Page 94 of Our Last Resort

Harris takes a deep breath. He holds it for a couple of seconds. I can feel it in the air around us, how badly he wants me to crack, how much easier his life would be if I just yielded.

He exhales.

“Fine,” he says.

I get up and walk toward the door. My palms are sweaty; my heart pounds in my ears. But I know what to do. I know what it feels like when the world of crime approaches the edges of your life like a lighter to a piece of paper. It’s so tempting to believe that the blaze is inevitable, to picture your world going up in smoke before the first flame even catches.

I need to leave before Harris gets to me.

“We’ll get a warrant.”

I stop, my hand inches from the door handle. Harris gets up from behind the table.

“We’ll search Gabriel’s stuff. Your stuff. Your clothes, your phones, your computers. Whatever secrets you have, whatever secrets he has, we’ll find out.”

I turn around.

“I don’t just mean about Sabrina Brenner,” Harris says. “You know, a lot of people think Gabriel should have gone to prison for Annie Woodward’s death.”

Oh, it rattles me, her name in his mouth. It really does.

“I’ve always thought someone ought to look into the case again,” Harris says. “Technology has improved so much in nine years. Who knows what would come up if the right detective took it up.”

Now he’s bluffing. Annie died in New Jersey, a different jurisdiction, two thousand miles away. And Harris has no basis on which to get a warrant. I do know that.

But he’s not done.

“You know what I’ve always thought we should be better at, us in law enforcement? Interdepartmental communication. There was this guy a few years ago—serial murderer. He lived in Massachusetts, but he always made sure to cross multiple state lines whenever he committed a crime. Jurisdictions got crossed. He went undetected for years. So aggravating. I always thought, ‘If I join the force, that won’t be me. I’ll make sure to communicate any relevant information to my peers.’ And here we are.”

For a second, I consider it. I could break. I could tell Harris everything he wants to know.

I could tell him about the hair clip.

No.

I did not come here to renounce him at the first opportunity. Gabriel. The boy I chose to be my brother.

I think about Romulus and Remus, how Gabriel saw us reflected in them.

Here’s what I know: When Romulus and Remus disagreed on where to establish the city that became Rome, they didn’t draft in a third party to decide. They dealt with their discord between themselves.

I place my hand back on the handle. As I push the door open, I turn to look at Harris.

“Then get a warrant,” I say.

And then I do what I’ve been free to do since this interview started.

I leave.

When Leon drops me back at the Ara, it’s crawling with guests. They’re pulling suitcases behind them, accosting members of the staff, asking for cars. One of the influencers is on the phone, evidently with an airline, asking to be put on standby and repeating, louder than strictly necessary: “My member ID is nine…seven…three…” Madison, on her own call, yellswhat I imagine to be answers to security questions: “Acoustic guitar…Newfoundland…Cookies and cream.”

Employees, too, are milling around, asking for patience, answering questions in soothing voices. Clearly, people have moved up their departures. They want to leavenow—not in a few hours, and certainly not in a day or two.

They’re desperate to get away—from us, I realize. The two persons of interest.

“Excuse me?”

Catalina is standing next to me.

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