Page 85 of Misery
His hand moves to his phone, probably texting someone. But his movements are too obvious.
The man notices, smiles wider. "Your babysitter seems nervous," he observes. "Young for the job. They must be running short on protection detail."
"He's not?—"
"Of course not." He waves a hand dismissively. "Just a friend. Who happens to be armed. Who happens to be watching everyone who talks to you. Perfectly normal."
"This place must feel safer than your old apartment," he continues, changing subjects like flipping channels. "All this protection. All these guard dogs. Though dogs can't always protect sheep from wolves. Sometimes they just bark at shadows while the real threat walks through the front door."
"Excuse me?" My voice sharper, and now I’m scared.
"Just an observation." He finishes his second drink. "One more, I think. Then I'll leave you to your evening. Wouldn't want to overstay my welcome."
I pour with trembling hands now.
Can't hide it.
He notices, of course he notices. Seems pleased by it.
"I didn't mean to upset you." His voice is gentle now.
Almost apologetic, which is somehow worse.
Like a cat purring while it plays with a mouse. "I sometimes say things without thinking how they sound. Occupational hazard of spending too much time alone. Watching. Waiting."
"What do you do?" I ask, needing information. Something concrete. Something that makes him real instead of this nightmare wearing human skin.
"I remove problems." Simple. Matter-of-fact. "Speaking of which, you might want to check on your family tonight. Make sure everyone's where they're supposed to be. People go missing so easily these days. Especially fathers who don't pay enough attention."
What the fuck?
The glass slips from my hand and shatters on the floor.
The sound cuts through the bar noise like a scream.
Conversations stop. Everyone turns.
"Careful," he says, unconcerned by the attention. "Don't cut yourself. Scars last forever. Though you already know that, don't you?"
His eyes flick to my shoulder.
Where my scar is.
Hidden under my shirt but he knows it's there.
Heknows. Has always known.
"I need to—" I start backing away.
"Clean that up? Of course. Take your time." He pulls out cash, lays it on the bar. Way too much for three drinks. All hundreds. "Keep the change. Consider it an investment in art. I'm quite the collector, you know. I have several of your pieces."
Several of my pieces. But I've never sold any. They're all in my room or?—
No. No, no, no.
"How?" The word comes out strangled.
"Oh, there are ways. People throw out the most interesting things. Leave them in storage units. Forget them when they move." He stands, straightens his jacket. It's expensive. Tailored. "I particularly like the one with the bleeding flowers. Such raw emotion. Such exquisite pain."
