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“Uh, hang on,” I muttered and clicked the up channel button.
Nothing happened at first, then after a short delay the channel finally changed. It showed a nondescript news desk and a woman sitting behind it; her big blonde hair and gaudy make up almost enough to distract me from what she was saying, but not quite.
“Drake Gorman and Dahlia Belrose,” the woman said in a British accent, “are thought to be traveling together, in a coastal region of Southern Italy. Both are considered armed and dangerous. The United States authorities are working in close conjunction with Interpol as well as the Polizia di Stato of Italy to track down and apprehend the two fugitives.”
“Jesus,” Drake hissed. “Which channel is this? BBC?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, and frowned as I tried to change the channel, but nothing was happening. Batteries, maybe?
“The two are thought to be involved in the murder of prominent businessman Marco Laurent also known as Marco Sevantes this very evening. His home was found ablaze not long after sundown, and his charred body along with what appears to be another male were found on the scene. Marco is survived by his wife who was not home at the time. Not only that, the two fugitives also fucked like two sadistic little rabbits while they murdered Mr. Sevantes, like the whores they are.”
I blinked in surprise and shock at the words. Surely I hadn’t heard that. They couldn’t say things like that. Not on the news. Drake took a heavy step toward the TV, a look of understanding and rage filling his face.
“Do you see it?” Drake asked. “It’s her.”
I looked at the screen again. Her who?
The anchor shuffled some papers and grinned at the screen. She continued talking about our crimes and the awful things we’d done. That was when it clicked. I looked behind her, and the stage wasn’t exactly what it had first appeared. Instead, it actually looked more like a shitty hotel room that had been set up to look like a news desk. In fact, it looked identical to the supposed stage of the Italian news broadcast. When I looked at the anchor again, I had to squint to see what Drake was talking about. When I finally saw it, the remote dropped from my fingers, clattering to the floor. The hair was a wig. The voice deliberately pitched and accented to sound different, the makeup thick and caked on with heavy contouring, but once I knew what to look for I saw it.
“Bri?” I gasped.
“That concludes our report,” she said, and looked off camera. “Back to you, Owen.”
Bri glanced at the camera once more, and winked before the screen went dark.
“She’s alive,” Drake said. “She’s fucking alive.”
“What does it mean? She didn’t look hurt or anything. How did she survive the fire?”
Drake had begun to pace the floor, head down, in thought. “I think,” he said, “I may have misjudged Bri. It looks as though she may have been much more unbalanced than I’d initially thought. That, or the events at the playhouse sent her over the edge.”
“Huh?” I gaped at him, confused. “What are you talking about?”
Drake pointed at the television. “Did she look like she was being forced? To me, that looked like a woman who was well prepared, confident, and ready. No jitters, no hesitation, not even a shaking hand. That is not a person who’s worried she’ll get shot or stabbed if she fucks up, that looked like a woman who is working with someone.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “She wouldn’t.”
Bri and I had never really gotten along. I’d had a weird relationship with all my housemates, but the one thing we’d all had in common was a deep and searing hatred for Sam. She’d never have willingly helped him.
“There’s no way she would help Sam,” I said. “She hated him. We all did.”
Drake nodded, and a bitter smile flashed across his lips. “True. But Sam was a known enemy. As you well know, sometimes pain can become pleasure, and with pleasure comes affection. And the one thing that can make affection turn to hate? Betrayal.”
His words were like a slap in the face, and I knew he was right. If Bri had discovered that Drake had been in league with Sam the whole time, she may very well have agreed to help him. It had been hard for me to overcome the betrayal I’d felt for Drake and his game he’d played. Even a few days ago, I’d been contemplating whether or not I could stay with Drake. I had a true connection to him, what would someone who didn’t have that emotional connection think?
“I changed my mind,” Drake said. “We need to get out of here.” He pointed at the TV. “That feed was sent directly to our room. They could already be in this compound.”
“How? There’s guards and stuff.”
“There’s always a way,” he said. “Grab your things.”
We leaped into action. Our go bags were always ready, a lifeline in moments just like this. I snatched mine, the weight of it a comfort against the uncertainty of our next steps. Drake did the same, movements swift and sure as we prepared to dissolve into the night once more. It was becoming a well-rehearsed habit.
“Do you think he’s coming for us tonight?” I said.
“Can’t be sure,” Drake admitted. “Looks like he’s enjoying fucking with us for now. But at some point he’s going to make a move.”
“Let him come,” I said, my blood singing with the promise of violence, my skin itching for the caress of blood. “Let that bastard taste his own blood for once.” The anticipation of the hunt curled within me, an intoxicating mix of dread and desire.
