Page 59 of The Initial Insult

Chapter 46

Tress

The cat sits and stares.

His eyes go from mine, to above me, to the corner, ears turning different directions as he picks up sounds I can’t even imagine. But I’d be a fool to think he isn’t highly aware of me, every movement, every breath. I rest my back against the closed door, exhaustion getting the better of me.

I have that luxury, the luxury of sitting.

In the basement, Felicity does not.

“Shit,” I say to myself, quietly, and gain the cat’s full attention again, eyes on my lips, ears pricked forward.

“I don’t know what to do,” I tell him, and one ear swivels away from me, as if I have said something only worth half his attention.

“I’m holding someone captive in the basement,” I tell him, and the ear comes back, cocked. “I hit her in the head with a brick and I chained her to the wall, and I’ve got her halfway sealed into a tomb, and I probably gave her a concussion, and I think she’s got the flu, and I might have fractured her ankle.”

It’s a lot, when you string it all together like that. A lot of bad things that I did, all of them translatable into a different language, that of legalese and criminal charges. Kidnapping, assault, false imprisonment, menacing. My hands shake, and I rest my head against the door. There’s a small thump, and the cat shifts, curious.

“The thing is,” I tell him. “There’s something that fixes it all. The big gamble.”

His eyes latch on to mine, and I read there what is always stamped on his features, a constant feeling, one that moves through his mind, is embedded in his muscles.

“Murder,” I say, and the cat yawns.

His tongue lolls out, long and pink, teeth clicking back together sharply. It’s a show, put on for me. I can kill you.

“I can do it, too, you know,” I say, and he cocks his head, almost goading.

“If I have to,” I add. “I don’t want to. I didn’t think . . .”

I didn’t think, that’s the real admission here. I didn’t think Felicity could last this long. Didn’t think she would continue to defy me. Didn’t think she would insist she doesn’t remember.

“What if she doesn’t?”

I’m asking questions to the cat, who has ceased listening, eyes roaming the room. My phone vibrates in my hand, and he jumps down from the bed, velvety paws dulling the thud of two hundred pounds of organic killing machine hitting the floorboards. Standing, he’s the same height as I am sitting. He faces me, lifts a paw, and begins to bathe.

I risk a glance at my phone. There’s a text from Hugh.

Where did you go?

I don’t even consider answering him, either honestly or with a lie. Instead, I call.

“Hey.” He picks up on the first ring, voice blurred from drink. “You still up there? What are you doing?”

Facing down a panther is the correct response. Balancing the threat of going to prison for what I’ve already done versus the idea of outright killing Felicity and getting away with it is another correct answer. Realizing that my entire plan of learning about my parents’ fate is worthless if Felicity truly doesn’t remember is a correct answer.

“Chilling out,” I say. “Needed some space. Too much going on.”

“Tell me about it,” Hugh says, and I hear Ribbit in the background.

“Who is it? What do they want? Are they calling about me?” Ribbit asks. That last question is desperate, high-pitched, hopeful.

“Let me talk to my cousin,” I say, and there’s the sound of the phone being handed over. “Ribbit?”

“Tress?” There, always, under my name I still hear the slightest hint of worship. “Tress, are you watching? Did you see? I’ve got like four thousand new Twitter followers, and a shit ton of friend requests.”

“They’re not your friends,” I say. My words are sharp and distinct, biting down on the ends of his blurry, wandering syllables. “Do you hear me? Nothing that’s going on right now is okay.”