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Another pause. “Would you say?—"
“Yes. I would.”
“Who is your best friend?”
I laugh. What the hell kind of question is that, under these circumstances? “I’m not sure I have one.”
“Do you have pets?”
“No. What sort of interrogation is this?”
“Thorough. Do you have houseplants?”
This is so weird. “Why? Are you offering to water them for me while I’m here?” Okay, maybe it’s not the best idea to smart off to your captors, but this line of questioning is just plain bizarre and it’s setting me off.
“What is your banking pin?”
Well, that was a zig when I thought he was gonna zag. “It’s four fives.”
“Are you in love with Anderson West?”
I laugh, but the question takes the air out of my lungs. “Can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
This guy! I snap, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m not sure.”
“What grades did you get in elementary school?”
Elementary school grades? Seriously? Just before I answer, I realize what he’s doing. It’s two things—getting a baseline of my responses and to see what pushes my buttons. The answers themselves don’t really matter, so long as they’re honest. It’s more about how I respond to them. If I lie, if I don’t. If I have an emotional response or not. It’s all a test.
It’s like talking to the police after an accident they think you may have caused. Like when I was a kid.
I’ve done a lot to forget about what happened back then. Shoved it way back in the rear of my memory, but right now, I can’t help but recall the accident. The thrashing. The panic. All the splashing?—
“Could I get a drink? My mouth is?—"
“What grades did you get in elementary school?”
That’s a no. Super. The knot in my gut keeps growing. “Mostly A’s. Why?”
“Have you ever gone hiking?”
Why did he have to ask about that? “Yes.”
“Do you have any regrets in life?”
My jaw grits. “Yes.”
He pauses again, but then his outline gets up and his heavy footsteps fall away from me. He didn’t take the chair with him. It should be a relief that he’s gone, but the truth is, having a person nearby was a strange sort of comfort after sitting here alone for so long. Even one as inscrutable as that guy.
It’s not long before there’s more footsteps. Lighter ones. A slender woman sits in the chair now, and she scoots it from the light some. I can’t make out her face, but her clothes are in view. A pantsuit. Not expensive. More like a bank teller or a government worker. No coat on her.
“How did you meet Anderson West?” Her accent is more New York than Boston. That and her gender are the only differences between them, evidently.
“School.”
“And how long would you say you’ve been dating?”
