The Experiment

by Holly Hart

He’s thorough, that’s for sure. But he doesn’t inspect my person. I could...what? Stuff the book down my pants? No—roll up a couple of pages and slide them into the underwire compartments of my bra? I’ve heard of women sneaking things into prisons that way: letters, cigarettes...blades pried out of disposable razors.

  Ridiculous.

  I glance around when he’s gone, peering into every corner. There has to be somewhere he didn’t look. He got the toilet tank, the window seat cushions, the underside of every drawer. He went through the birdcage, changing the food, the water, the papers. Every lamp, every vase, every....

  The sink. He didn’t check the pipes under either of the sinks, or the shower drain. I could probably stuff a Baggie of paper down there, and fish it back up easily enough. The rest of the week, I could keep it with me. And pray there’s no such thing as a surprise cell toss in this prison drama.

  There’s a 7-11 bag in my fridge, with two iced coffees still in it. I grab one of the coffees and the receipt, stuffing it into my pocket. I can save that to write on, without anyone wondering where it went. If I can’t... If I can’t, I was finished before I started.

  I crack open the coffee and flop down on the bed like I haven’t a care in the world.

  Jack picks me up for dinner at eight. By that time, I’ve scribbled everything I’ve learned on the back of my receipt. It isn’t much: I’ve still got an inch of space left, and I only bought five things. Still, it’s a start, and there’s plenty of time.

  I sneak the receipt into my purse at the restaurant, while Jack’s telling me about his childhood dream of being a farmer.

  “Why a farmer?” I shift in my seat to cover the sound of my purse clicking shut.

  “I liked the smell of cornfields.”

  “Just that?”

  “Pretty much—I was five. What do you expect?”

  “I wanted to be the first female Pope.”

  He muffles a laugh behind his dinner roll. “You even Catholic?”

  “Not really.” I could tell him how I grew up on the skirts of the Vatican, dreaming of the glittering wealth just that side of the Castel Sant’Angelo—and resenting it just as much. But he’s clearly done a background check. Probably Google Earthed my childhood home. He can put two and two together for himself.

  “Oh—almost forgot! Got you these.” Jack digs in his pocket and comes up with a bag of butterscotch candy. “Saw Starkey snatch yours—I’ll talk to him.”

  “No need. He’s, uh....” Special? Unique? A fucking kleptomaniac?

  “Ha—no need to tell me. He was my CO, back at Blakemoor. He’d sit across from you in the mess tent, and before he’d even started his dinner, he’d be picking on yours.”

  “I know, eh? What is that?”

  “Magnus thinks—.” His face falls a little—at the thought of Magnus? I file that away: another thread to pick at. “Magnus thinks it’s because he’s the youngest of eight. Had to fight for every scrap.”

  “What I don’t get is how he’s so skinny.” I take a bite of avocado. “He must have the metabolism of a hummingbird.”

  “I’ll tell him that next time he eats my fries. He’ll love being compared to a tiny, angry bird.”

  We share a laugh over that. I let a comfortable lull settle in for a while before changing the subject. “So the three of you—you, Erik, and Magnus—you known each other all your lives?”

  Jack’s brows draw together. I’ll have to tread carefully. “Not all our lives, no.” He twirls some pasta around his fork. It falls off. For a moment, I think he’s said all he’s going to, but he takes a long drink of water and picks up the thread. “Erik and Magnus knew each other from school—from pretty early, I think. But the three of us didn’t hook up till summer camp. Which you already knew.”

  “It was in your GQ interview.” I look down at my plate, as if to hide a blush. “I read the whole thing. It didn’t say, though—how’d all three of you end up at Blakemoor?”

  He slices his knife through his noodles till they’re short enough to scoop up like Kraft Dinner. “It’s not what you’re probably thinking. It wasn’t like...something we all discussed. Erik got recruited. He was kind of a star in the air force. Magnus followed him. And when I got out of the marines, well, we’d all kept in touch over Facebook. It was always in the back of my mind. For if nothing else worked out.”

  “Nothing else did?”

  Jack gives me a narrow look. “Going back to civilian life’s...not what you think it’s going to be.” He flags down a waiter. Points at his glass. “Could I get a top-up?” The waiter nods and glides off. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  Well, I’m an asshole. Moving on....

  Jack laughs at my too-hot-for-BeeBee stories, and even tells a couple of his own, but the easy companionship’s gone. There’s a charge to the atmosphere, a black tension between us. He looks at me from under lowered brows, and I’m not sure if he’s thinking of fucking me over the table or stabbing me under it. When he feeds me a bite of tiramisu, his fork pricks my tongue—not painfully, but deliberately.

  This could be another game. Maybe I’m supposed to dig my nails into the back of his hand, tread on his toe under the table. And then we’ll go home, and he’ll “punish” me in the way I’ve been wishing he would. But I don’t know him well enough to risk finding out. If I’m wrong....

  He leans forward abruptly, hand covering mine. “You’re nervous. No: afraid.”

  I could deny it, but there’s no way he can’t feel the pounding of my pulse. I’m quaking like a Chihuahua, all the way to my fingertips. “You’ve got stormclouds over your head.”

  Jack glances up, as though I meant it literally.

  “I shouldn’t have....” I’m not sure what to apologize for: mentioning his service at all? Implying he’d somehow failed upon his return? Stirring up memories that might be more than painful? I drop my gaze, embarrassed.

  He taps on my knuckles to get my attention. I look up to find him smirking. “You have no idea how to apologize.”

  “And you do?”

  “More than you.” His knee jogs mine under the table, and it’s back—that teasing, slightly competitive edge. He takes my hand in both of his and looks me straight in the eye. “Sorry I rattled your cage. There’s something about you that makes it easy to forget we’ve just met.” His smile is warm and sincere. I start to relax.

  “Well, I—”

  That smile widens into a triumphant grin. “See? That’s how it’s done.”

  “Oh, my God!” I kick him hard, aiming straight for his ankle. He keeps laughing, undeterred.

  For the first time, it occurs to me there are things I might miss about him when this is done.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Jack

  Angry. She thought I was angry.

  This is bad. Ten years, I’ve been in control. I know everything. Foresee everything. Keep it all in line. I have no vices to trip me up. I don’t drink, don’t smoke, don’t raise my voice. No reason I should be slipping now. If I do....

  There’s no if I do. Can’t be. When the center doesn’t hold, chaos is quick to follow. But if I’m the sun, this is a minor flare. Not a planet-engulfing storm. I’m frustrated. Overworked. And my schedule’s been off. I’ll send Stella away for a couple of days, cobble my routine back together, and it’ll all snap to order.

  I lean back and picture the blue lake. It used to mean something different to me: the smothering weight of painkillers choking me to sleep. But I’m safe on the pier now, watching those same imaginary waters swallow everything else. Magnus, Erik, Starkey—The way he looked at me...Did he believe me? Does he now?

  I let that sink, too, picturing a graveyard at the bottom of the lake—the machines of war, twisted and rusted. Crumbling away.

  Stella said something about water in that story I read over her shoulder. I toy with that, wondering what it means to her.

  She thought I was angry. With her.

  It’s not you. It’s
the past nipping at my heels.

  I scoff. Can’t say that. Just need to drown it all down.

  I dig out my watch. Twenty-three hundred hours. Perfect. I pick up my phone. Tap out a text. It takes Starkey nine seconds to send back “Affirmative.”

  Feeling better at last, I close my eyes and amuse myself with the construction of a pretend lake house, to go with my pretend lake.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Stella

  Starkey barges in first thing—he’s in and rifling through my closet before I’ve gotten through my “Come in.”

  “Sure. Make yourself at home.”

  He runs his hand along the shelf. “Where’s your duffel?”

  “Under the bed. What are you—”

  “Get it. Pack for three days in East Hampton.”

  “What’s the rush? Where’s—hey!” He’s unplugging my laptop, sliding it into its pouch.

  “You’ll want this, right?”

  “Yeah, but hold on! Jack never said anything about the Hamptons. Are we—?”

  “Jack’s not coming.” Starkey drops my phone into my purse. “He has a busy few days ahead. Thought you might appreciate something to do while he’s otherwise engaged. There’s stables, a boat—great sailing, out there.”

  Sailing, right. Well, there are a few end-of-season parties I wouldn’t mind going to, but a quaint Hamptons getaway with Starkey? Talk about awkward!

  I snatch back my purse before he can take it into his head to go mining for snacks. “Fine. Give me ten minutes. I’ll meet you at the door.”

  He hovers in the doorway for a moment, regarding me suspiciously, but finally goes. I hurry to collect my toothbrush, my curlers, and various odds and ends, not wanting to think about how close Starkey just came to discovering my notes. My purse was in his hands. Open.

  Could it be he already knows? He might’ve been taunting me, letting me think I’d gotten away with it, only to...to.... Is this where we drive out to the country, and he comes back alone, frown lines etched a little deeper?

  I pack for a full three days, anyway: day clothes, evening wear, even a swimsuit.

  The drive doesn’t feel like a ride to the gallows. Starkey puts on the radio, some oldies station. He drums his fingers to the beat, even hums along once in a while. By the time the city’s dwindling in the distance, I’m pretty sure he’s not going to shoot me. It’s still weird that Jack didn’t come, didn’t bid me goodbye, but who says he was even home? He could’ve been called away in the night. Had an early meeting. A conference call.

  “Hey. Did you bring a tux?”

  Starkey nods. “I have clothes there.”

  “Good. There’s a party tonight. You can escort me.”

  He beetles his brows. “Whose party?”

  “Bruno Eisenheim’s.” Like it’s any of his business. “Old friend from college. Come on—you’ll be right there. What could go wrong?”

  “Eisenheim.... An ex?”

  Sort of. “Hardly.”

  Starkey roots around in the glove compartment, frowning when he finds it empty. “Home by two; no straying out of my sight.”

  “We can get dinner first,” I offer. I doubt this is how he pictured his Monday, either. “There’s a decent Italian place, or—”

  “Lobster.”

  “Or...lobster.” I’m not big on seafood, but this isn’t the hill I want to die on.

  I feel instantly better, stepping into the extravagant mess that is Bruno’s party. I’m not sure whether he’s going for a Gatsby theme, or Louis XIV, but if the message is “Check out Daddy’s money!” it’s coming through loud and clear. Even with Starkey glued to my heels, no one’s looking my way. Everyone’s half in the bag, and it’s not even half past nine.

  Bruno himself emerges from the crowd, hooking an arm around my waist. “Stella! Didn’t think you were coming! Tried to text, but... Did you get a new phone or something?”

  “Something like that.”

  He tilts his head back, staring at the chandelier. “Love when the lights go all....” He lets go of my waist and trails his fingers in front of my face. “Magic.”

  “Magic....” I laugh. “How much have you had to drink?”

  “Not enough.” He plucks two flutes of champagne from a nearby tray, and hands one to me. It slops over my hand. “We’re doing the hot tub thing later. When the no-names leave. You should join.”

  “Right... Keep it bubbly for me.” I peer over his shoulder. “Oh, look—someone more interesting than you!” I duck past him, eager to put some bodies between us. He’s fun in small doses, but he’s not who I came to see.

  “Nice friends you have.”

  “Don’t be smug.” I thrust my champagne at Starkey. “Here. Loosen up.”

  He lets it slip through his grasp. “Oops. Butterfingers.”

  “You know who you remind me of? This donkey at my uncle’s farm. You’d feed it a carrot; it’d headbutt you. And then it would look at you like—yeah. Like you’re doing, right now: eyebrows up, teeth out. Big old shiteating grin.”

  “Donkeys don’t have eyebrows.”

  “Pretty pleased with yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I shrug him off and dive into the crowd. A lot of familiar faces... But one in particular stands out. “Linda!” I wave, rising on tiptoe as a knot of partiers drifts between us. “Hey, Linda!” Her head swivels my way, but some overgrown fratboy steps into my path.

  “Stella? That you?” Linda’s casting about, trying to find me.

  I go to sidestep the jerk, but he dodges in the same direction. Like that wasn’t on purpose. I wave again, over his shoulder. “Yeah—over here. Behind young Adam Sandler.”

  “Aw, that’s not nice.” The guy hiccups. He’s right in my face, holding his arms out to keep me from brushing past.

  Starkey steps forward, which is exactly the opposite of what I need. I turn and walk away, forcing him to follow. “Don’t—don’t...just don’t! This isn’t—”

  “Stella!” Linda bounces up on my other side. “Hey! Who’s your date?”

  “Him?” Finally, a chance for payback. “Oh, that’s my granddad. He’s got Alzheimer’s. And a colostomy bag.”

  “Not going well, huh?” She looks Starkey up and down. “Hey! Maybe you should take a hint.” She waggles her fingers at him in a bye-bye gesture. He falls back a few steps, but stays close. “Seriously, though, where’ve you been? I’ve been calling you. I found out some—”

  Shit! I elbow her, maybe a little harder than necessary. “Not in front of....” I glance over my shoulder. So does she.

  “Eww—he’s still there! Seriously, where’d you find him?”

  “Y’know....” I wave it off. Explaining Starkey... Where would I even start?

  Linda hooks her arm through mine. “That’s all right. I have, like, a third-degree black belt in ditching douchebags.” She slinks us through the party, sliding through the narrowest of gaps. Starkey’s not so polite about it. Where she sidles, he shoves. Linda scowls. “Shit. He’s still there.”

  “I know. I....”

  “Never mind.” She walks us under an arch hung with strings of trailing lights, down a long, curving hall. The crowd’s thinner here, apart from what has to be the bathroom line. “Female emergency,” sings Linda, sweeping us to the head of the queue. There’s grumbling, but no one objects. Linda’s temper is kind of a legend.

  “Doing coke in there? Hurry it up!” Linda rattles the doorknob.

  This isn’t going to work. Starkey’s right behind us, and gaining. “Come on. Let’s just—”

  She bangs on the door. “Hey! I said emergency! Get a move on!”

  A flushed woman piles out, practically falling in my lap, followed by a laughing, stumbling man. “Right, keep your tits on! Better yet, lemme....” He eyes up Linda’s impressive rack. His date smacks his elbow.

  Before I can apologize, Linda’s yanking me into the bathroom, slamming the door. Starkey’s on it in an
instant, pounding the panels.

  “Who the hell is that? What’s his fucking problem?”

  “Ssh!” I grab her by the shoulders. “Sorry—I don’t think there’s time. That guy, he’s... Never mind. What’d you find out?”

  “Open this door!”

  Linda pulls me away from the door. “It was, uh.... You sure you’re all right? There’s something about that guy—”

  “Please. Tell me.” The door’s rattling in its frame. Any second now....

  “Um, that guy Nagler? He had an affair. His wife knows, but she doesn’t know there’s a kid. Neither does he. That’s it—that’s everything. Let’s go out the window. I think—”

  “Three seconds, I’m breaking this down!”

  Three seconds—all right. “And how did you find out? About the kid?”

  “His mistress was Amanda’s nanny’s—”

  The door flies open. Starkey’s on me in an instant, seizing me by the back of the neck hard enough to double me over.

  “Stop! Get your hands off her!” Linda’s still got my arm, and for a moment, I’m caught in an awful tug of war as she tries to pull me to safety. I squirm, trying to break free of one or both of them.

  It’s Starkey who wins in the end. His fingers dig into my neck, just below the hairline, sending a bolt of agony up my scalp and down my shoulder. “Walk. Now.”

  “Stella? Should I call the—”

  “No, I’m fine. This is—” Starkey pinches me again: a clear warning. “He’s my bodyguard. I have a stalker—it’s a whole... He’s just... I wasn’t supposed to leave his sight.” He elbows me, and I start walking, ignoring the tingling in my neck and shoulder.

  “Starkey?”

  He doesn’t respond, and it’s all I can do to keep from twisting around—not to argue, but to make sure it’s really him. This isn’t the stubborn, eccentric Jeeves I know. This is someone else—someone grim and bestial, frogmarching me down the hall. He drops his hand to my waist when we enter the ballroom.

  “Smile and keep walking. Laugh if I speak to you.”

  There’s no choice. No escape. I try to catch someone’s eye—anyone’s—but Starkey’s like social kryptonite. His glare parts the crowd faster than Jack’s intimidating size. Before I know it, we’re outside, and he’s spinning me behind one of the columns holding up the grand balcony. My head hits the marble with stunning force.