The second hand ticks on, guided by the nest of gears behind it, wheels turning in unison. The mechanics of the clock stretch unseen, connecting itself by thin axle to my fate. Each time metalwork clicks into place, Detective Alvarado is drawn closer to this room. The timekeeper is plotting against me, pushing myself and the man who hunts me together with every swoop of the pendulum.
Two hours. I sit in the conference room for two hours, head down, counting my breath. I do not sleep for a moment.
Jack and I are connected in this, resting on opposite ends of the same cog. Even though I can't talk to him, everything I've told the detective will filter through. I only hope he sees my lack of information as the peace flag I mean it to be.
Who knows what he will do, if Alvarado gets here. That tattoo, that damn tattoo—I told them about it, and now it marked Jack for death. What a stupid thing for him to put on his body, a stupid defiance.
The door to the conference room opens; I peel my face from my arms, wipe the spit from my lip, and turn to face Detective Green.
"Sorry about the delay," he says. "There's a lot going on today. Heck, there always is."
"It's no problem," I answer, though every cell of my being aches to escape this place. "Do you really need me to stay here this whole time? My leg really hurts. I want to go to my cousin's. I can come back and answer questions tomorrow, if you want."
Tomorrow, when I'm across state lines. Hopefully.
"I'm going to want to talk to her, too," the detective says.
Like I suspected. Pleasant, but still plotting my downfall.
I know this can't happen, but I don't know how else to answer, and so only nod. "Let me give her a call. You still have my phone, though."
Charlie holds out a hand, nods, and digs into the pocket of his slacks. My phone emerges, black plastic clamshell. He flips it open, mashes a few buttons.
"Go to my call history," I tell him, when it becomes clear he'll be the one operating the phone.
He does so.
"It's the first number there, that's her." I direct him to the number for Morgan's disposable cell phone.
"And what's her name?" he asks.
"Cassandra," I repeat, knowing that Morgan hasn't heard this name, and may spoil the entire charade within five seconds of answering the phone. She doesn't know she's supposed to be my cousin, or that she supposedly sent her boyfriend to retrieve me from Orlando.
He presses the speakerphone button. After the third ring, someone answers.
"Hello? Her voice is thin and compressed over the little speaker.
Charlie and I make eye contact, and I seize the opportunity to get the first word in. "Cassandra?" I ask. "This is Ryan White, I'm looking for my cousin Cassandra. I'm at the police station."
"This is her roommate, Sarah," Morgan answers back, without missing a beat. "Do you need someone to pick you up?"
The detective speaks up: "Sarah, you're on speakerphone. This is Detective Green, with the Ocala police department. We're very interested in talking with your roommate, do you know when she'll be back?"
"You know, it's strange, she's supposed to be here—come to think of it, I didn't see her this morning." Morgan's voice is upbeat and cheerful, each phrase given a pitch and timbre to vary it from the last.
"Is it okay if I stay at her house, like we planned?" I ask the phone. "I really need a place to stay tonight."
"Of course," Morgan says. "Your room is all set up. I can be there in ten minutes, is that okay?"
YOU ARE READING
Keep the Ghost
Mystery / ThrillerKayla is about to fake her own death. The teenager has met a couple of strangers that claim to be experts on pseudocide, and they've told her what to do. And poor Sean Reilly, the exchange student living in her house, has stumbled on the plan. When...
