Fear

FIFTY-ONE

‘We should rest,’ Celeste said.

‘You’re right.’ Exhaustion seeped into Miles’s whole body. Victor had excused himself into his office, banned them from interrupting him. Groote sat on the quiet of the back porch, watching the moonlight peeking out from the clouds. Miles observed him for a minute – the first time leaving Groote alone – and followed her to the guest bedroom she had claimed, and saw twin beds.

‘Nathan’s sharing with Freddy. They can talk about the war. Groote can sleep upstairs, assuming he’s human and can sleep. You don’t mind, do you?’ she said.

‘Of course not.’

She lay down on one bed and he lay down on the other. They faced each other across the space – a side table, a lamp, separating them.

‘Big risk to trust Groote,’ she said.

‘ Trust is too strong a word. He’s using us, but we’re using him, so it’s okay.’

‘He looks at you,’ Celeste said, ‘in a way I don’t like.’

‘He’s sweet on me.’

‘Don’t joke. He acts as if he still has a score to settle.’

‘He’s a hired gun,’ Miles said, ‘but he’s off the job. Now it’s personal, as they say in the movie trailers. As long as he thinks we can help him get his daughter back, he’ll work with us. I know how to keep him leashed.’

‘I imagine Victor coming to tell us he’s found Amanda, where she is, and then Groote kills us all and goes on his merry way.’

‘I won’t let that happen.’ Miles jostled the bed, trying to get comfortable.

‘You remembered something.’

‘No.’

‘Miles. I don’t know you that well, I suppose, but I can tell. What happened?’

He pulled his jacket close around him, as if cold.

‘It’s warm in here. You could take off your jacket.’

‘No. I’m comfortable.’

‘I noticed you don’t like to take off your jacket.’

‘I get cold.’

‘Don’t lie.’

‘I keep something I meant to give Allison in my jacket.’

‘What?’

He realized he had nothing to lose; he would be leaving Celeste soon enough, probably to never see her again. Truth made for a good parting gift. ‘My confession. Of murdering my best friend.’

The expression on her face didn’t change. ‘Your best friend…’

‘Yeah. Since I was three years old.’

‘Self-defense. You have nothing to confess.’

He closed his eyes.

‘It’s not your fault, Miles.’

‘Yeah, it is.’

‘Do you really know that, in your head, your guts, your heart? Do you?’ she asked.

Andy stood on the far wall, arms crossed, blood on his shoulder, on his throat. Three bullet wounds glistened in the lamplight.

‘It’s not your fault,’ she repeated. ‘It’s not your fault.’

‘He told me I killed him with a word. Then I remembered. On the drive. Talking with Groote about the FBI. How I killed him.’

‘Is Andy here now?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Ask him,’ she said, ‘what he wants. Why does he stay?’

‘He’s not a ghost seeking vengeance,’ Miles said. ‘My head invented him.’

‘Then your head’s trying to tell you information you need to know.’

Miles said, ‘What do you want, Andy?’ He didn’t feel embarrassed or stupid, talking to Andy with Celeste in the room.

Andy put his hands over two of the wounds. ‘I want you to know what you did, Miles. I want you to know what you didn’t do.’

Miles repeated the words to Celeste. She frowned. ‘Show me the confession.’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s my burden to carry.’

‘I’m not offering to carry Andy for you. Just let me see what you remember.’

‘And reading it will, what, make you respect me?’ Thirty seconds of silence passed. ‘I killed my best friend. What kind of person am