by Derek Milman
In one sudden motion, he whirls me around and grabs me by the throat, lifting me off my feet.
My hands immediately wrap around his and start trying to pry his fingers loose, but the fucker is so strong. I shout out, but then I can’t make another sound. He’s full-on choking me, his eyes an empty glare. I slam my fists against his chest, his chin, which has zero effect. He doesn’t recoil at all.
He’s on drugs, I think.
He gets me down to the ground, flat on my back, hands still wrapped around my throat. I can’t even kick him; all his weight is pressed down on me.
He starts sliding me into the pool. The top of my head grazes the surface. Then my head is all the way under, and then my neck and chest, his hands firmly clamped around my throat, squeezing hard. I thrash, desperate, but his hold is like iron.
Holy shit. I’m really going to die here. This psycho is going to drown me.
But I’m not quite ready to accept this. I’m not resigned yet. My parents will not grieve another son.
I see Blond Bellhop’s red, furious face, fluttering and distorted through the clear skim of the surface. Everything gets darker and bluer as he pushes me deeper down. Sound becomes a heady echoing swish, my world a frenzied spray of bubbles petering out as I slowly lose a grip on my own consciousness.
Then it’s like I leave my own body, and I’m observing everything from afar. I can problem-solve my current murdering like it’s happening to someone else.
My wallet falls out of my pocket, dropping away, and then the iPhone charger, a thin white snake slithering into the depths. The currency strap on my stolen cash opens, releasing all the bills. But both my hands are still free.
And I nabbed something from that room.
I reach into my pockets, scraping around in them like mad, because I can’t remember which one I put it in. But then I find it, and manage to free the unraveled paper clip. I stab the end of the paper clip deep into Bellhop’s wrist and drag it down with all my might, opening up his wrist like a zippered pouch. A scarlet flag is unfurled before my eyes, rocketing off into angry tendrils. I feel the salty warmth of his blood fill the pool, and my mouth. His grip on my throat slackens and I free myself.
We reverse.
He falls into the water with a loud splash; I climb out, gasping for breath. I roll onto the hard cement beside the pool and stand up, heaving, coughing loudly, spitting up water, my throat scratchy, throbbing.
Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God…
I almost drowned. My breathing is like a stalled car trying to start again. My throat feels crushed, damaged.
Blond Bellhop is thrashing around in the pool like a broken toy, gasping and choking, but then he stops, just like that, floating facedown, spread-eagled, as jets of blood spurting from his arm turn the pool a ruddy, uncomfortable purple.
Bloodstained hundred-dollar bills float to the top, surrounding his motionless body.
I spot a graveled path and a little wooden gate. An exit.
I tear down the path. I unlatch and open the gate, then run along the side of the house until I’m out front. The Tahoe is still sitting in the driveway. There’s a familiar café racer motorcycle parked behind it now. I run as fast as I can.
Just keep running, I tell myself. Get as far away as you can.
It’s a sunny day, unseasonably warm. I run by pleasant, quiet houses, gardeners dutifully tending lawns and shrubs. I see moms in Subaru Outbacks, loaded up with groceries bursting out of paper bags. I see a few little kids on bicycles, pedaling in groups; basketball hoops set up on driveways, toys left on lawns.
I am sopping wet, my hair a crazy mess. My whole neck is throbbing. I’m spitting and sputtering. I have to stop, twice, by someone’s freshly mowed lawn to dry-heave onto it. I have no phone, no wallet or ID. At this point it’s pretty much a matter of time before someone calls the police on me. But I keep going. I’m alive, and that feels like a miracle. Like a precious second chance I don’t ever want to mess up.
I hit a busier road. There’s a stately school, brick, with lots of windows, surrounded by pine trees. There’s a crossing guard getting out of her car, about to begin her duties. I regain as much composure as I possibly can as I ask her to point me in the direction of the nearest train station.
And she does. Chugging a cup of coffee, she takes little notice of my current state. It turns out I’m not that far from the train station—my first lucky break of the day.
Or my second if you count the paper clip: Death by Office Depot.
The Long Island Railroad will take me to Penn Station. The Babylon line.
It’s just—I have no freakin’ money on me anymore. But I keep going, walking at a brisk pace, following the crossing guard’s directions until I see the station. There’s a Manhattan-bound train—yes, thank God—pulling in just as I get there.
I run up the stairs at a breakneck pace and practically fling myself through the open doors. And I’m in. The train pulls out of the station, taking its sweet time. I watch Merrick recede as the train lumbers along the glistening tracks.
CHAPTER 8
Shiloh
People are staring.
I don’t know what I look like, but based on people’s faces it can’t be good. I’ve been wearing these clothes since last night, and they’re stuck to my skin. I’m still dripping. My sopping underwear is chafing my inner thighs so badly I’ve developed an unfortunate limp to go with the rest of this madness.
I see the conductor punching people’s tickets. I race from car to car, as I try to outpace him. I finally reach a half-empty car toward the back of the train. I find an empty two-seater and plop myself down.
I just have to get back to the city. That’s all I have to do.
The seat squishes against my wet butt. I lean forward, my cold, heavy hair hanging down. I put my head between my knees, trying to calm down. I look up briefly and notice a middle-aged woman with dyed red hair sitting across from me, looking concerned, lips parted as if wanting to say something, her attention diverted from her crossword.
The train makes its next stop. More people get on.
At some point the conductor is going to reach me. I have no ticket, no cash, he will probably call the police, and then this will all come to its natural horrible conclusion. I have no plan, absolutely no idea what to do.
“Excuse me, is anyone sitting next to you?”
“What?” I say, looking up.
I blink, and think: Why is this gorgeous guy, basically Tom Daley’s twin, asking to sit next to me? He’s dressed really well: slim-cut jacket (camel-colored, badass move), thin white button-down shirt (opened to the second button), matching pants (well-tailored), and plum-colored loafers without socks.
I slide in, taking the window seat. He takes the aisle seat, blocking me from people’s stares. There are other empty seats in this car. I wonder why he decided to sit next to me. “You look like you’ve had a rough day,” he says, smiling.
He has a great freakin’ smile.
“I fell in a pool,” I mutter.
“Saw you and thought you might want this.” He removes his AirPods, pockets his phone in his jacket, opens a leather messenger bag on his lap, and removes a small folded towel with a wink.
“You’re giving me a towel?”
“It looks that way.”
“Do you regularly walk around with a towel on you?”
“I play tennis. Just back from a match at a friend’s place.”
“Wouldn’t you have a gym bag, then?”
“Hey, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“I don’t trust gifts. Or horses.”
“I can rescind my offer,” he says, dangling the towel, his tone gentle, teasing. “I mix up the contents of my various bags. I forget things all the time. I just left all my tennis clothes at my friend’s house in my other bag, along with my racket. I was rushing to make the train. And now my friend’s off to Miami, so it looks like I’ll be taking up golf. I may seem put-together
but, trust me, secretly I’m a total slob.”
“You’re a secret slob?”
“Don’t pretend that’s not a thing.”
“Did you win your match?”
“I did not,” he says, with a sigh.
What an adorable prepster. I take the towel and dry off my hair and neck. I sop water from my drenched shirt and shorts. “This was unexpected. Thank you.”
“Took one look at you and thought: there’s someone who needs a friend.”
I hand the towel back to him. “Are you in some kind of religious organization?”
He laughs. “Also, you’re pretty cute.”
Oh shit. Now? Seriously?
“I’m Shiloh,” he says, extending his hand. I shake it.
“Aidan.” My heart does a little gymnastics competition in my chest.
“I’m on spring break from Duke,” he says.
Duke. Of course it’s Duke.
“I’m a junior,” he adds. “Headed back to the city now. Dinner with my parents.”
“I’m on spring break from Dartmouth,” I lie. “And, yeah, same. Dinner. Parents.”
“Very nice. I have some friends at Dartmouth. Do you know Jefferson Collier?”
Oh, here we go with the name game. “No. I have no friends. I keep to myself.”
He laughs again. He has a great laugh. “I doubt that’s true.”
“It is. I’m not very social.”
“I bet you choose your friends wisely. I’m sure it takes a lot to win your trust.”
“That might be the case, yes. But I doubt we know the same people.”
“You seem pretty sure of that,” he says, amused. “Dartmouth, right? Anyway. You seem like a fine chap.”
Chap? What year does Pretty Boy Floyd think he’s in?
“I am.” I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand.
He nods, looks off. I’m terrified I went too far and the conversation will be over, along with the totally-unexpected-but-not-entirely-unpleasant flirting. Now he thinks I’m some kind of social misfit who doesn’t have any friends. God, why did I say that? I don’t know how to fix this. My head isn’t clear. I just killed someone and I’m running from terrorists, gimme a break.
After only a second or two, though, he breaks the silence: “Have you noticed when you’re heading to dinner with your parents you tend to be extremely frazzled?”
“Totally.”
“Spastic almost. Forgetting things right and left.”
“Especially with my parents. They tend to twist my stomach into knots.”
And now, of course, with a sudden unpleasant jolt, I think of my family. Are they in actual danger? And what am I supposed to do if they are?
They won’t listen to me. They never hear me.
“Oh, I’m sure that’s true for everyone,” he says.
“Yeah. But probably more so for me.”
They’ll just panic, blindly panic, because that’s what they do best.
“And why is that?” he asks.
“I guess there’s just a lot of drama,” I say, glossing over all that, eyes darting to the entrance of the car, where the fastest conductor of all time has just entered. “But considering how fine a chap you think I am, and I can’t argue there, maybe you wouldn’t mind giving me a hand here.”
He turns to me. “I assume that’s not literal.”
“Not yet.”
“Will this require more than just a towel?”
“I think so,” I say, eyeing the conductor, who is already halfway down the car.
“Tickets, please!”
“See,” I tell Shiloh, “I had a bit of an accident… as you already gleaned…”
“I’ll bet you lost your wallet. Didn’t you?”
I nod.
He leans in. I can smell the ghost of well-chosen shaving cream and athletic deodorant, all mint and citrus. “Who are they?”
“Who?”
“Who’s after you?” he asks me.
I laugh, my voice froggy. “It’s complicated.”
“Try me.”
“Tickets!” says the conductor, standing right over us. Shiloh calmly hands the conductor his ticket. The conductor punches it. “Tickets!” says the conductor, looking right at me. Shiloh takes this moment to mess with me a little, grinning and shrugging, but then he turns back to the conductor.
“I’ll get his ticket, thanks.”
Shiloh hands the conductor a twenty. The conductor gives me a curious look, makes change, hands it to Shiloh, and punches my ticket. And then that’s over and the conductor moves on to the next car. “Tickets!” I hear him call.
We roll along in silence. I close and open my eyes, exhaling.
“You have bruises on your throat,” says Shiloh, quietly. “And there’s some blood on your shirt.”
My hand instinctively goes to my throat. It’s tender there, and I wince. I look down at my shirt. There are splatters of blood on my arms and stomach. “Thank you for helping,” I say.
“How will you explain all this to your parents?”
“I plan to clean myself up at least.”
“Where are you staying in the city?” he asks.
“The Mandarin Oriental.”
He whistles. “Sucks for you, huh? I’m not far. My parents live uptown.”
I swivel around to face him, making the seat squeak. “Look, you’ve been great, and maybe you can give me your address so I can pay you back for the ticket—in fact, please do—but I’d rather not get you involved in my life right now.”
“Well, I already feel involved. Now I actually feel responsible for you.”
“Well, you’re not.”
“I can only look at those sweet, wide eyes of yours and know you couldn’t have done anything that bad.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I’m an excellent judge of character.”
“Well, maybe not this time.”
“Every time. And I like adventure. I lead a fairly boring life.”
“You’re awesome—total husband material—but sorry, man, your timing sucks.”
The train makes another stop. More people get on. We’re not far from Penn Station, only a few more stops. But we’re not moving; we seem to be stalled here. Then, out the window, I see the cops. They’re pouring out of two patrol cars, heading quickly up the steps to the station, toward the train. They’re about to board. Shiloh leans over my shoulder and sees them, too. “Hmmm. Maybe I did misjudge you.”
“Oh, shit,” I whisper, slinking down in my seat.
“Are they here for you?” says Shiloh. He looks almost impressed.
“I don’t know.”
“Get up,” he says.
“What?”
“Get. Up.”
I obey, getting to my feet, sliding past Shiloh, who stands, clamps a hand down on my shoulder, and leads me out of our car and into the next. Shiloh pounds once on the bathroom; when no one answers, he opens it and shoves me inside, whispering, “Don’t say anything, keep the door locked, and don’t open it until I knock four times.”
“Okay.”
The bathroom is cramped and vile; it smells like piss and fumes and Purell. I try to offset panic, leaning over the tiny dripping sink, taking deep, controlled breaths. I hear commotion outside.
The conductor says something to Shiloh.
“Yes,” he says. “He ran off the train just as we pulled in…”
Oh, my God, they really are looking for me.
“Toward the front, I think?”
Another voice, maybe a cop.
“No,” says Shiloh. The bathroom handle jiggles. “It’s busted. I’ve knocked and knocked. I’ve been trying to pee the whole ride since Freeport, so pretty sure no one’s inside. Seriously, my bladder is about to burst!” He laughs, loudly.
I put a fist to my mouth so no one can hear me breathe.
More muffled voices.
“Yeah, I didn’t see where.”
The voices recede. Footsteps
come and go. The train makes noises.
After what seems like freakin’ forever, we start to move again.
No one knocks on the bathroom door. I don’t unlock it or peek outside or anything. I count three more stops, then the train begins its final slowdown. As it screeches to a stop, and before I have even a second to wonder if Shiloh has bailed on me, which he certainly has every right to do, there are four loud knocks.
I unlock and open the door. Shiloh is standing there, a wry smile, his messenger bag slung over his shoulder.
“Out. Stay with me. Keep your head down.”
We pile out of the train quickly, and squeeze up a jam-packed escalator until we reach the main level. Shiloh keeps us well blended in the crowds of commuters, as we keep moving. There are cops all around, but it’s Penn Station, so maybe there are always cops around. I can’t tell if there are more of them than usual, or if they’re actively looking for me.
It doesn’t matter. Shiloh knows Penn Station well. He gets us through it fast, weaving us in and out of clumps of people, then out and into a cab.
“Mandarin Oriental Hotel,” he tells the driver, then leans back against the seat. “Catch your breath,” he tells me, as we pull into Seventh Avenue traffic. “When you get to your room, take a hot bath; you were sopping wet on that air-conditioned train for the whole ride.”
“Uh. Yes, sir.”
Except I don’t have my keycard, my phone, or any kind of ID on me, so a few more challenges probably await before I can get all giggly in a bubble bath.
“They were looking for me?” I say in a low voice.
“Mmhmm,” says Shiloh.
“Did they say why?”
“Just wanted to know what happened to the kid I was sitting next to. I think someone on the train called, thought you were hurt.”
I hope that’s all it was.
“I can’t believe that bathroom thing worked,” I say.
“I have an honest, convincing face.”
“I would have described your face a bit differently.”
“You want to tell me what’s going on here?”
“First, I want to know why you’re helping me out like this.”
“I’m not sure,” says Shiloh. “There’s just something about you.”
“No dice. I’m not that cute.”