s al— ways putting it off, saying it’s not a good time. And now he’s away again. I’ve been messaging him for the last week and he barely replies.”
“You know he has to drop everything once a job comes up. I realize he’s not the most exciting guy, Betty, but—”
“I know.” I smack down a line of tape with extra zest, sealing the lid of the last box. In this Operation Abandon Ship Posthaste, I know I’m definitely slightly the bad guy. But not to— tally. Say sixty/forty. Or maybe seventy/thirty. It’s hard to tell to what degree. “I do know all of that. But he’s always busy with work or away on some business trip. What am I supposed to do?”
A sigh from Jen.
“When you realize you’ve made such a monumental mis— take, it’s hard to sit and wait to fix things. Nor is it fair on either of us to keep up the pretense.”
“Guess so.”
“And the fact that he’s yet again made no effort to prioritize our relationship and make a little time for me in his busy sched— ule is just further proof that I’ve made the right choice in end— ing this now before it gets any more complicated. End of rant.”
Nothing from her.
“Anyway, you’re supposed to be on my side. Stop question— ing me.”
“You wanted to get married and have children so badly.” “Yeah.” I sit back on my heels. “I blame it all on playing
with Ken and Barbie’s dreamhouse when I was little. But it turns out that being in a relationship with the wrong person can be even lonelier than being alone.”
Jen and I have been friends since sharing a room in college. We’ve witnessed the bulk of each other’s dating ups and downs.
For some reason, I’m the type of girl who guys will go out with, but don’t tend to stick with. Apparently, I’m fuckable—just not girlfriend material. Maybe it’s my smart mouth. Maybe it’s the whole not fitting current societal expectations of beauty i.e. I’m fat. Maybe I was born under an unlucky star. I don’t know; it’s their loss. Like anyone, I have my faults, but all in all, I’m awesome. And I have a lot to give. Too often in the past few months, I’ve had to keep reminding myself of this fact.
“There are just so many jerks out there,” Jen says. “I was happy that you’d found a good one.”
“I think I’d prefer a jerk who was genuinely into me than a nice guy phoning it in. Honestly, I’d rather go adopt a dozen cats and settle into old age and isolation than be with someone who treats me as if I’m an afterthought.”
She looks at me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
“Me too.”
“Time to start filling up the cars. Boy, do you owe me.” I smile. “That I do.”
Jen stands and stretches before picking up one of the boxes labeled kitchen. “I just didn’t want you to do something you’d regret, you know?”
“I know. Thank you.”
Alone in the two—bedroom condo, everything is silent. My parting letter sits waiting on the coffee table with his name written on the front. A slight bulge in the envelope betrays the shape of my engagement ring. It’s a sweet, simple ring. One small diamond perched on a band of yellow gold. My hand feels wrong without it. Naked. They say there are different love lan— guages and you have to take the time to learn your partner’s needs. It’s like he and I never quite got there. Or maybe I’m just crappy at relationships.
The bridal magazines I’d collected are in the trash. Perhaps I should have taken them into the florist shop where I work so someone could get some use out of them. But this feels more symbolic, more definite. My family are a couple of states away, and I have only a few of what I’d classify as good friends. Being an introvert makes it hard to meet people. A boyfriend, a hus— band, would mean I’m no longer alone. Someone cares about me and puts me first. At least part of the time. Only Thom doesn’t any of the time, so here we are.
I tighten my ponytail of long dark hair. Then, in a rare dis— play of dexterity that my yoga instructor would be proud of, I stack three boxes in my arms and head outside into the hot af— ternoon sun. Jen’s Honda Civic is parked at the curb, the trunk standing open as she moves things about inside. My old Subaru sits in the driveway waiting to be filled. Birds are singing and in— sects chirping. It’s your typical mild autumn day in California.
That’s when the condo blows up behind me.
I come to on the front lawn, sprawled across crushed boxes. Guess they cushioned my fall. A ringing fills my ears, smoke bil— lows up into the sky. The condo is on fire. What’s left of it, at least. This cannot be happening.
“Betty!”
I try to turn in the direction of Jen’s voice, but one of my eyes won’t open. When I touch the area, my fingers come away bright with blood. Also, my brain hurts. It feels as if someone picked me up and shook me around hard.
“Oh my God, Betty,” she says, falling to her knees beside me. She’s fuzzy for some reason, her familiar features indistinct. “Are you all right?”
“Sure,” I say as blackness closes in.
The next time I wake, I’m lying down in a moving vehicle. An ambulance, by the looks of it. Only things don’t seem quite right. A woman shines a small light in my eyes before tossing it over her shoulder. And instead of a uniform, she’s wearing tight black pants and a tank top.
“Lucky girl. Just a mild concussion and a small cut on her forehead,” the woman says with an English accent. Next she rips an antiseptic wipe out of its packet and starts cleaning up the blood on my face none too gently. “She’s certainly not his usual type.”
“What were you expecting?” asks the driver.
“I don’t know. Something a little less plump and homely, perhaps.”
A grunt.
“And she’s awake,” the woman says. “That’s inconvenient.”
“I’m on it.” She drops the wipe and reaches for a syringe. “W—wait,” I say, my mouth dry and muscles hurting. “What’s
going on?”
Without any preamble, the needle is plunged into my arm, the stopper depressed. It all happens so quickly. I try to move, to push her away, but I’m no match for her strength. Not in my cur— rent condition. As darkness closes in once more, I see a discarded paramedic uniform sitting off to the side.
“Who are you?” I mumble, my lips, face, and everything else going numb.
“Friends,” she says. “Well, sort of.” The driver just laughs.
Consciousness comes slowly. It’s like I’m underwater in an ocean of night. This time, however, I’m upright, seated on a chair in a
large and dimly lit room. My feet rest on the cold bare floor since someone’s stolen my shoes. Everything’s woozy and horrible. My hands are tied behind my back, the restraints painfully tight. The shadows disappear as a blinding light is shone in my face. It’s dazzling and awful, shooting pain through my already pounding head. Next comes a bucket of ice—cold water thrown in my face. “Wakey wakey,” yells the shadow of a man. “Time for us to
talk, Miss Elizabeth Dawsey.”
I cringe and shiver. “Wh—where am I?”
“I ask the questions and you give me answers. That’s how this works.”
“Is all this really necessary?” the woman with the British ac— cent asks. Her voice comes from farther back in the room. “He’s not going to be happy.”
“Keep your mouth shut,” growls the man.
With the light blinding my eyes, there’s little I can see. My bare feet rest on concrete and the air is dusty and still. I could be anywhere. “I don’t understand. Who are you people?”
Heavy footsteps come toward me; then smack! His hand
connects with my cheek. Fothermucker. I’ve never been hit be— fore. It’s a hell of a shock. My face throbs and there’s the taste of blood on my tongue. I must have bitten it. But then everything pretty much hurts to one degree or another.
“I wouldn’t have done that if I were you,” says the woman. But the man just ignores her, stepping back beyond the light.
“What does the word ‘wolf ’ mean to you?” “Wolf ?” I ask.
“Answer the question.”
“I don’t…what do you mean?” I shake from more than fear, ice—cold water sliding down my skin beneath the drenched cloth— ing. “As in the animal?”
“What else?”
“Fur? Teeth? House Stark? I don’t know.” Laughter from the woman.
“Tell me about your fiancé,” he demands. “Everything you know about the man.”
This makes no sense to my already—addled brain. “But why? Thom hasn’t done anything. He’s an insurance assessor, for Christ’s sake. Whenever there’s a fire or a flood or something, he goes and helps people with their claims. That’s where he is right now, assessing damage from that hurricane in Florida. It was on the news and everything.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“What are you saying?” A sudden surge of fear grips me. “Thom’s okay, isn’t he? I mean, he couldn’t have been in the ex— plosion. He’s on the other side of the country.”
“He wasn’t in the explosion, no. Tell me more about him.” “Ah, we met in a bar downtown, been together for just over
a year. He’s a hard worker. He likes watching football and going for morning runs. His favorite food is lasagna and he drinks Bud Light even though it’s trash.”
“MORE.”
“I don’t know what you want,” I cry. Never in my life have I been so scared.
“Describe him to me.”
“He’s just an average guy. Average height. Fit, but not bulky.
He has brown eyes and hair. Thirty—one years old.”
“Tick—tock, tick—tock,” says the woman. “You’re running out of time.”
“Whose fucking fault is that?” hisses the man.
“Guess I gave her more sleep juice than I meant to. Oops.” A grunt. “Keep talking, bitch.”
My head pounds. “I, um…he sleeps on the right—hand side of the bed.”
“What weapons does he keep in the house?” “Like guns? None. I hate the things. We both do.”
Again, the woman laughs. “Not the brightest, is she?” “Keep talking,” repeats the man.
“Thom’s a decent person. He’s nice…polite. Doesn’t do social media. Has no close family.” Nothing I’m telling them is damning or even particularly interesting. Still, I feel guilty for an— swering at all. But what the hell else am I supposed to do? “Is this what you want to know? I don’t understand; what’s he done? What’s he involved in?”
“Who says he’s involved in anything?”
“The fact that I’m here and you’re questioning me says something’s going on.”
“Watch it. I don’t think you appreciate how nice I’m be— ing,” says the creep. “Things could get much worse for you very quickly. You have no idea exactly how bad things could get.”
“I don’t know what you want. Are you the ones who blew up the condo?” My heart is pounding and I can’t seem to get enough air. “Are you going to kill me?”
“Asking me questions again. Tsk tsk. You just never learn. Perhaps you’d like to try some waterboarding, hmm? Does that sound like fun?”
I choke on a sob.
“Got to say, it really messes you up. Feels just like you’re drowning. You start suffocating and water gets in your lungs, which fucking stings, let me tell you. And your sinuses feel like they’re going to explode. Eventually, Betty, you’ll lose conscious— ness. Then I’ll wake you back up not so gently and we’ll start all over again.” The sadistic prick laughs. “I hate to do it. But I just don’t think you’re being entirely truthful with me, you see? It’s sad, really. All of this football—and—lasagna bullshit, it’s just sur— face information. You must know more about the man you live
with, the man you’re going to marry. You’d have to know all his secrets by now, wouldn’t you?”
I shake my head. “Thom doesn’t have any secrets.” “Everyone has secrets.”
“No, not Thom. I mean, he hates his boss and he takes his coffee black.” I’m babbling now, the words tripping over them— selves in their haste to get out. “He’s a bit of a loner. Only has a couple of friends f—from college, work…I don’t…oh, God.”
“Do you talk to your friends about Thom?”
“Well, I talk to my friend Jen. Wait, where is Jen? Have you taken her too?”
“The friend checks out,” says the woman. “She’s clean.” “Is Jen okay?” I repeat. “Did you hurt her?”
“Your nosy little friend is fine. Took a lot of talking to keep her out of the ambulance,” says the man. “Maybe we should have brought her along. I think you just need a bit more encour— agement to help your memory.”
“Are you sure about this?” asks the woman.
“Use your head,” he snaps. “If they’ve found the condo, then they know about this one. If they know about her, they’ll have tried to compromise her. Get her on the floor.”
“Oh, no. I’m observing only,” says the woman. “You’re on your own with this.”
The light clicks off and white spots dance before my eyes. I blink and blink, but it’s a while before I can see anything. In the meantime, there are noises. Water running from a tap. More heavy footsteps. The near—silent hiss of the frigid air—condition— ing turning on.
Slowly, gradually, things swim into focus. We’re in an empty basement by the look of it. Small barred windows set high. Bare brick walls and a concrete floor. Over by a laundry tub, the man stands with his back to me. He’s tall with a shaved head, dressed
in all black. Meanwhile, the woman leans against a wall inspect— ing her nails. She’s petite with short dark hair and golden—brown skin.
This isn’t real. It can’t be real. Everything hurts. And it’s about to hurt a lot more.
Someone jogs down the stairs, coming into view a bit at a time. First are the black boots. Next is blue jeans. Then a gray T—shirt hanging loose. Finally, I see his face…
And it’s Thom.
Relief rushes through me. He’s here. He’s okay. Oh, thank God. Though, now that I really pay attention, he seems different than normal. My addled brain can’t figure it out exactly. As if it’s Thom’s doppelgänger. Because it looks like him, but the expres— sion on his face…
Oh, shit. What if they’re going to hurt him too? “Thom,” I gasp. “No.”
He spares me only the briefest of glances. “What’s going on?” The creep turns, mouth set in a distinctly pissy line. Water keeps pouring out of the faucet into a bucket, presumably, and
he’s holding a piece of ripped towel. “Wolf.” “Spider,” says Thom.
“Since we had to pick her up, they wanted a threat assess— ment.” The woman continues to lean casually against the wall.
“It’s sanctioned,” snarls the man. Spider.
“And you decided that meant tying her up and torturing her?” asks Thom. “I don’t think so.”
The woman sighs. “For the record, I told him it wasn’t a good idea.”
“You were right.”
“Hey, now.” The man lifts his hands in a pacifying way. “I wasn’t actually going to do it. I was just messing with her head. You know how it works, you’ve got to—”
It all happens so quickly. The work of a moment, no more. Thom’s hand lunges for Spider’s throat, crushing his windpipe. The man doubles over, choking.
Unhurried, Thom draws a gun from his belt. One smooth, graceful arc, and the gun’s butt strikes the side of the man’s head. He drops to the floor.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for years,” the woman says. “He always liked hurting women a little too much for my tastes. Such a rubbish human.”
It’s the last straw for me. I’m not used to all the threats and fear and violence. In movies maybe, but not actual real—world stuff. Acid climbs my throat and I lean to the side to throw up. Vomit splashes the side of my leg. I’m too freaked out to feel the usual disgust. Instead, I feel frail and hollow. Like I might cave in on myself at any moment.
“Fox, get him out of here,” orders Thom in a calm voice. “Fuck’s sake. I hate carrying dead weight.” The woman,
Fox, pulls out a cell, thumbs moving across the screen, sending someone a message instead of following orders. Perhaps she’s checking her social media first. I don’t know. Nothing about this makes sense.
Thom strides toward me, his face hard, eyes cold. I’ve never been afraid of him, but I am now. He produces a knife out of nowhere and squats down to cut the ties on my wrists. Then he grabs my chin, inspecting me.
I push him away, wipe my mouth clean with the back of a hand. My world has suddenly turned upside down. Thom the kickass fighter and me almost blown—up and waterboarded. What the hell?
“Thom…” I breathe.
His dark hair is this cool artful mess instead of following its usual dull, neat lines. And there’s a focus to him, a determination.
No, a confidence. That’s the difference between this man and my former fiancé. He stands tall and strong. Ready to conquer nations, to take on anything and win.
Holy shit. Who is this guy?
Because this isn’t my Thom. It can’t be. “Your eyes are blue,” I say.
“I wear contacts around you.”
“No. You’re his evil twin or something.” This makes total sense. Sort of. “That’s it.”
“Don’t be silly,” he replies shortly. “It’s me, Betty. Your fi— ancé.”
“I know Thom. He’s nothing like you. He would never…”
He pauses, then sighs. “You’ve seen my scars. You know them.”
“I know Thom’s scars, but…”
Without a word, he pulls his T—shirt up and over his head. Thom’s always been fit, but in the shadowy light, with the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans now exposed, the rippled body before me looks hard and dangerous. However, the scars are indeed there. Every one of them. One on the shoulder. A slash on his upper right arm. Four across his stomach, like a little constellation.
I shake my head. “Thom would never take his shirt off in public. He’s too self—conscious. We didn’t even have sex with the light on.”
“Self—conscious about the damage from the car accident, right?”
“Yeah, and the scars from playing sports and a surgery when he was younger.”
“I don’t care about them.” He sighs. “It was just too much of a risk that someone might recognize gunshot, knife, and shrap— nel wounds if they saw them.”
Huh. “Thom?”
“Hi, babe.” He gives me a sad, sort of contrite smile. For the first time, he looks exactly like my Thom.
“What the hell is going on?”
He says nothing. But his gaze moves over me, taking in my battered face, my bruised body. It stops, however, at my hands. “Betty, where’s your ring?”
“I—I took it off. I was leaving you.”
For the first time, this scary alternate version of Thom seems almost surprised. A little shocked even. “You left me? Why would you…” Then he looks over his shoulder at Fox, who is carrying Spider away, holding him over one shoulder, fireman style. She’s obviously stronger than she looks. Thom leans in close, his voice harsh and low. “Tell no one. Do you understand?”
“What? But why?”
“No one. Your life depends on it.”
Returning without Spider, Fox wanders over. “All orga— nized.”
“Good,” answers Thom.
“Of course, this is all your own bloody fault,” says Fox. “You’re the one who wanted a white picket fence and suburban family for a cover. Yawn.”
Thom draws me to my feet and I sway like I’m caught in a storm. He slides a strong arm around my waist, drawing me against his body. I don’t want to touch him, this stranger who uses violence so easily. But my options for staying upright and getting out of here are limited.
“The internal leak is being investigated,” says Fox. “We should have something for you soon.”
Thom just nods.
“What do I say to Spider when he regains consciousness?” asks Fox.
“Tell him if he ever touches my fiancée again, I won’t be so diplomatic next time.”
Fox snorts. “Whatever. Cheerio, Betty. No hard feelings, yeah?”
Thom hustles me out of there as fast as he can.
“I know you’ve got questions.”
What an understatement. We’re upstairs in one of the many bedrooms inside the sprawling old ranch house. It’s somewhere in the wilds of one of the canyons, at a guess. No neighbors are in sight. Apart from Fox, the unconscious Spider, and a man working at a serious array of computers in the great room, the place seems empty. There’s basic furniture only. No pictures or keepsakes. Nothing to indicate it’s a home.
And it’s all so surreal. I want to keep pinching myself, but I hurt enough already. Which reminds me: “Was anyone else harmed in the explosion?”
“No.”
“It was meant to kill?”
“As best we can figure, the bomb malfunctioned. Went off early.”
“Someone actually tried to blow us up. I wonder…I went into your office looking for tape. I don’t usually go in there.”
His nostrils flare. “That could have been it.”
“So there’s a leak in your organization and someone wants to kill you,” I say, voice shaking. “Or you and me both?”
“You were paying attention back there.”
“I’m not as stupid as you think I am.” I almost laugh. Or cry.
One or the other. “At least, I hope I’m not.” “Babe—”
“Do not babe me.”
He takes a deep breath, pushing a hand through his hair. The past few months, he’s been so busy it’s longer than normal. Way overdue for a cut. “I never thought you were stupid, Betty.”
“No. Just desperate.”
He says nothing. Confirmation enough. Not that I needed
it.
“Well?” I ask.
“Until we can identify who’s passing off information, we
won’t know if the target is just me. It would, however, make the most sense.”
“Unless they wanted to kill me to hurt you. Though it wouldn’t hurt you, would it?”
His lips thin ever so slightly. “Given I cold—cocked the last person who harmed you, I think we can assume I care at least a little.”
“A little. That’s big of you.” I sit on the side of the king— size bed, trying to ease the nerves, tiredness, and pain. What I wouldn’t give for Tylenol or something stronger. A bottle of me— dicinal vodka, maybe. “What happens now?”
“Now we wait to see what the searches Badger’s doing on the computers dig up. We’re safe here for the moment.”
“Badger.” I snort. “Is there an Otter?” “Not that I’m aware of.”
“You and your friends are a regular fucking zoo.”
The following silence is thick and heavy. Not comfortable at all. And to think I’d planned to spend my life with this man. This stranger.
“She referred to me and our life together as your cover. Does that make you a spy or a government agent or what?”
“Something like that.”
“Oh my God, are you a traitor?”
“No, Betty. The ones I work for…they’re an international
group dedicated to keeping things as unfucked as possible. That’s really all I can say.”
“And these people, you kill for them?”
There’s the slightest of pauses before he answers. “When it’s necessary. There are some dangerous people out there. But other times I just gather information. Each job is different.”
“They usually involve you pretending to be someone you’re not, though, right? Lying to people?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. You’re very good at it.” I watch him carefully. “So are you doing this for the good of humankind or for the money?” “Can’t it be both?” he asks all smooth—like. New Thom is
slippery.
“What did you mean, my life depended on not saying any— thing about leaving you?”
“You know too much now. The only thing keeping you alive is that they, the people in charge, think you’re loyal to me and that I’m committed to you. If those beliefs change, then they will review their risk—reward calculation about keeping you alive.”
“All I know is that you name yourselves after animals and answer to some mysterious organization referred to as ‘they.’”
“That’s enough.”
“It’s ridiculous they’d want me dead just for knowing that.” I want to beat him with my fists. Scream and howl in rage. Maybe later when I’ve got the energy. “Is Thom Lange even your real name?”
“Thom is my name.”
“But Lange’s not your surname.”
“No.” He pauses. “Why did you want to leave?”
“Does it matter why I attempted to dump you, since we’re apparently now stuck with each other?”
“I thought you were happy.” The weird thing is, he sounds almost hurt. Which is crazy. “I know I’ve been busy lately, but—” “You do remember this is a fake relationship you’re talking about,” I say between clenched teeth. “A lie that you manipu—
lated and tricked me into believing.”
For a moment, we just stare at each other. Neither of us is happy.
“Given how badly I held up under pressure, I can almost for— give you for not telling me the whole truth. But I really don’t think I can ever forgive you for starting this relationship in the first place.”
“Everyone breaks under torture; it’s just a matter of when.” He doesn’t address the second issue. Doesn’t even go near it.
“Great.”
“You’re exhausted; you should sleep.” He nods to a door on the other side of the large bedroom. “Bathroom is through there if you want to clean up. I’ll check on you later.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll be right outside. You’re safe, Betty.”
I don’t know what to say. This new Thom doesn’t feel safe at all.
And then he’s gone.
I have no idea where we are or how far from civilization we might be. And I have neither money nor shoes. My chances of making a successful getaway are slim to none. For now, there’s no other real option but to stay put and figure out this situation. My supposed fiancé seems to want to keep me alive and in one piece. It’s something, I guess.
The woman in the bathroom mirror is pale and pasty, bat— tered and bruised. I turn on the shower, testing the temperature with a hand. Red marks line my wrists, further reminder of the crazy and violent day. My clothes stink of smoke and vomit, but
there’s soap and shampoo, towels and a fluffy white robe. It’ll have to do. I need to put myself back together and deal.
Only the first tear leaves a trail in the soot and general mess of my face. A second tear follows fast. Soon my vision wavers and I step into the shower, hiding the sound of my crying with the running water. It’d be great to be able to handle this, to stay strong. But first I apparently need a minute to let it all out. All of the anger, stress, and horror of the past few hours. All of my fear.
Because I’m trapped. That’s what it comes down to in the end.
