“Well, I am. I don’t have a problem; my father has one. With me. That’s why I’m here. I crashed my Rover, and if I don’t do this weekend therapy shit, I won’t get a new one.”
“Tragic.”
“Brienne, please. Aaron, continue.”
“My dad thinks I have narcissistic personality disorder. He even bribed some shrink to agree. I’m a narcissist? He’s the one screwing everything in a skirt. Mom’s finally divorcing him, and she’s going to take him to the cleaners. Like she should.”
“All right,” Lorenzo says slowly. “But why would he send you here?”
Aaron looks at Lorenzo like he’s an idiot. “Um, because he hates me. Because he hates that I’m siding with Mom. Because if he can prove I’m sick and she can’t handle it, then he can get custody and save a shitload of money on support …”
Aaron continues. While I’m not sure he has an actual disorder, there’s obviously some narcissism going on there. First he doesn’t want to talk about his problems. Then all he wants to talk about are his problems.
After about ten minutes, when he pauses for breath, I say, “I need to use the restroom.”
“I think you can wait, Riley,” Lorenzo says.
Aimee shakes her head. “That’s okay. Let her—”
“Let her take off while I’m talking?” Aaron says. “That’s rude.”
“No,” I say. “It’s part of my anxiety issue. I have a nervous bladder, and the longer I wait, the more—”
“Whoa, TMI,” Aaron says.
“You asked,” I reply, and take off before anyone can stop me.
I swear, the bathroom is a quarter mile away with all the twists and turns I have to take. I stay in there longer than I need to.
When I finally open the door, I’m not surprised to hear footsteps down the next hall. Someone’s come to fetch me. I’m torn between feeling guilty for hiding and wanting to snap, “Can I use the bathroom in peace?”
I won’t snap at whoever it is. I’ve done that enough tonight with Aaron, and I feel guiltier than I should. Story of my life these days. I remember when I was little, my dad read me a story about an obsequious mouse, quailing at every sharp word, running from every scary noise, stumbling over himself to apologize for everything. I hated that mouse. Now I am him.
“Looking for me?” I say as I turn the corner, heading toward the footsteps. “Sorry. I—”
An alien blocks my path. A gray-faced alien wearing a suit and gloves and holding a gun, and the thought that flashes through my mind is a memory from the month before Dad died, the two of us on the Men in Black ride at Universal, going through it over and over again, laughing as we competed to see who could shoot the most aliens.
The memory comes like a fist to my gut. It disappears just as fast, and I realize I’m staring at a guy wearing a gray alien mask. Because that’s what it is, obviously. A latex mask of the aliens from the old X-Files show. The gun, though? The gun is real.
I turn to run. I do not even think of jumping him and grabbing his weapon. Four months of feeling like a coward hasn’t changed anything. I see a mask. I see a gun. I flee.
He grabs me by my hood. I twist and lash out, kicking and punching, and he whips me against the wall. My head hits hard enough for fireworks to explode behind my eyes. I still kick him when he gets within range and my fists aim for his gut. He wraps one hand around my throat and puts the gun at my temple. I keep struggling.
“Are you loco, girl?” he growls. “This isn’t a toy.”
I don’t care. I’ll do whatever it takes to get away because I know what happens if I don’t. I can still hear the gunshots. I can see the blood. I can feel Mrs. Porter’s skin cooling fast under my hands.
So I will fight and—
The gun clocks me in the temple. The same spot that struck the wall, and I black out just long enough that when I come to, I’m staring at that wall. He’s behind me, with a chokehold around my neck and the cold gun barrel pressed to the back of my head.
“Riley?” a distant voice calls, a singsong: “Riley, Riley, Ri-lee-a. Come out, come out wherever you are.”
Max’s boots tromp along the hall. The man pulls me toward a shadowy corner. He doesn’t yank me behind it, though. He leaves me standing there, exposed in the dim light, with a gun to my head and one arm wrenched behind my back.
My heart is pounding so hard I feel like I’m going to pass out. I’ll lose consciousness, and I’ll fall forward, and my captor will think I’m trying to escape, and he’ll shoot—
“Come out, come out,” Max calls. “Or don’t. Actually, let’s go with that. Don’t come out. You’re hopelessly lost, having failed to adequately mark the trail with breadcrumbs. That way, we both have an excuse not to go back and listen to Mr. Highgate, who is, shockingly, still regaling his captive audience with all the problems he doesn’t have.”
Oh God, go away, Max. Please, please, please go away. You don’t deserve this. No one does. Just walk down another hall and let this guy take me and do whatever—
A wave of lightheadedness washes over me.
And do whatever.
Kill me.
He’s going to kill me.
I don’t care. Can’t care. Can’t escape. Just go, Max. Please, please—
Max steps around the corner and sees me in the shadows, my expression hidden.