I see that gun and I keep thinking back to the moment when I was walking to the Porters’, on the phone with Lucia, and I bumped into that man and spotted the gun under his jacket. That gun is emblazoned on my memory. I have described it in perfect detail to the detectives handling the Porters’ murders. What I cannot describe, what would be infinitely more helpful to describe? The man’s face. But I never even looked up.
I know now that man was almost certainly the killer. I bumped into the Porters’ murderer that day, and all I had to do was look up. But I didn’t, because my damned phone call was so much more important.
The gun barrel shifts aside. Then, as X-Files waves both hands, it comes my way again, and I physically jump back, but the gun keeps going. I catch my breath and then sneak a look around to see if anyone noticed. No one’s paying any attention to me. Understandable, given that there’s a guy with a gun at the front of the room.
We sit like we’re in kindergarten, automatically crossing our legs and looking up to watch the teacher. All of us except Max. He’s on the far side of the semicircle, his expression suitably somber. Then his lips twitch in a smile.
X-Files walks over and snaps his fingers in front of Max’s face. Damn it, Max. Pay attention. For once, be part of the group.
Nope, not happening. Maximus has to give a smart-ass answer.
Maximus. I know enough Latin to translate that to “largest” or “greatest.” Yeah, the greatest jerk.
I carefully rise, my gaze fixed on X-Files as I tell Max to sit down. When he doesn’t, I keep my hands where X-Files can see them and make my way past Aaron and Brienne. I’m shaking and part of me just wants to follow my own advice and sit, but if the damned counselors aren’t going to handle this, someone needs to. X-Files watches me but that’s it, just watches, as if waiting to see what I’ll do before he decides whether to shoot me.
As I creep over his way, Max smiles at me. The guy actually smiles, then says, jauntily, “Just cutting through the bull—”
“Sit. Down.” I stop beside him and lean over to whisper, “Are you trying to get us killed? They have guns.”
The smile broadens, his voice lowering, mock-conspiratorial. “Are you sure? Maybe we’re imagining it. We are a little nuts, after all.”
Something surges inside me. Something I haven’t felt in months, and it takes a moment to identify it. Anger.
“Sit the hell down,” I whisper, and to my shock, he does. I lower myself beside him, to make sure he stays there.
“Now,” X-Files says, “while most of you seem to understand the seriousness of the situation, let’s go over some basic rules. I promise I’ll keep them simple enough that even blondie there”—he nods at Brienne, who bristles—“can follow. Are you ready?”
His gaze travels over us, as if he’s waiting for agreement. I feel foolish, but I nod. Max mutters, “Get on with it,” but he has the sense to keep his voice low enough that only I hear.
“Rule one: if you do anything to piss me off, I’ll shoot you. Rule two: there is only one rule, and I just gave it. No excuses. No exceptions. How do you piss me off? Well, let’s keep that one simple too: if in doubt, don’t take a chance. We’re going to be here for a few hours. Get comfortable. With any luck, you’ll be home by midnight.” He looks at Max. “Well, except you, Maximus. I might shoot you just on principle. Or to save you from a lifetime with that name.”
Max doesn’t react to the insult or the threat. He does seem to be paying attention, though. Thankfully.
“Can I say something?” Aaron asks, and I wince. Please don’t pull a Max. Please, please.
“I don’t know,” X-Files says. “Can you? Seems like you can. I hear words coming out of your mouth.”
“May I say something?”
Good lord, this really is kindergarten.
“That’s better. And the answer is no.” X-Files starts to turn away, then says, “Oh, all right. But remember the rules and don’t think I won’t shoot you just because you’re valuable. Well, no. Actually, I won’t. You, Mr. Highgate, would get this.” He pulls a blade from his pocket. “You have ten fingers, ten toes and other optional body parts that you might value even more. Piss me off and you lose one of them. My choice. Now ask your question.”
“I’m the star here, right?” Aaron says. “The rest are just extras?”
“That is correct.”
“Which means you won’t get nearly as much money from their families, because they don’t exactly hang out in the same social circles as mine.”
“Whoa, get a grip on that ego, mate,” Max says. “If it inflates any more, it’ll burst.”
Aaron turns toward him. “You might not like what I’m saying, but it’s the truth. How many of you guys showed up tonight in a chauffeured car?”
“How many of us would want to?” Max says.
“The point”—Aaron turns back to X-Files—“is that they aren’t worth a fraction of what I am. Therefore they shouldn’t need to go through this just because my dad’s an asshole one-percenter. I’m asking you to let them go.”
X-Files laughs.
“I’m serious,” Aaron says. “My dad can get you seven figures with one phone call. Their families would be scrounging all night to get you five. It’s not worth the hassle. This will be much easier for you if you’ve got only one kid to handle.”