Page 52 of Roma Queen
Garrett holds his hands out where I can see them as he walks into the living room. I’ve been behind him the whole way up here. He didn’t see me take the gun out of my jacket pocket, but he must know I have the thing aimed at his back. He stops by the coffee table, and, with infinite caution, he pivots on the balls of his feet until he’s facing me.
His brown eyes are expressive. They have been since the day I met him. I’ve only ever needed to make eye contact with him to know what he’s feeling, or that he’s had a shitty day. When our eyes meet now, for the first time…I can’t really get a read on him. He seems closed off. Like a wall that’s never existed between us before has suddenly gone up, high and impenetrable, and there’s absolutely no way to scale over it.
Swallowing hard, I point the end of the gun at the couch. “Sit down. And don’t even think about trying to rush me. I’ve had weapons training.”
The look Garrett gives me is loaded.Come on, Zara. We both know this is the first time you’ve ever held a fucking gun.
“All right. Fine. I haven’t had weapon’s training. But I’m not a moron. I know enough. This thingisloaded, and I’ve removed the safety.” I hold the gun up for him to see. His dark eyes scan the gun; he’s emotionless, as if he’s unaffected by the lethal piece of metal I’m holding in my hands. He doesn’t even quail when I aim the thing at his head again. He skirts around the table and slumps down onto the couch, and then gives me another easily readable look:Now what?
“Now you’re going to tell me why you took Sarah. And then you’re going to tell me what the fuck Lazlo wants with me. Fuck, just start at the beginning. How the fuck do you even know the guy?”
Garrett spreads his hands out in front of him, palms up. He shrugs, arching an eyebrow at me:how do you want me to tell you anything, when I have nothing to write with, Zara?
“Fine. Where is it? Where’s the white board?” Occasionally, when I’ve pushed him hard enough, Garrett’s used a small whiteboard and a marker to communicate with. He hates it—I’m fairly sure I’m the only person he’s ever actually used it with—but when I’ve needed a complex answer to a question, he’s relented and brought it down to my apartment. He sighs and points off down the hallway. His apartment is an exact mirror to my own, except everything is flipped; at the end of the hallway in that direction is his kitchen. Down the hallway in the opposite direction: his bedroom.
“Okay. Get up. Go and get it. Slowly. I’m gonna be behind you the entire time.”
Garrett’s expression’s kind of pitying; he must know that I’m shitting myself. It’s almost as if he’s trying to console me as he gets to his feet again and walks extra slowly into the kitchen, once again keeping his hands out by his sides, in plain sight.
The white board sits on the kitchen counter, next to an empty Chinese takeout carton. Aside from the carton and the board, the counters are clear of clutter and mess. In fact, they look like Garrett’s scrubbed at them recently with a goddamn toothbrush. He gestures to the white board, silently requesting if it’s okay for him to pick it up.
“Yeah. Take it back into the living room.”
He does as I’ve told him and collects the board, taking it back into the other room, where he sits back down on the sofa.
“Good. Now. You know him, right? Lazlo? How?”
Garrett pops the cap off the marker he’s holding and sighs again. He writes slowly, taking his time, then he holds the board up for me to see.
Long story
I huff, rolling my eyes. “Howlong? You’ve known him for months?Years?”
Garrett wipes the board with his sleeve and writes again.
1983
“What? You’ve known him since you were…fuck, since you wereborn?”
He shakes his head. Wipes. Writes.
9 y.o. He claimed me.
“Claimed you? What the fuck do you mean, heclaimedyou?”
I was an orphan. A convent took me in. Lazlo adopted me when I was a kid
To sayI’m horrified doesn’t even come close. This thing iswaymore complex than I could ever have imagined. Garrett looks mournfully down at the whiteboard, his eyes locked onto the words he’s written, before he quickly scrubs them away with his cuff again. He’s still rubbing at the shiny surface of the board long after the black marker ink has disappeared, like Lady Macbeth, rubbing furiously at an imaginary spot of blood.
“Why did you move in here, Garrett? Was it because of me? Did he tell you towatchme?”
He doesn’t write anything this time. Only nods.
“For…for three years? You’ve been watching mefor three years?”
Again, the marker remains clenched tightly in his hand, and he nods.
“Why now? Why did he take Corey now?”
