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Completely shocked by what I’m seeing on my screen, I hesitate, then regroup.
My mission hasn’t changed.
I’m still here to save her.
But is she kissing him because this is all part of some sick plan of hers?
Or worse – is she in on her own kidnapping?
I reel back. The world ripples, like I’m under the surface, looking up through crystal clear blue water and a rainstorm begins.
Then it clears.
The reason she’s kissing him like that has nothing to do with saving her. Divorce the thought, Foster.
Analysis later.
Action now.
“The pipes look good,” I call back toward the hallway in a disguised voice, Tiffany rushing over, looking worried.
“Okay, Pete!” she says in an exaggerated voice as I flip my phone screen over. The last thing she needs to see is a naked woman in a bedroom with another woman and two guys next door.
Then she whispers, “Where’s the camera crew? I’ve got everything ready.”
Everything is ready? I don’t know what she means by that. I don’t care.
“Good,” I say loudly, dropping my voice.
“Is your nice friend coming back? He said he’d get the camera equipment and be back soon, to start filming.” Tiffany frowns. “I want to make sure I’m doing everything I can so this is successful. I need to move up the ladder in my career. I hate what I do for a living now.” She shrugs. “It pays the bills, but...”
Her nattering becomes background static as I think about what’s happening on the other side of this thin wall. Lindsay’s kissing John, walking naked around that room – my bedroom – like she owns the place.
“Drew – er, Pete?” Tiffany’s long fingernails are digging into my bicep. “You listening?”
“Sure.” No, I’m not. I’m calculating and trying to figure out whether Lindsay is so smart that she’s able to override every fear response in her and act in a self-preserving way that is highly risky, or she’s played me all along.
And you known the damnedest part?
Either way, I still love her.
“So that’s okay?’ Tiffany interrupts, looking at me like she thinks I’ve been listening to her.
“Sure.”
She gives me a kiss on the cheek and scampers off.
And then my fucking phone rings.
I leap up, whack my head on a towel rack, and my phone goes flying, cracking on the tile floor with the sickening sound of a screen shattering. My tools go everywhere, and Tiffany squeals.
The phone still works, thank God. I don’t recognize the number, but that’s not new. I ignore it.
I flip back over to the scene in the bedroom.
Lindsay and John are kissing like they’re in the backseat of Daddy’s fancy car on prom night.
Stellan’s leering at Jane.
