Page 128 of The Triangle

“I love you,” she says now.

“I love you back,” I say. Because I do. I don’t feel it in this moment, but I love her. And if I lose her, well, I’ll just die if I lose her.

“I think I should go. I have somewhere to be. And something to do and maybe…”

“Maybe what? Maybe you won’t come back?”

“I’m coming back.”

“Then why are you leaving?”

I get it. I mean know why. I’m not a whole lot of fun these days. And I don’t really know what’s bugging me. I just know it’s something. Something I don’t understand. Something that makes me want to sleep all day. Something that hates, something that wants to give up.

“I’m coming back.”

Circles. I’m going in circles, not triangles.

“What did he do, Christine? Tell me.” I whisper that last part.

And then I look at her. For the first time in days, I think. She presses her lips together and shakes her head. “I can’t,” she whispers back.

“Why?”

“Because it doesn’t matter.”

“It did that day.”

That’s what we call it now. That day.

“I’m leaving. I have to go but I’ll be back. Please be here.”

“Where would I go?” It’s an honest question. Brasil is still looking for me. My fucking garage went up in flames that night we left. Oh, yeah, that was fun. Driving back to the city. To my home. Finding it gone. But then again, what did I expect? We left half a dozen dead bodies behind. Of course whoever sent that hit torched the place when they did the cleanup.

I don’t know if that attack was Brasil or not. Probably was. Because we now know when Lars sends mercs in to kill you, he does it right.

Did, I guess. Past tense. Did it right.

I went to the other warehouse, packed up some things, grabbed the important contacts, a new burner phone for each of us. Money to get fake passports.

We picked up more money once we got to the Caribbean. And a boat. A big catamaran. One that can cross oceans. We didn’t stop in South Africa. Went to Madagascar instead. Then off to the Seychelles, the Maldives, passed a bunch of fucking places in Indonesia, skipped Australia and kept going. New Caledonia, Fiji, and then… the Cook Islands. The only place we had left.

Two and half months we were on that yacht.

But time is so funny. Feels like yesterday we were standing in those woods looking at that river.

“I’ll be back soon,” Christine says, leaning in to kiss me on the cheek. “Please be here.”

The next time I look up the sun is setting behind me, burning my back.

For a second I think, Holy shit. Did she take the boat?

But no. I see it. Across the lagoon where it’s supposed to be.

So I swim back. Go inside. Turn on the lights, and make some ramen. Live, without really living.

Two days go by and I think she’ll come back. Probably by morning.

Seven days and I’m a little less sure.