“I will. Oh, and tell your smartarse guards that while they were watching the rest of the house, they totally missed the showdownin the laundry room yesterday. Big stupid blind spot. Reconsider how much you pay them.” The silence that flattens our conversation thrills me. I’ve renderedMr Smartmouthspeechless.Go me!
While I hold the winning ground, I disconnect the call and leave Dax to stew on what I’ve said.
I don’t wait long. The phone rings in my hand; the call accept and reject buttons blink on the screen. Not thinking too hard about it, I slide the reject icon into touch, and put the phone on my lap. It rings again. I repeat the process. It feels oddly powerful calling the shots, denying and irritating him all at once, much like he denied and irritated me. Sure, it isn’t to the same degree, but I get a petty thrill from it anyway, one that elicits a burbled giggle.
Then logic kicks in, reminding me what happened the last time I refused to answer Dax. He has a habit of just turning up when he really wants something.Is he coming to get me?
I slip out of the room, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hunting me in the only safe space I have to myself. I’m conscious of the eyes on me, so I saunter along the corridor and down the stairs, seating myself at the kitchen counter and placing the phone in front of me. The second I do, it beeps. A message flashes on screen.
Go sit at the dining table. Third chair down opposite the vase. Side nearest the wall.
I read it twice and then send a message of my own.
Why?
Blindspot.
Push the chair right back to the wall.
Why am I playing musical chairs in an emptyroom?
Because the cameras can’t see your messages from there.
Sneaky.
Practical.
Now what?
Why did Ben corner you in the laundry room?
Oh my, you figured that out so quickly! I mean, you’re only a day late.
I wonder if sarcasm translates via text?
I watched the footage of him leaving, smartarse. Now answer the question, and while you’re at it explain why you waited until now to tell me.
Seems it translates well enough.
Why don’t you ask him?
And I didn’t mention it because we’re not talking.
Trust me, I will ask Ben, but right now I am asking you. And, Jules, I’d call this talking.
Fine. He asked me what I’d overheard.
And we’re not talking; we’re fighting.
That night inthe Tower?
No. Yesterday. Here.
Jesus, how do you find trouble alone in a locked apartment? I’m coming up to speak with you.
Do you have to?
Why?
