Chapter 18th

I looked up cowardly. I couldn't say it – not one word! And yet, Chris waited, watching me with a half-smile, some sort of irritated peace… as if he settled. Settled for what? His watching, knowing eyes… what did they know? And if he knew…why was he so calm?

And why was he suddenly so, so scary? Almost as if he could be…

The earth seemed to spin faster when he opened his mouth:

"You've spoken with him, haven't you?"

My eyes widened… shocked.

"…That officer. The one that's been wandering around."

Yes… of course! He'd told me about the police: told me not to talk to them! He knew this was coming and tried to warn me, he tried to protect me from being exposed to them – lies, he said. A hysterical smile threatened to amuse me, but it wasn't long before the thicker cloud of pessimism crowned overhead: whose lies did he try to keep from me?

"I… I have." I stammered, undetermined.

"And what did you tell him?" Chris didn't sound angry. Instead, he had this forbearing air… one that made me feel wrong… guilty.

"He… he said some things…" I gulped, having cast it: my net, my only chance of being saved… but Chris wanted nothing to do with that:

"What did you tell him, Abby?"

"I-I didn't, but he…" I swallowed again: those words… I couldn't even reproduce them.

"You didn't tell him about me?" Chris chased. "…about us?"

"No!" I shook my head eagerly, eager to be the good girl, as if that would earn me some points – obedience points that I could exchange. What would I purchase? Being rescued from those fearful suspicions. Being convinced they were all lies.

"I said nothing… but…"

"But?" Chris raised an eyebrow, still patient, still warm… still strangely cornering me, moving ever so slightly.

My words died. Chris filled in the gap:

"He did ask you some questions though, didn't he?" He nodded, eliciting the same form me…like hypnosis "…and you told him…?" he probed.

I frowned. That statement didn't fit: The police didn't ask about Chris personally. He asked of someone else… of a killer.

"What did you tell him, Abby?"

"N-nothing…" I muttered, distracted with racing thoughts.

"Are you sure?" One last confirmation.

I nodded again.

"Good! He will leave us alone then!"

Case closed? No… Chris still stood there, his eyes still investigated mine, his friendly smile still exaggerated a normalcy I couldn't reciprocate. He still waited for me… for what I'd say. And what would I say, frozen stiff as I was? Speaking was hard… I frowned, I struggled with myself… and finally… I muttered:

"Why won't you ask it… why won't you ask what he told me?"

That sigh came again. So far from what I expected, from what I needed to be able to smile as he did…

In foreboding silence, Chris took a few calm steps closer, stopping right before me. He looked down into my eyes. His calmness should infect me… instead, why did it only make things worse?

"Why don't you care?" I whispered, too scared to raise my voice – too scared it might be heard by reality, and make it all come true.

"Because I know."

He declared. I gasped. The lump in my throat grew thicker.

"I know you've heard some things…" Chris continued in his misleading, soothing tone "I could see it in your face the moment you walked in."

Then silence again – his eyes watching, waiting for my move. And I gave it to him:

"I-is it true?" I blinked, growing dizzy as I finally put it out there, wordless as it was.

But things… they just kept getting gloomier and gloomier. Chris didn't answer me. He didn't jump to defend himself, or even to make sure he understood his accusations. Instead, he cocked a smile, looked down with a heavy sigh, ran his fingers through his hair, as if inconvenienced, deciding… and as he looked down, a slight frown tightened his eyebrows: he'd seen it, the card I still idiotically clutched. He pulled it from my fingers, read it, amused:

"Officer Joseph Weiss". He flicked the card playfully through his fingers, producing a slapping sound "Is that his name, then?"

The air grew dense and hard to breathe as Chris merely looked at me with that playful, amused expression, too calm. Too calm for an innocent person.

"It can't be…" I'm afraid I mumbled to myself as I paced back once, twice… petrified steps.

Chris didn't move to stop me, to capture and detain me… but neither did he say anything to contradict it.

I shook my head slowly from one side to the other, as if each time would make it less believable… instead, each second made it worse, as Chris watched me spiral and asked nothing of it, and said nothing in return. He didn't need to ask because he knew. And at last, we both did!

I bumped against the rail, startled and jumped with the contact… But Chris only stood there, hands in his pocket, peacefully watching. I looked upstairs, remembering his secrets, his bag… I rushed there without thinking, driven only by the dreadful search for an answer, regardless of what it would be. A masochistic sort of drive, like walking against a searing knife, but walk I did – no, I ran!

I barged into his room – the empty, dusty, desolate room that had once been mine in childhood; the one Chris had been working on since he got here. His modifications seemingly complete, the room lay bare for me to see, no more secrets – and if I'd been but a bit smarter, I'd have known it earlier:

The wall that faced the outside was covered with grey foam, held together by silver tape. The window had disappeared under this mesh, but a standing lamp placed on the corner provided enough light – a yellow, sickly illumination, one that made me instantly nauseous. The floor was covered with a plastic sheet, and a single mattress lay at its center. In context, that view delivered me a pang of dread. My head grew light…misty, I held it between my palms as the run began to swing. I dropped to my knees, pulled myself to that duffel bag, zipped it open. My hands rummaged through the interior, moving heavy equipment around as I struggled to identify them. Until, finally, unmistakable shapes I couldn't misread however hard I wanted to: a hunting knife. A handgun. I froze as I stared at that kit, before tossing it back into the bag as if they were poisonous substances. Accordingly, I wiped my hands on my shirt, fearful of what traces they had captured there, and skidded backwards through the floor, away from the bag, as if it was the perpetrator of those fabled deeds. I stood up straight, gasping with despair, choking with fear, hyperventilating myself into a fit. And when I turned around, Chris leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pocket, calmly watching me.