Page 47 of The Triangle

“Bullshit,” I snarl. “It was Brasil’s man David.”

“I already told you, I have no clue who this David oke is. Or this Brasil fokker. It was Jimmy Sotoro. He fokked me over and Christine volunteered. Tell him, Christine.”

But she can’t tell me. For two reasons that he’s well aware of now. She doesn’t remember and it wasn’t Jimmy fucking Sotoro.

“Oh, yeah,” Christine says, knocking her knuckles against the side of her head.

“What?”

“Yeah,” she says, smiling as she meets my gaze. “Jimmy. I remember now.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Danny, come on. You’re making a big deal out of nothing. Jimmy was an asshole. And he stole… from Alec. Right, Alec?”

Are they really teaming up against me?

But I only huff out a laugh at my own silent question.

Because of course they are. He always got her to take his side. I was always the unreasonable one. Because I was always the one talking sense. I was the one who put up a fight every time he roped Christine and me into yet another job to bolster his fortune. I, Danny fuck-up Fortnight, was the voice of reason. That right there should tell you something about how sick this guy is. How power-hungry and self-absorbed.

Christine gets out of the car, slamming the door behind her.

“What the fuck?” I say, already out and walking around the front of the Range Rover before I’m done saying the words. “What are you doing?” I ask, taking her by the arm.

But she shrugs me off and turns her back to me.

“What?” I ask again.

“Come on, Christine.” Alec is on the other side of her now. “We’ll work it out. This is just us finding our footing again.”

I shoot him a look. He sees it but ignores me.

“This is just Danny saying he loves you. He’s always so dramatic.”

But she bows her head and stares down at her feet. Silent.

It occurs to me that she looks very fucking cute in my clothes. Black sweatpants and boots that are at least two sizes too big. And seeing her wearing my old pea coat, well, it reminds me of better days. Simple days that felt so complicated back before we understood what complicated really means. She was always using it to cover herself back when we were young. The heat never worked right in that shitty motel down on Juniper Avenue. She was forever trying to climb into bed with me, claiming we needed to share body heat. But I always said no. Threw her my coat and told her to sleep in it.

My blood always ran hot so the cold didn’t affect me the way it did her.

She was so small back then too. So young. So… fragile. But then again, she was tough like steel. Hard like diamonds. Such an appropriate analogy.

“It wasn’t all bad,” she finally says in a low whisper. She turns then, looks at us individually for a moment. Then—somehow, I don’t really know how—she looks at both of us at once. “Those days we spent in the Cook Islands. It was pretty great, right?”

I sigh, my shoulders slumping a little in defeat.

“Are you joking?” Alec says. “It was wonderful.” He smiles at her. Hand still on her arm, squeezing just hard enough to let her know he commiserates with her frustration.

I know I don’t hate him, not the way I do other people who I really fucking hate. But I fucking hate him. He always comes off so reasonable. So calm. And I’m the irrational one. The unpredictable one. The one who causes shit and he’s the one who cleans things up when I’m done.

But that’s not how it is. I’m the voice of reason. I’m the one who tried to do the right thing. I’m the rational, patient, calm one in this little triangle. Not him. Not her. Me.

And yet somehow I play right into his hands. I perpetuate the myth.

I look down at the gun, still in my hand, and tuck it back into my pocket.

“Remember when we spent a whole week on that private island near Aitutaki?” Christine says.