Page 118 of Misery
But not torture at the hands of a psychopath who wants to trade him for me.
Mom pours another round.
Her hands are steadier now, the alcohol doing its work.
The bandage on her head has a small spot of blood seeping through, but she won't let anyone change it. "Not until I know," she'd said. Like bleeding alongside him somehow helps.
"What time is it?" I ask.
"Eleven twenty," Helle checks her phone. "Only five minutes since you last asked."
Time has turned elastic, stretching and compressing.
It's been three hours since Oskar left.
Three hours of nothing.
No calls. No texts.
No word about whether my father is alive or dead. Whether Oskar is alive or dead. Whether Thiago won.
"I should have gone with them," I say.
"That's exactly what Thiago wanted," my mother reminds me. "You going to him."
"Maybe that would have been better. Trade myself for Dad. End this."
"Elfe—"
"No, Mom. I'm serious. How many people have to die because one sick fuck is obsessed with me? How many?—"
My phone rings.
We all freeze, staring at it like it might explode.
Unknown number.
My hand shakes as I answer. "Hello?"
"Get to the clubhouse. Now." Magnus' voice. Clipped. Urgent.
"Is he?—"
"Now, Elfe."
The line goes dead.
I look at my mother and sister.
We don't need words.
Helle's already grabbing keys while Mom helps me stand—when did I become the one who needs help standing?
I guess after the bourbon got to me.
"Aren! We need to go!" I shout.
The prospect appears from the living room where he's been standing guard, trying to give us privacy while staying close.
