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Wasn’t she supposed to keep track of the time?
Chapter 97
TWILLY LEERED, his face very big in front of hers. Big nose, teeth like a Halloween jack-o’lantern, his words so elastic, Yuki became fascinated with the sounds more than the sense of what he was saying.
Get a grip, she told herself. Get a grip.
“Say that again?”
“When Michael went missing,” Twilly spoke patiently, “the cops came up with nothing. No clues. No suspects. I waited for months.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The Campion story was getting stale — so I did what I had to do. Good citizen thing, right? I called in a tip. I gave the cops a suspect. Completely legitimate. I’d seen Michael at the house of a little hooker named Junie Moon.”
“You . . . did that?”
“Yep, it was me. And like an answered prayer, Junie Moon confessed. Man, sometimes I even think she did it. But you didn’t convict her, did you, Yuki? And now I have a shitty ending for my book. And whoever killed Michael is free. And I’m up to my neck in knee-breakers, so I can only think of one way to get a big-bang ending and bring it on home.
“And that’s where you come in, little girl,” Twilly said. “I think you’re going to appreciate the drama and the poetry.”
There were flashes in the sky behind Twilly, bright colors and images she couldn’t make out. There was a whooshing in her ears, blood racing or animals running through the underbrush. What was going on?
“What’s . . . happening . . . to me?”
“You’re having a mental breakdown, Yuki, because you’re so depressed.”
“Me?”
“You. You . . . are . . . very . . . depressed.”
“Nooooo,” Yuki said. She tried to stand, but her feet couldn’t hold her. She looked at Twilly, his eyes big and as dark as black holes.
Where was her gun?
“You’re morbidly depressed, Yuki. That’s what you told me in the parking lot this morning. You said that you have no love in your life. That your mother is dead because you didn’t save her. And you said you can’t get over blowing this trial —”
He was bending her mind.
“Craaaazzzy,” she said.
“Crazy. Yes you are! You were on camera, Yuki. Thousands of people saw you run from the courthouse,” Twilly said, each of his words distinct and powerful — yet senseless.
“That’s the way I’ll tell the story, how you ran to the parking lot and I ran after you, and you said that you wanted to kill yourself, you were so ashamed. One of those Japanese honor things. Hara-kiri, right?”
“Nooooo.”
“Yes, little girl. That’s what you told me. And I was so worried about you, I followed you in my car.”
“You . . . ?”
“Meeeeee. And you showed me your gun that you’d gotten so that you could end your life and give me the freaking megawatt ending my book so richly deserves!”
Gun! Gun! Her arm was made of rubber. She couldn’t move her hand off the rock. Lights flashed in the dark.
“I didden . . . nooooo.”
She started to slip from her perch, but Twilly hauled her up roughly by her arm.
