I run through my options for a minute.
Food and water are, ironically, the least important of my requests. Justin has already agreed to keep Parrish alive, so he has to provide those things. I’m certain that Parrish isn’t getting nearly as much food as he should, nor do I feel that an IV is equivalent to actual food and drink, but it isn’t as important as the other items.
A bathroom would be nice, especially since infection is a concern. But again, antibiotic ointment would help with that.
So … the bed and the ointment or his freedom and a bathroom?
“If I choose the bed, how will he be restrained on it?” I ask, and Mr. Volli pauses for a moment. I recall the first time we spoke, the way he kept pausing and glancing offscreen, as if he were communicating with someone else. It lends credence to the idea that he’s receiving instructions from someone else.
“On his back. Bound by his wrists to the headboard.”
I consider that.
“If I choose his freedom, he’ll be able to move as he wishes around that room?”
Another pause, a nod.
“An empty room with no windows, but he will be free to move around, yes.”
I lick some of the cool rain droplets from my lower lip.
Being able to move around freely is a huge deal. Not just for Parrish’s physical state, but for his mental and emotional well-being as well. Only … he doesn’t seem to have enough energy to keep his head lifted, let alone do jumping jacks or something in a cold, empty room.
“The bed,” I say, trying and failing to keep my hand from shaking as it clutches the phone in stiff fingers. “But it has to be a proper bed with a real mattress. In exchange …” I run through all of the things that I’ve had to do thus far, searching for something appropriately terrible to offer up. May as well be something this bastard would make me do anyway at some point.
But what?
“I’ll … I’ll tell Danyella that I’m the one who set the fire.” Even as the words are coming out of my mouth, I’m regretting them. Oh god, I’m regretting them. The thought of telling Danyella what I did, destroying our burgeoning friendship, opening myself up to the possibility of punishment, expulsion, criminal charges.
It’s a lot.
For a second there, I can’t get a read on whether I’ve suggested a good or a bad thing. Mr. Volli is as blank as a porcelain doll. Once he receives confirmation from either his crazy other half or, more likely, Justin Prior, he seems pleased. A psychotic smile takes over his lips.
“I like the way you think, princess,” he says, nodding again. “Yes. I accept. You will tell Danyella that you set the fire in the theater. If you’re asked why—by her or anyone else—you will explain that your homelife is a mess. That Tess is a terrible mother. That she drove to you to do it. Is that clear?”
“It’s clear,” I whisper, hoping that the bed provides at least some small amount of relief for Parrish. “Once I do that, I’d like to bargain for the other items.”
“As you wish,” he replies, and then the video cuts off.
I slip the phone back in my blazer pocket and head inside.
There’s not a patron in that café that doesn’t stare at my sopping wet form as I trudge back to the table and sit down hard in my seat. Maxine is gaping at me; X is gritting his teeth. He looks pissed off again. At me? Or did he and Maxine have a conversation while I was gone? I have no idea.
“K-kota?” Maxie asks, blinking big, beautiful eyes at me. Her auburn hair is in a French braid and slung over one shoulder, a single strap of her overalls hanging loose over her PNW t-shirt. She looks so calm, so cool and collected, so worried about me.
It hits me then that Justin’s tasks are not so random as they seem. They’re calculated, intended to drive a wedge between me and everybody that I know and love. He wants me isolated and desperate, lonely.
Chasm.
I need to call Chasm.
I am not alone, no matter how much it feels that way.
He asked me to contact him before taking on any new tasks, but this is … it’s too personal. There is no body for him to shove in his trunk, no pervert with a gun to tackle, no fire to set. This is between me and Maxine.
“Maxine,” I start, swallowing hard. I’m shaking so badly that I might very well give away the ruse, but there’s no way for me to stop it. Not only am I freezing cold and wet, but my heart is as soggy as my clothing. It feels so fragile, like a dandelion puff waiting for the breeze so it can scatter to the ends of the earth. “We can’t keep doing this.”
