“No,” Mel said. “Try again.”
Cassidy resisted the urge to look in the direction of the desk, but it was like he could feel it’s pull. A mounting sense of panic took hold as she tried to think her way out of this.
Mel sighed. “I knew it was too risky to bring you here.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But I just . . . wanted to feel normal,” he said. “You’re so . . . good, and sweet, and I haven’t had that in a long time, you know?”
Cassidy staggered backwards, her foot snagged on a pack strap, and she went down hard on her butt.
Mel slumped down to the futon. “I never meant for this to happen. It’s not like . . . ” He sighed. “But I’m locked in, now. There’s no way out.” He looked at her. “I’m afraid there won’t be for you, either.”
“What do you mean?” Cassidy said. Icy tentacles wrapped around her lungs and squeezed.
Mel just sighed.
Cassidy’s panic roiled inside her as her predicament became clear.
“If only you’d just kept your nose out of it,” Mel said, his eyes flashing with anger. He stood, and looked around, and a calm settled over his features. “Let’s go,” he said.
“You killed Reeve, didn’t you?” Cassidy said from the floor. Could she make a break for it? If she left her pack, she could outrun him. But what about her passport, money? How would she get out of the country?
Mel looked away.
“He found out about what you do, and you killed him.”
“He thought he was so clever,” Mel said through gritted teeth. “But nobody steals from me.”
“Steal . . . ?” Cassidy shook her head in confusion. “You mean Jade?” she asked, the connections coming together too fast in her mind.
“It’s not like I didn’t know where that boat would end up.”
“But she got away, didn’t she?” If she moved slowly enough, would he notice her inching towards the door?
Mel’s jaw clenched in the dark.
Cassidy realized with sudden horror that he had been in San Juan. “You said you’d been gone for a few days. You were there.” She remembered her hotel room and the clothes that had been on top of the bag and not inside the way she had left them. “You were in my hotel room.”
Mel walked to the kitchen counter and grabbed his keys.
Cassidy eyed the door but it was too far away. “What were you looking for?”
“His phone,” he said.
Cassidy realized that she still had it, in the bottom of her pack, the battery in a separate pouch. “If I give it to you, will you let me go?”
Mel stood at the edge of the counter, looking down at her in the green glow from the kitchen. He seemed to be giving the idea some thought.
“I almost had a lucky break when he attacked Juno.”
Cassidy inhaled sharply. The taxi driver—Juno worked for Mel driving the girls around.
“But he got off with a fine,” Mel said, removing a small case from a cupboard above the refrigerator. He slid the case and keys into his pocket. “If only he would have killed him, then my troubles would have ended there.”
“How can you even talk like that?” Cassidy said, unable to keep her disgust from her voice. “These are human beings.” Her voice began to quaver. “The girls, they’re just children.” She suppressed a sob. “How could you do this to them?”
In one swoop, he reached down and yanked her to her feet. “That’s enough of that. We’re leaving.”
“No!” Cassidy sobbed, unable to stop the terror from taking hold in her heart.
Mel looked her in the eyes, and his gaze softened. “I wish I didn’t have to do this.” He scooped up her pack and thrust it at her, still holding one of her arms.
Cassidy slung one pack strap over her left shoulder. That’s when she remembered the multi-tool attached to her right hip belt. Was it still there? Cassidy’s fingers searched along the fabric to the nylon case and wiggled one finger beneath the Velcro flap, finding the hard metal edge in place. Her breath ragged, her fingers shaking in fear, she peeled the flap and slid out the tool.
Mel opened the door, pulling her along as he did, and turned just as she tucked the tool inside her closed fist. Outside, the cacophony of the insect concert hit her ears like a sound wave. Thankfully, it’s still dark, Cassidy thought as they stepped onto the stairway, her right hand working the tool into the correct configuration to access the knife. But the knife was tucked inside a row of other tools—a screwdriver head, a small pair of scissors, a bottle opener—and the tiny sliver of an indent on each to remove them, meant for a fingernail, was impossible to move with only one hand.
They were descending the stairs step by step, the movements jerky from Mel pulling on her arm. “I can do it!” she yelled when he pulled too hard, and she stumbled. But he didn’t stop, and they continued down. Desperate, she put the tool in her left hand, low and shielded from him unless he turned around. I’ll only have one shot at this. The fingers in her right hand felt for the correct groove. It would be no good to pull out the nail file, or the stubby Phillip’s head.
Was the knife the first tool, or in the middle? She felt the edge of the first tool—it was the knife. She pinched its groove with the thumbnail of her free hand and pulled. Just then they reached the halfway, where the stairs reversed direction, and his sudden shift in movement to make the turn yanked her arm forcefully, pulling her hands apart. The knife, open and locked in place, went tumbling through the air and landed with a
