Stella

“And how’d you say you got from this Nagler guy having an affair to a cabal of militia agitating on foreign soil?”

I...I didn’t, did I?

It’s been hours. A delirious part of me wants to ask that detective for a pair of toothpicks to prop my eyes open.

Think.

“I...I didn’t. Jack was the one—I was trying to talk to Nagler’s wife, and Jack found out, and....” Keep it vague. No outright lies. Our stories have to match. “Well, then he died—Nagler, I mean—and Jack, he.... I mean, he knew there had to be something going on, more than just an affair, more than a hostile takeover from ten years ago. He must’ve—I don’t know.... There’d be records, or....”

“So, what was the timeline on that? From when Nagler was shot—that was about twenty-four hours to your blog post, and in that time... Walk me through it again.”

“I don’t know. We weren’t together the whole time. He said we had to hide, and then.... I don’t know. He was off somewhere, and someone took a shot at me, and.... And then he came back—I don’t know!” I’m supposed to be playing helpless, confused, but this feels too real.

“And what did he say he was doing, during the time he was, uh...’off somewhere’?”

“He didn’t. He just told me... He said a lot of stuff that didn’t make sense when they took over—stuff he put down to human error, sloppiness—he said it’s happening again.” I sip my water, buying time. “There must’ve been... Someone must’ve gotten to them, to Erik and Magnus. Someone from before. Got them involved. And when Jack confronted them....”

“Which was when?”

It would’ve had to be some time after the shootings and before Jack found me in my apartment. This is where it could all fall apart. I have no idea where any of them were. “Uh, I...some time between midnight and...morning, I guess?” I grind the heels of my hands into my eyes. “Sorry. I’ve had, like...two hours’ sleep since Nagler died. It’s all running together in my head.”

“So Mr. Brightman confronted his partners that morning, and instead of coming to us, the two of you decided to...blog about it?”

“We were....” It all made perfect sense at the time. I grope after it, whatever thread of logic brought me to this point. “I’m pregnant. He wanted... Jack wanted them arrested and off the streets before we risked showing our faces.”

“You were undercover as his...rent-a-wife? Is that it?—and now you’re pregnant, and the two of you are running around playing detective, getting kidnapped and shot, driving like maniacs through the city, and...last night, you were playing it safe?”

I nod miserably. Put like that, it sounds stupid. At best.

There’s a knock at the door. Left alone, I bury my head in my arms. All I want is sleep. Hours and hours of blessed sleep, followed by a long shower, and eggs and toast. In my own apartment. With Jack.

If I get through this, I can get to that. Just got to swallow my pride a little longer, keep playing the fool. Whatever Jack’s doing, he must be holding up all right. If he’d fucked up, if we’d tripped each other up, it’d be over by now. Unless they’re letting it play out, watching us dig ourselves deeper and deeper. I can’t even remember what I’ve said, if I’ve contradicted myself, if....

“Good news.”

I jerk upright. Sleeping—I was sleeping.

“Mr. Gunnarsson’s been stabilized. He’s conscious.”

Is that good news?

“He’s saying Brightman was in on it the whole time. That the whole thing was his idea.”

“He...what?” I blink. I’m tired, but... This sounds fishy. Cops can lie to get a confession. Everyone knows that. Not so sure they can interrogate someone who was hanging upside-down and unconscious in a crumpled car not five hours ago—who’d still be concussed, best-case scenario.

“Yeah—so, it seems like we have two different versions of events: the one you’re telling me, and the one where your boyfriend’s been in on it all along, and this is a turf war.”

“Turf war?”

“Gunnarsson seems to think Jack wanted the whole operation to himself.”

Definitely bullshit. I very nearly laugh. “Wanted what to himself? Blakemoor? He doesn’t... Far as I know, he moved on from that years ago. Check for yourself: he’s in real estate.”

“You seem pretty sure about that.”

“I have been nosing around his life since summer.”

“And you’ve obviously got pretty close.”

I don’t like the way he says that, heavy with insinuation.

“We....” Wish he’d stop looking at me like that, one brow raised. “Jack’s not who I thought he was. I thought he’d be this...Hugh Hefner, Larry Flynt...this womanizing ass, dumb as a box of rocks, but... But he’s funny. Wry. He has a picture of Bluebeard’s castle outside his bedroom, like a kid with a ‘keep out’ sign. It’s hilarious, when you get to know him, when you see...he’s not like that. Not cruel, not callous—I got mugged, a few weeks back, and he sat with me the whole time I was getting back on my feet....”

“And while he was worming his way into your heart, you were digging into his personal life?”

“Well, I never said I was a good person.”

“Guess you didn’t.” The detective leafs through his notepad, long enough for the silence to get uncomfortable. Or it would be, if my energy wasn’t all going into staying awake.

“So, I—”

“I’ll need you to write all that down, to the best of your recollection. Everything you remember of the last forty-eight hours.” He shoves a pad and pen at me. “Be detailed. I’ll be back to check on you.”

I yawn, crack my neck, and start to write.