Man on the Inside

11

It takes Nimm a surprising amount of time to get back to him, but when Brontë checks his phone as he and Art are arriving back at the hotel from shopping, he's at least got some kind of answer from her.

Sorry for being so late to respond. I'm glad you're okay.

General rule: if your question is genuine curiosity, say it. If your question is aimed around trying to figure out how to arrest him: don't. Let that info come up organically, probably. Or else he might realise.

Did he tell you what the plan is yet?

Promise I wasn't ignoring you.

The fact that she doesn't tell him why she didn't get back to him makes Brontë a different kind of worried. They were just out so Art could buy him a suit that he was very specific about, and he had explained, rather casually, that it wasn't a gift or anything else, but a disguise. "You can keep it after, though," Art had said, as he'd been fixing the front of the suit jacket and straightening up the tie. "I'm not a huge fan of suits, but it does look good on you."

Brontë decides against the brief flash of thought he gets to ask Nimm if statements like that mean anything. Instead, while Art is in the bathroom and Brontë is taking this quick moment to catch up with Nimm, he texts, are you alright yourself? I'll explain the plan later, no time.

She texts back instantly. I'd tell you if anything was really wrong, don't worry.

He knows for a fact she wouldn't. In fact, she tells him barely anything. He knows she's an artist, but she's never showed him any of her work. She's mentioned an couple of exes, here and there, talked vaguely about not being close with her family; she said she's never been married, never had kids, her serious relationships never worked out. She likes reality shows, he's pretty sure.

All surface-level stuff or extremely vague. The kind of thing you can say to the types of cops she doesn't like. For all her saying he's different, she doesn't trust him with too much. Certainly not the things that he knows, the deductions he'd made without her saying a word.

Like that she might well be dying.

"What's wrong?" Art asks, and Brontë isn't sure for exactly how long he was staring out the window, or how long Art has been watching him stare.

"Oh, nothing." Brontë turns around, and Art's expectant gaze is too much to hold for too long. "I'm worried about a friend of mine, but it's nothing."

"How so?" he asks, as he moves around the bed to open his duffle bag. Brontë gets the feeling that, despite how casual he's trying to come off, Art is paying close attention to each of his words. Like he's looking for a lie.

So Brontë tells the truth. "She just took a while to get back to me, and that's fine- it happens- but she just sounded off. I'm pretty convinced she's not well and she's just refusing to tell me."

Art pauses for a moment as he rifles through the bag. "Why wouldn't she tell you? If- if you're friends, right?"

Brontë turns back to the window. "I don't know. It's not a situation you can help with, it's fine."

"Fuck." There's a moment of silence. "I guess not, but I know people. People don't hide things for no reason. She'll probably tell you when you need to know, if anything really is happening."

"I know something is happening. I'd have to ignore far too much to deny it, right? And I don't want her to tell me when I need to know. I want her to tell me because we're friends."

"Then ask," Art says sharply, and Brontë realises that his own voice was raising a little, genuine frustration leaking through his words. Art wasn't trying to be rude- he just needed him to quiet down a little. "If you think she's not telling you something, just ask."