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“Yeah,” I tell him; neither of us can tear our eyes from the screen in case we miss something vital. “Whoever it is inside that room, she knew.”
We could barely hear the muffled, faraway voice of the person to whom Nora and Lysandra were speaking, enough to know that it was a man. And the mystery person never stepped into the doorway because he knew he would be in full view of the camera—in full view of us.
“It’s Vonnegut,” Niklas says.
“Yes. It’s definitely Vonnegut,” I say, then add with grave revelation, “And it’s likely someone we all know.”
“I don’t even want to think about that.” Niklas shifts uncomfortably next to me.
“Whoever it is,” I say, “the bastard is here, in this building, just feet from us somewhere.”
But he is not on this floor. The shootout in the hallway could be heard on the screen, but not from within our prison. Not even faintly, so there’s no way it happened on the same floor or several floors close to us. But it is, without a doubt, the same building. The spotted tile on the floor in the camera is the same as in the room we’re being held; the gray-white paint on the walls; the thick mahogany door—the door is the same as the one Nora just died within feet of.
“Nora was about twenty or so floors up,” I contemplate. “And judging the view from that impenetrable window over there, we have to be near the top, if not the very top.”
“That means floors twenty and up are heavily guarded.”
My stomach sinks. I’ve never doubted Victor’s ability to get himself out of pretty much any situation, but I’m not feeling so great about this one. The Order knows him better than almost anyone—they made him who he is. They know what they’re up against, just like they knew what they were doing when they imprisoned Niklas and me inside this room. Seems counterproductive to give us a room with a view, but it was smart. Because they have no intention of feeding us, possibly no intention of giving us water, so no reason to open the door. The window glass is made of half-inch thick polycarbonate; it would deflect anything thrown at it. There is only one ceiling tile—the one made to retract for the screen to appear—and, as I said, it is far too high for either of us to reach even if we stood on each other’s shoulders. And even if we could somehow reach it, I doubt there’s a way out through it. As Niklas said, the window view and us being thrown in here together, unrestrained, is simply for our sanity.
But we will eventually starve to death—if we don’t die of dehydration first like I keep saying. But that would be counterproductive to let us die so soon. So, they have to open that damn door and give us water! I can’t help it, but it’s all I can think about.
My chaotic thoughts are broken when the screen blinks off; the ceiling tile shifts mechanically back into place, camouflaging the opening to near perfection.
With nothing more to watch, we could move now, sit up, stand up and stretch our legs—whatever—but neither of us have the strength to do anything but lie here, same as we were before.
“I’m sorry about Nora,” I tell Niklas, my mouth so dry, my lips cracked and starting to split a little.
He chuckles. “Sorry for what? I couldn’t stand her.”
“If you hated her that much, you wouldn’t have slept with her so many times.”
“I didn’t have feelings for her if that’s what you’re implying.”
“No, not those kinds of feelings,” I say, “but you two had fun together. If anything, I wouldn’t put it past you to think you liked her, at least.”
Niklas hesitates, a small sigh disrupting the dense air between us.
“Yeah, I guess I kinda did.” He jerks his head to the side to look at me sternly. “But I wasn’t in love with her, so don’t throw any more of your therapist theory bullshit at me.” He looks back up at the ceiling.
“Don’t worry; I wouldn’t go that far with you and Nora Kessler.” I smile softly to myself.
“Besides, you can only really be in love with one person at a time,” I add in jest. “And since you’re so in love with me…”
“But I’m not really in love with you, remember?” he points out. “Miss, I know Everybody’s Heart. And what makes you think somebody can’t be in love with two people at the same time?”
I shrug my shoulders against the floor.
“I don’t know. I guess it just seems hard enough to be in love with one person. Two just seems overkill.”
“It’s the sex,” he decides.
“Oh, please do explain, Mr. I’m The Expert on All Things Sex.” I grin at him, and even though he’s still looking at the ceiling, I know he senses it.
“They just use it as an excuse to have sex with more than one person,” he theorizes. Then he looks at me and adds, “If I was in love with someone, really fucking in love, I can’t imagine even looking at another woman.” He looks back upward. “If you claim to love two people, neither is enough for you. And two people don’t make a whole one. It doesn’t work like that, no matter how hard you try to make yourself believe it.”
“Wow,” I say. “And you thought I was the know-it-all therapist. Sounds like you’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this kind of stuff.” I point at him briefly. “And you just proved my diagnosis, by the way.”
He looks at me again, eyebrows creased inward.
