How does that feel? I wonder. To know you’re about to unravel and there’s nothing you can do about it? It’s a mental death sentence.
“Do you understand what I mean?” Indie asks.
“Oh, I thoroughly get it.”
“I need him to come through.”
“He’s fully awake then?”
“No. He woke up, but the doctor put him back into a coma. We can’t take any chances that the… the… personality that survives is Carter.”
“OK. So what do you want from me? This is what you’re doing, right? Negotiating? I need Wendy, you need Donovan. You’re gonna get me something but I have to do something for you, right?”
“Of course,” she says airily. “That’s how the world works.”
“So what do you want?”
“It’s not just me. It’s all of us. And you already know. Adam already told you we’re looking for Merc.”
“Who?”
“Don’t insult me, OK? I know you know him. What part of that aren’t you getting? I have been filled in. Adam called Sasha and she agreed to make the call for us, but this isn’t good enough for me. I don’t know Sasha, but I know I don’t trust her.”
I don’t want Indie to know Sasha. I don’t want Indie to speak Sasha’s name. I don’t want Indie to even think about Sasha.
All of this is echoing in my head as my world narrows down into a black tunnel, but what I’m really thinking about—what’s really lurking in the background as I live in this muted in-between existence of the phone call—is that this is the end. Every bit of the lie I’ve been living for the past decade is about to be over.
And when I imagine all of the millions of consequences that this conversation will lead to, every single one of them ends up with me and the girl I tricked coming eye to eye one last time.
I do not want this.
Regardless of all the daydreams I’ve had about seeing her again, I do not want to see Sasha Cherlin again.
It will be the unraveling of my lifetime and I’m not ready to fall apart.
Not yet.
Because I still owe Wendy that perfect present.
“—so do we have a deal?”
“What deal?”
“Do we have a bad connection? I just fucking spelled it out for you.”
“Spell it out again.”
“You get me this Merc guy and I’ll find Wendy for you.”
“How?”
“How do you find Merc? Or how do I find Wendy?”
“Wendy, Indie. Where the fuck is she?”
“Well, wouldn’t you like to know?” She laughs a little. And again, her attitude is light and carefree. Must be nice to be an insane Zero. One who has been taken care of her entire life. One who still lives in the fantasy that she is safe. I wish her fear in this moment.
It’s a shitty thing to wish for, and allowing that meanness inside me to take over, even subconsciously, is a bad move. It comes with all kinds of sad karmic moments in my future, even if I never utter this wish out loud.
But I want her to be afraid. Who does Indie Anna Accorsi think she is? She’s no one special. She doesn’t deserve this flippant existence.
Wendy does.
Wendy deserves to be that confident. That safe. That loved.
And I know that Indie has nothing to do with how Wendy’s life has played out, but I want to blame her anyway.
I take a breath, ready to threaten Indie into submission and make her tell me where she is going to look, but she cuts me off. “I can find her. I promise you, I can. I know a little bit about her regular job.”
“Regular job?”
“You know. What she does for a living.”
“She… works? I mean, I know she works. She’s… like… a…”
“She’s a liaison, Nick.”
“Right. Liaison. I knew that. I was just looking for the right word. I thought you meant she was like… settled in some normie job.”
Indie guffaws. “Right. She’s an executive assistant for a scumbag CEO. Good one, Nick.”
“She works for me. Sometimes.”
“She works for Adam too. Lots of the time. I know he only just got back a couple months ago, but they talk regularly.”
“Regularly as in—”
“No. Not recently. I heard him calling her the other day. The day he talked to you, in fact. But she didn’t pick up. Have you tried her home?”
“The cabin? I was there a couple weeks ago. She hasn’t been home. Not since Christmas.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do. She’s not at home. She lives in her truck.”
“What?”
“Not like homeless people live in their cars, or anything like that. She doesn’t sleep in it. But she lives out of it. Like I do. Sometimes.”
“Well, that’s fucking weird. She can stay here if she needs a place. I could talk McKay into refurbishing the attic. It’s not a bad room. It’s a little hot in the summer, and we’d need to clean it out, but I think she would like it.”