Page 38 of Inextricably Tied

If he did, things would move a lot more quickly. And he’d add a lot more sex. When Flint and Harbinger hunch over the casefiles for the thousandth time, Agony imagines a knock on the door to disrupt the plotline. An introduction of a new character. A resurrection of someone assumed long-dead. A sudden shift to another environment.

But no knock comes, except when their food is delivered or housekeeping offers extra towels. And, in a way, that mundane blip is surprising for someone used to nightmares.

Dreams don’t follow logic. Patterns rarely extend for more than a few nights, which becomes predictable in its unpredictability. The real world has very different patterns, ones that Agony can use to surmise where the day will take them.

In this arc, for example — the “Flint needs a few days to heal” arc — Harbinger spends much of the nights watching television. Or, looking at the television, at least. Because her mind is elsewhere, gaze flicking over to Flint at random intervals. By this point, Agony faces the room full time, so he can see whatever show she’s not-watching. He becomes familiar with the other paintings on the walls, as well as the newspaper puzzles Flint begrudgingly hands him after breakfast.

Flint doesn’t sleep long. But with the medicine, he does sleep deeply, which leaves time for Harbinger and Agony’s stilted conversations. She stays on her bed, flipping through case notes, and Agony treads carefully. Speaks softly. Asks questions to catch her off guard. If he lets the silence stretch long enough, she doesn’t realize she’s divulging until it’s too late.

But that sounds sinister. And Agony isn’t trying to trick her into anything…probably. Hard to say, when he’s not quite sure what’s “appropriate.” The Reid case is fair game for discussion, although it leads to Harbinger quizzing him about things he can’t answer. Broaching the topic of Flint is a minefield. Some questions soften all the lines in her face, while others make her clam up for the rest of the night. And Agony is relatively certain that telling Harbinger he wants to see, not just hear, the way she looks when Flint fucks her is risky.

Or maybe Agony should go for it. Those nights with Flint asleep between them, it almost seems possible. Harbinger’s scowl heats when Agony smirks, a blade fresh off the iron, fingers playing absently with the edge of her shirt. When Agony asks something she hasn’t considered — or something she doesn’t want to — there’s a rewarding, surprised look in her eyes.

He fantasizes about it more than once. Imagines Harbinger stalking across the motel room, slipping under his bound arms and against his chest. All that skin she never shows grinding torturous circles into his lap, hair slipping out of her braid when she makes good on the threats to shut him up.

Never mind that Agony’s fantasies usually end with Flint catching them and making them pay for their indiscretions by fucking them both into the sheets.

Agony should get back to planning their demise. Given the chance to get Harbinger under his hands again, though, he’s not sure if he’d rather give her a final death or a little one.

Most surprising of all is how Flint allows Agony to participate in their conversations. A necessity, since they’re all trapped in a tiny room together, and Flint won’t let Agony out of his sight. But it’s not to be nice. Agony realizes that when Harbinger smooths burn ointment over Flint’s chest, pressing against his side in the bed…

It’s so Agony doesn’t forget that the two of them are together.

Flint heals for a few days. Harbinger cleans and dresses his wounds. On the news, the search for Flint’s lookalike dies down in the wake of public appreciation. Turns out people enjoy seeing a serial killer’s house burned to the ground.

Who would have thought?

As soon as Flint is well enough to travel, they find a different hotel room every night. They return to swanky suites once they’re far enough from the arson, and their days find a new pattern. Visit the families of the missing girls. Leave Agony alone in the backseat, until the day he tries to kick out one of the windows. They lose any OID tails on their way to a new hotel, settling in to scan through another chunk of the casefiles.

“What I don’t get…” Harbinger flattens a nearly-empty folder. “Is how the OID never followed up on some of these.”

Agony works through a crossword puzzle with a giant marker, his Flint-approved writing utensil. Harbinger places her hand on a stack of folders brimming with paperwork. “Some of these follow protocol: interviews, transcripts, evidence logs.” Her hand moves to a smaller stack with far more folders, but far fewer files. “And these have — what, a page or two each? There aren’t pictures in half of them. There’s no consistency.”

Flint looks up over his glasses. “Which one’s the most recent?”

She rifles through the stacks until she comes to a smaller folder. “This one: Evolet Albrun. She disappeared around the time they arrested Reid.” Harbinger drops the paltry pages back onto the table. “No picture. Classified as a runaway. Looks like the OID scheduled an interview with the parents and never followed up.” Harbinger unlocks their cell phone. “If we leave early enough tomorrow, we could get there before dinner.”

“Did the ferryman into the Break get back about Reid?”

“Yes,” she sighs, zooming into the map. “He said Reid didn’t look familiar. Since there’s only one ferry that holds a couple cars, we can rule it out. I still asked him to get a message to the Timbers, but he said there’s been a lot of commotion recently. No telling when they’ll get back to us.” Harbinger shifts her attention to the sparse information in the girl’s file. “I’ll have to talk to the parents alone.” Her eyes narrow on Agony. “Since we can’t take you in. Or leave you alone for an hour, apparently.”

“It’s for the best.” Flint takes the phone from her hand, setting a new alarm when a call comes through. OID. He swipes it away. “The three of us on their doorstep would be overwhelming, at the very least. And if you show them what you can do, it might be easier for them to talk to you. The OID’s already burned them. Can’t imagine they feel trusting.”

Before sunrise, the three of them are on the road. It’s a trek to the Albrun home, but eventually, Flint pulls up to the curb on a side street and double-checks the address. Cottages crowd the neighborhood, connected by stepping stones through a massive garden. Colorful smoke twists from chimneys, an amalgam of talismans decorating thresholds behind elders who call to children picking petals and fruits.

Flint leans over the steering wheel. “Evolet’s a witch?”

With a jerk, Harbinger hops out of the passenger seat, slamming a plain black helmet over her head. “The OID didn’t put that in her file?”

It’s like an airlock when the door shuts behind her, her black-clad form moving down the garden path. Flint and Agony watch her, as does the rest of the neighborhood. She does her best to give a small wave, stopping at the bottom of a set of steps where the front door pulls open.

A man with pale, freckled skin shakes a neighbor’s hand before they both descend off the porch. The man — must be Evolet’s father – waits as Harbinger removes her helmet. Her mouth moves, and the neighbors in the garden murmur. After a long moment, he steps back to offer her the open doorway.

Flint exhales. Agony reclines across the backseat, propping his feet on the opposing window and its poorly-patched cracks. “Sure you can make it an entire hour with her out of your sight?”

It’s a reward when Flint rolls his eyes, resting his elbow on the window sill and running a hand through his beard.

Agony whistles. “Never know what’s going on behind closed doors.”