Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
“How can we trust that the car is safe? Or whatever way they’re getting us to Vienna?” Christine interrupts.
I nod again, go to take the phone off mute—
“I’m coming,” Eliza declares.
“Eliza,” I start.
“I’m. Fucking. Coming. Alec,” she states again. Emphatically.
I sigh and eye her as I unmute the phone. “Two questions and a counter,” I say.
“Very good.”
“How can we trust that we’ll get to Vienna safely?”
“If we didn’t want you to arrive safely, you wouldn’t be speaking with me.” (Fair enough.) “Next question?”
“What do you want in exchange for the Watsons?”
“At the moment, just that you, Mr. Fortnight, and Ms. Keene present yourselves as requested. Once you have arrived and we have shown you that the young Ms. Watson and her uncle are in good condition, we will clarify further.”
I look at Danny. He shakes his head with a strong, non-verbal, I don’t like it energy. I raise my eyebrows and tilt my head at him. I don’t like it either, but we seem to be at the disadvantage in this negotiation. And, given that I’m about to make a request that feels significant, I believe I need to keep our powder dry.
“The counteroffer, please?” the annoyingly courteous Austrian says.
“The girl’s mother. Eliza Watson. She must come as well.”
A beat. Then… “One moment, please.”
And now he puts me on mute. The only sound I hear while we wait is the faint moaning of the two doped-up laaities in the corner.
After several seconds, he comes back on the line. “That will be acceptable.”
Eliza takes what appears to be the first breath she’s taken in a week.
“And I should add,” he continues, “that if you attempt to bring anyone else, alert anyone else, or if any of Ms. Watson’s other brothers attempt to come of their own volition”—I look at Russell and the twins—“it will end badly.”
“Understood,” I concede.
“Very well,” he says. “And, on a personal note, we would just like to say… we’re sure this has been a trying time. It will be over soon.”
I don’t know if that’s intended to make me feel comforted. If so, it’s currently having the opposite effect.
When I don’t say anything, he goes on, “While there is no prescribed schedule, we would like to attend to things as swiftly as possible—as we’re sure you would also prefer—so, we advise getting started as soon as you arrive back at your hotel. Oh, there will also be a doctor there to attend to your wound before you begin your journey. We want to ensure it’s properly cared for.”
At this point, I’m becoming numbed to the shock of hearing that these people know things they shouldn’t know and have the breadth of power they clearly possess, so instead of asking questions to which I won’t get answers anyway, I just say, “Thanks.”
“With pleasure,” he says. “And Ms. Keene?”
Christine stares at the phone, holding her tongue.
“We’re particularly looking forward to seeing you again. We have questions.”
I continue working to keep any kind of shock or panic from my gaze. The terrified glint in Christine’s eyes is enough for us all.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
TODAY. AFTERNOON.
Watching the girls splash in the water is something I can’t take my eyes off.
Because they’re both about thirteen and they’re playing and laughing without a care in the world. When I was thirteen, I was… not. I was doing very, very different things with my time.
It’s fascinating how much we’re shaped by the experiences we go through. I’m no sociologist, but in the whole nature vs. nurture argument, I’d put my money on nurture kicking nature in the balls every time.
“Excuse me? Are you Christine?”
I turn to see a nice, polite-looking American couple approaching from the side. They haven’t declared themselves to be American, but it’s obvious. And it has nothing to do with the fact that they’re dressed exactly like Americans dress when they come to the Cook Islands. Which is to say they work incredibly hard to attire themselves the way they think they’re supposed to. Kind of like they believe they’re in an American Express commercial or something.
The guy always has on a chambray shirt—usually gingham, but could also be some kind of patchwork/color-block deal—and khaki pants that he has rolled up to just below his knees. The woman is dressed similarly, except her shirt is white linen. She has it unbuttoned and thrown over the top of her bathing suit. She wears shorts instead of rolled-up pants. They’re both attractive in a complementary way.
But it’s not the curated appearance or the obviously neutral American accent that tips them off. It’s the way they say, “Excuse me.”
It’s neither polite nor impolite, a question nor a statement. It’s just a sense of assumption that whatever they’re about to ask is something to which I’ll have the answer. That they should have absolutely no misgivings about approaching a stranger on a beach in a country in which they do not live and asking them a question just because they want to know.