"I see you're feeling better," I mumbled.
"Feeling better?" Kate said. "I'm tied to a fucking chair!"
"Yeah," I said. "Sorry about that. I hear tell you put on quite a show the other day, and I wasn't wild at the prospect of being included in the encore."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Anybody ever tell you you're a lousy liar?"
"Anybody ever tell you it's impolite to hold people hostage?"
I laughed. "You think that's what this is? Sweetie, I'm trying to help you here."
"Help me. Right. I bet you say that to all the girls."
"Just the ones I tie to chairs," I replied with a smile. "So tell me, what'd they do?"
"What? Who?"
"Your family — what'd they do? Your mother cut your allowance? Your little brother read your diary? Maybe Daddy wouldn't let you drive the Bentley?"
"Don't you talk about my family."
"Suit yourself," I replied. I rose stiffly from the couch and padded into the kitchen. "You hungry?"
"What?"
"I asked if you were hungry."
"I–I don't think so."
"Well, I'm starving." I cracked open the fridge. Not much there — just a half a bell pepper, a few eggs, a hunk of cheddar cheese. "Tell you what — I'm gonna make myself an omelet. You want some, you're welcome to it."
Kate eyed me quizzically for a moment, but said nothing. I busied myself in the kitchen, chopping and whisking and grating. I found a skillet in the cupboard. A pat of butter and I was off and running. My stomach rumbled in anticipation.
"So," she said finally, "you some kind of doctor?"
"No," I replied.
"Oh. I thought — I mean the clothes and all…"
"I stole them. And so far, you're pretty much the only one I fooled."
"You got a name?"
"His name was Jonah. I guess that's as good as any."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," I replied. "Omelet's up."
Plate in hand, I dragged a chair from Friedlander's dining set over to Kate's armchair and sat down beside her. The omelet was steaming, and the mingling scents of sauteed pepper and melted cheddar were intoxicating. Kate tried her best to look disinterested. I split the omelet in two with my fork and scooped up a goodly bite, offering it to her.
She shook her head. "You think I'm eating that, you're nuts."
"Fine by me," I replied. I stuffed the forkful into my mouth. It wasn't half bad. I chased it with another, and then another. Soon, I'd polished off half the omelet. I was about to start in on the other half when she finally caved.
"Wait," Kate said. "Maybe just a bite." I gathered up a forkful and held it out to her. She frowned a moment, still doubtful, and then took the bite. Her eyes went wide. "It's good," she mumbled grudgingly as she chewed.
"You ask me, it coulda used a little Tabasco, but it turned out OK. When's the last time you had anything to eat?"
She shrugged against the restraints. "Dunno." Kate wolfed down a couple more bites, just as fast as I could feed her. Soon, fork hit plate, and I set both aside. "Water," she said. No please or anything, but still, it was progress. I filled a glass from the sink and tipped it to her lips. She lapped it up greedily, water dribbling down her chin.
"Easy," I said. "You're not careful, it's gonna come right back up."
"Thought you weren't a doctor," Kate said.
"I'm not, but I'm also not an idiot. You've been out a couple days — it's gonna take your stomach a little time to adjust."
"A couple days? What in hell did you do to me?"
"Hey, don't blame me — you were unconscious when I found you."
"Then how-"
"Wait," I said, "you're telling me you really don't know?"
"Know what?"
I ignored her question. "Kate, before waking up here, what's the last thing you remember?"
Her face twisted into a scowl. "I–I'm not sure. I remember coming down for breakfast. Mom was in the kitchen, packing lunch for me and Connor. Dad was on the phone in his study. Connor was at the piano playing 'Chopsticks' — Dad yelled at him to keep it down, said he couldn't hear himself think. Then things went a little fuzzy. I must have hit my head or something, because I remember smelling blood. After that, it's just fragments. My brother, crying. The scent of alcohol. Sirens, wailing in the distance. I think I might have spent some time in a hospital. I remember a bright light. Someone was screaming — I think it was me. Then I woke up here, tied to this chair."
"That's all you remember?"
"That's it."
I don't know why, but I believed her. "Kate, there's something you should know."
"What?"
I snatched the remote up from the coffee table and clicked on NY1. No surprise, we were the top story.
"… the hunt continues for seventeen year-old Katherine MacNeil, prime suspect in the brutal slayings of her mother, Patricia Cressey-MacNeil, her father, real estate magnate Charles MacNeil, and her eleven year-old brother, Connor. MacNeil was under guard at Bellevue Hospital Center Tuesday when she escaped with the help of an unidentified white male, age unknown. Anyone with information regarding MacNeil is urged to call…"
The anchor was replaced with a picture of a smiling Kate, clearly taken from her family's apartment, and a sketch of me that could've been any skinny white guy in the Tri-State area. Beneath us ran a number. I turned off the TV.
Kate stared at the blank screen for a while. Not blinking, not speaking. When she finally did speak, her voice was thin and frail.
"I… I don't understand."
The look on her face said otherwise. "Yes, you do."
"There has to be some sort of a mistake."
"There's not."
"Why would they think I'd done such a thing?"
"The cops found you at the scene, Kate. They saw you…" slit your mother's throat, I thought. "They saw enough."
"But why? How?"
I remembered the light that enveloped me as I'd clutched tight her soul. I remembered her song ringing loudly in my ears as I crumpled to the ground. "I don't know," I replied.
"That's why you tied me up," she said. "You were afraid of me."
"Yes."
"Then why'd you help me escape?"
"That's complicated."
Kate eyed me a moment. "Yes," she said, "I imagine it would be."
She fell silent for a while. I let her sit in peace. What could I say to her, really? Her family was dead. Dead by her hand. Words weren't going to change that.
I set about cleaning up the mess from breakfast. I was halfway through the dishes when she found her voice.
"This place," Kate said. "It's not yours, is it?"
"What makes you say that?"
"Doesn't seem like you, is all."
I smiled. "It belongs to a friend of mine. He wasn't using it, and we needed a place to stay. I figured we'd be safe here for a while, while I sorted things out."
"And have you? Sorted things out, I mean."
"I'm working on it," I said.
"Yeah," she replied. "Me too."
6
"I need to use the bathroom."
Kate hadn't said a word in hours — she'd just sat and stared at nothing. Of course, it's not like she had a lot of other options, being tied to a chair and all.
"I'm not sure that's such a good idea," I replied.
"I'm serious. I've really got to go."
"Then I'll get you a trash can."
"What's the matter — you scared to untie me?"
"Something like that."
"Well, it's got to happen sometime," she said. "You can't keep me here forever."
She had a point. Of course, she'd left three solid counterpoints cooling at the morgue. Still, I'd snatched her for a reason. There was something sour about this collection, and I sure as hell wasn't going to figure out what by playing babysitter all day long. Besides, maybe I untie her and Kate tips her hand. She goes postal and my little moral dilemma gets resolved in a hurry. That happens, I finish the job, and to hell with the light show.