Silver Lining Page 8

  “That’s a big word, overthrow.” He’s trying to look sincere, this guy. Trying to look like he means what he says, with the corners of his mouth turned down and his eyes on me like I’m a difficult student and not literally chained to the table. “I’m not sure that’s what Elijah North did. But did he take money from the wrong people? Yes. Did he trust the wrong people? Yes.”

  He trusted me. “I don’t believe you.”

  He folds his hands in front of him. “Evidence doesn’t lie.”

  “I explained to you what happened with the colonel.” I didn’t break my promise to Elijah, not really. I did say that he shot the colonel, but I also explained that it was self defense. That the colonel was hounding him through France and Italy, that he refused to let him go. That he was going to use me as a pawn to get Elijah to obey him.

  “If a foreign agency paid him to assassinate the colonel—”

  That’s the word they’ve been using. Assassinate. As if the colonel was some high-ranking political leader who was targeted by extremists. I can’t prove that there wasn’t a political agenda unless I admit that I shot the colonel, and that would break my promise. “It was self defense.”

  “He didn’t only betray his country.”

  It takes effort not to crush the styrofoam cup. I know what he’s going to say. I should have known this whole time. I should have stayed silent.

  “He betrayed you, too. He’s doing it as we speak.”

  “Really?” I’ve already given enough of myself to this man and all the others who took me away from Elijah. “Is that true? Tell me how. Give me every last detail.”

  “He told us that you were the one behind the plot. That you shot the colonel.”

  A weird, high laugh escapes me. He’s trying to scare me, and the strange part is, it’s working. Not because I believe him. I don’t. My faith in Elijah has never been more sure, but it’s terrifying to realize how easily the U.S. government can lie. “I don’t believe you. You won’t give me the details, you won’t show me where he is. You won’t take me to him.”

  He barely manages to keep himself from rolling his eyes.

  For a heartbeat he looks like a bug, staring at me so he won’t slump down in his seat and groan at how tedious this all is. It would be a relief, in a way, for this situation to be boring and commonplace and not an enormous victory for them.

  Well, they already got Elijah. They got me, and I couldn’t stop them. I’m not going to give them anything else.

  I don’t let myself think about the ways they might take it from me. My teeth ache from clenching them together. I want to repeat myself. Damn those old, people-pleasing instincts. I don’t do it.

  “Fine.” He stands up and looms over me. Worry whispers over the place where my spine meets my skull. “If you won’t tell me about Elijah, maybe your sister will be more forthcoming. They’ve met, haven’t they?”

  Fear runs cold over my skin. “You don’t know anything about my sister.”

  He gives a slight grimace. “And I’d love to leave her out of it, but how can I do that when you won’t cooperate with me? I need answers, Holly, one way or another.”

  “I thought Elijah was already talking. You said that. That he was betraying me. So why do you need answers from me, too?”

  Annoyance flashes through his eyes. He doesn’t like that I’ve caught him in his own web, but he recovers quickly enough. “He’s busy spinning a story in the room next door. He wants us to believe that it’s all your fault, that you’re some kind of international spy, but I don’t believe that, Holly. I don’t. I think you’re just a girl who got caught up in a bad situation.”

  You could say that. I lived an ordinary life before this, but if I had never gotten on that plane to France, if I had never been kidnapped by Adam Bisset, I never would have found Elijah again. I’m not sure I would undo the past even if I could. “So if I’m just an ordinary girl in a bad situation, why am I sitting in chains right now?”

  More annoyance. “I need answers. Understand?”

  “You haven’t asked a question.”

  “Who is Elijah North working for? Who gave him orders to kill the colonel?”

  I swallow hard, knowing there’s no way out of this. Elijah was right about that. He understood what was coming better than I did. They think there’s some plot to take down the government, and it doesn’t matter that they’re wrong. We can never prove our innocence. It’s an impossible task. Maybe I deserve to be free for shooting a person as despicable and violent as the colonel. Or maybe I deserve to be locked up for the rest of my life. I’m far more afraid that there’s a different fate waiting for me, though. That’s what Elijah was worried about. The low flickering lights make it feel like we’re deep in a bunker somewhere. We drove far out of the city before getting here. No one knows where we are. Even if London had the resources to look for me, she wouldn’t know where to start.

  The easiest thing to do is simply make us disappear.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Elijah

  This beating is for amateurs.

  If I was in charge of this and not Blue Shirt, I’d have built in some time for anticipation. These guys went right for the physical violence. That’s a fine strategy, except for the fact that they didn’t play any foundational mind games first. It’s nothing but Holly, Holly, Holly and fists to the face. The electric shocks were an interesting twist but it turned out they got squeamish earlier than I would have.

  The whole thing is taking too long.

  My hands are behind my back again, and they’ve tipped the chair forward to kick my stomach from new angles. I’ve decided to start making more noise just so they think some progress is happening.

  I would have taught them to do better.

  I would have had the information inside an hour. It’s about increasing the pain in slow increments, not battering a person until it’s all the same to them whether they live or die.

  Another knee connects below my ribs. This time the bloom of pain is different. Uh-oh.

  Facts are facts: if someone hits you hard enough, for long enough, some internal bleeding is the result. There’s a maximum limit that any one person can take. Another blow, this time directly on ribs, cracks one of them and interrupts my thought process. Oh, right—I don’t have much time left.

  At this rate, Blue Shirt is going to underestimate the damage and accidentally kill me.

  Even so.

  I bide my time until they let the chair fall backward. This is the second time my head has broken the fall and I feel it in my teeth. Let them think that a bruised skull is what finally makes me suck in a breath. “Okay. Okay, okay.”

  Blue Shirt looks like a demon with a halo. Disappointment flickers across his face. He’s got his boot poised over my already-cracked rib. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Over the course of our interrogation I’ve learned that the man is not actually Army but a Paramilitary Operations Officer with the CIA. His name is Joseph LeGrange, and his youngest wants a kitten for Christmas. He’s given me more information than I’ve given him.

  He brings the boot down anyway and this time I taste copper. “I said okay, motherfucker.”

  “Pick him up.”

  The three of them maneuver me into an upright position. Zero points for creativity. Tipping over a fucking chair is effective, but it’s not awe-inspiring. The only thing I’ve ever been awed by is Holly.

  The prisoner’s dilemma has one fatal flaw. Thinking of Holly reminds me of that. The prisoner’s dilemma assumes both prisoners want the best deal for themselves. I don’t want that. I’ve known from the minute they dragged me in here that I wasn’t walking back out again. So a good deal for me is the least of my worries.

  Holly’s freedom is the only thing that matters.

  The only thing.

  I ignore the grasping, aching urge to touch her again and spend a few more moments pretending to compose myself. The one thing they haven’t tried is offering to let me see her again. It stri
kes me as a huge oversight, but then again, Blue Shirt is an idiot.

  “I shot the colonel.” I keep my eyes on Blue Shirt’s while I say it. He’s the kind of fool who will take the eye contact at face value, even after all the fun time we’ve spent together. “I brought the gun to the apartment, planning to take that bastard out.”

  “That’s not all you did.” Blue Shirt rubs a hand over his knuckles and I swallow a sigh. I’m already confessing. Jesus Christ.

  “Hell no. I kidnapped Holly.” I let a big, crazy smile spread over my face, showing them bloody teeth. It’s a half-genuine smile. Being with Holly at all, for any amount of time, is what makes this bearable. “I kidnapped her and I held her hostage.”

  A sneer curls the corner of his mouth. “You sick bastard.”

  “I raped her. So many times. She was my best victim.” I think of her in the church. Before we drove away in the SUV. Before she decided to be a hero and shoot the colonel for me. Before that, I fucked her, hard and relentless, and she loved it. She was as pink and breathless as a doll when it was over. I focus on the feeling of my fingers between her legs. “It was an international crime. I raped her in several countries and forced her to cross the borders against her will. I forced her to do everything.”

  I want to lose myself in thinking of her. It’s too early for that. Saying a confession out loud is only the beginning of the act.

  I clear my throat and it brings up fresh blood. Not the most positive sign, but I should have enough time left to do what I have to do to save her. “Write it up.”

  Blue Shirt narrows his eyes and glances over to his buddies. He looks like he wants to beat more confessions out of me. A goddamn hammer instead of a scalpel, this guy.

  The government is getting sloppy, but it doesn’t really matter. Not when you have billions of dollars in a defense budget and enough nukes to destroy the world ten times over.

  Even sloppy wins.

  “Write it up and I’ll sign it.” I taste more blood along with the words. It tastes like the truth. I’d sign anything if it means Holly lives. I’d sign anything to let her go free.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Holly

  The water has been running in the sink for so long that I’ve lost track of the time.

  My kitchen sink. Running. The sound snaps me out of whatever reverie I’ve been in. At some point, I came over here to do something involving the sink. I turned on the water. Something caught my attention out the narrow kitchen window. It has a partial view of the alley next to the building, and a partial view of the street.

  I don’t know what I was looking at anymore.

  Was it a white van that I saw or a postal truck? I have a hazy memory of both things. But, given the evidence of the sink, I’m not sure my memory is reliable at all.

  I reach to turn off the water and find a mug in my hand. Right. That’s why I came here. To pour out tea gone cold and clean the mug and put it in the rack to dry. My plan was thwarted by my still-constant search for Elijah.

  He’s gone.

  There’s no trace of him in my life. It’s as if he never existed. As if I never hopped on a plane to France to find my sister. As if I never found him in the basement prison of a medieval church. All of it, erased.

  Even the marks on my ass that perfectly matched his fingerprints have faded into nothing. I was sure they were there. I looked at them every day in the shower until they were gone.

  I put coffee in the machine by the sink and set it to run. Now I’m the robot. I’m the one going through the ordinary movements of an ordinary life. It makes my skin crawl.

  Everything about this life is fake, a facade, a charade. Or worse, everything that happened before was a hazard of imagination.

  The part about being imprisoned by the government seems real enough. It ended with a knock on the door of the concrete room. The man who had been interrogating me walked out without a backward glance. Another man came in to unchain me from the table. He walked me to the back of the building, where a police car waited, and a cop who didn’t speak to me drove me back to my apartment.

  No sorry about the part where we invaded a church and stole Elijah North from you. No apologies for chaining you to a table. It’s protocol. You understand.

  Nothing.

  Nothing except the days I spent afterward, sobbing into my pillow and shouting into my phone. I was probably on a watch list before but I’m definitely on one now. I’m the crazed woman who sometimes puts on a serious voice as she inquires again and again if there is any way to contact Elijah North. If there are any personnel records for Elijah North. If there is any possible clue that he once existed. I’ve tried everything. I’ve tried lying. I’ve tried impersonating a reporter. I’ve tried letting my voice go thick and pretending to be his widow.

  I tried for days, then weeks, then months.

  The coffee brews and I stare out the window, actively searching for a white van now. Even if he did show up here, he wouldn’t show up in a white van, but I can’t stop looking. They’re the symbol of my former life, aren’t they? A white van brought me to him in the first place.

  Search. Wonder. Pour the too-hot coffee into my clean mug. Wonder some more.

  Is he dead?

  If he’s not dead, where is he?

  There are so many days where it seems like I created him wholesale in my mind. It’s not unheard of for a writer to feel like their characters are real people. This is different.

  Elijah wasn’t a character. Not one of mine, anyway. Which does call into question my general level of sanity.

  A knock on the door pulls me away from the kitchen. I’m a ghost with hot coffee making my way through the apartment. There are quite a few takeout boxes on various surfaces.

  I don’t care.

  I open the door without looking through the peephole. The worst that can happen is that I get kidnapped again, and what are the odds of that?

  Not zero, certainly, but probably not very high at this point.

  “Hi.” My sister doesn’t wait for me to answer before she pushes past me, her arms full of two paper grocery bags. “Did you eat today?”

  “Yes,” I say automatically, closing the door behind her. This might not be strictly true, but I can’t remember. All I remember is standing in front of the sink. Earlier, I was writing. Or at least I was sitting on my couch, hand poised above a notepad.

  The fridge opens and closes in the kitchen, followed by several cupboards. I wander into the living room and look down at the street. No white vans there, either. Paper bags crinkle when London folds them up. In the window I see her reflection emerge from the kitchen carrying something black. A trash bag. She tips several of the takeout containers into it and straightens an abandoned stack of mail on my coffee table.

  I swallow hard around a thickness in my throat. “Hey.”

  London flicks her eyes up to mine and continues tidying my apartment. “Hey.”

  “You’re feeding me. And cleaning my apartment. It’s weird.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Yeah, it is weird, Holly. It’s weird when you’re acting like a dead person in your own apartment. It’s weird when I’m the responsible one between us.”

  “Dead people don’t leave takeout containers everywhere.”

  London gestures at me with a half-empty carton of Chinese food. “I never know what’s going on with you. You don’t even come out. It’s like you’ve disappeared.”

  I snort. “I’m right here. The question is, what are you doing here?”

  “I got worried when you didn’t answer my calls.”

  Turnabout is fair play, sure. I’m usually the one cleaning up after London. Following her to Paris. Getting her unstuck from shady diamond deals. So on, so forth. But I don’t buy that she’s worry-stricken enough to change her entire personality. Plus, I only missed three calls.

  “What’s going on with you?”

  “You tell me first.” She sticks out her tongue and goes out into the hall to put t
he garbage in the chute. “Anyway,” she says, breezing back in. “You’re the one who was detained by the government for questioning in an assassination.”

  “You’re different,” I tell her, and the moment I say it, I know it’s true. “You look different.”

  “I look like I’m working a regular job. At a coffee shop. I’m taking a social media detox, which means no large influencer checks. Thanks so much for noticing.”

  It’s not that. I study her more closely as she shakes out the blanket on my couch and lets it waft down over the back. It’s accurate that she has less of an influencer shine on her. She’s not as tan as she looks in her photos when she’s traveling.

  London looks good—she always looks good, because she’s beautiful, but she looks comfortable, in a cream-colored sweater that sets off the red mark on her neck.

  It looks like beard burn.

  As if she’s been with a man. Recently.

  “Who is he?”

  London’s eyes go wide in a parody of surprise and her hand flutters toward the neck of the sweater. She catches herself just in time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Two steps closer, and it’s even easier to see the change in her skin. “Did you have a confrontation with a fir tree, London? Is that it? Or did you have some intense private time with a man? Judging from the state of your neck, he has stubble.”

  “What I do in my spare time is none of your business.” My throw pillows are her next target. “You should be worried about yourself. I’m definitely worried about you.”

  “I’m fine. I’m more worried about your neck.”

  “My neck is fine.”

  “Who is he?”

  She moves past me with a long-suffering energy. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “So he’s not hot.”

  A glare from London. “He is hot. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You, London Frank, do not even want to talk about the sexy man who’s all over you at night? I don’t believe it. Talking about boys is your favorite thing. You used to talk about ’N Sync like they were your actual boyfriends. Come to think of it, I’m surprised you didn’t become the author instead of me.”