“Right?” she pressed.
“Right,” I agreed.
“So let’s do that.”
“I don’t get it.” I looked over at her, questioning everything.
“What’s not to get?”
Well. All of it, I wanted to say. But instead, I said, “What’s the experiment?”
“The experiment is… what came first? The truth or the telling?”
I was at a red light. So I stared at her. Hard, too. “Wendy Gale. That is fuckin’ profound.”
“Right?” She laughed. “I don’t need your letter, Nick Tate. I will find my own truth, thank you. And then, once I do, we can go home. And that will be the proper time to read that letter.”
I wanted to say more. I wanted to prepare her. I wanted to… I dunno, absolve myself, I guess. But those were all selfish things. In the same vein of how people tell their partners they’ve been cheating.
They confess because they want to be forgiven.
I really want to be forgiven.
And how can I be forgiven if she doesn’t even know what I did?
That’s my punishment, I guess.
So I live with it.
Since then, we’ve done a lot of traveling. We’ve always been vagabonds, but now we’re voyagers. And even though she still complains that I’m too careful with her, I don’t stop.
I will never stop being careful with Wendy Gale.
It’s different now, though. It’s different because now Wendy is careful with herself.
“So.” Wendy sighs out the word. We’re sitting at a resort café overlooking the lagoon in the coastal village of Oualidia, Morocco. We spent the last fourteen days of our one-year reprieve in Marrakesh and if we’re gonna be hunted down by some rando Company assassin because I didn’t cure Wendy with the truth, we have decided we will go out in style. “There he is.”
She points to a man walking our way.
“Donovan?” I whisper.
“I dunno. It kinda looks like him, but—”
And then Not-Donovan is too close for her to finish without him hearing. He smiles at us, almost the spitting image of Donovan Couture. If Donovan Couture walked around Moroccan resorts shirtless, tanned brown, and with long, flowing mahogany hair blowing in the sea breeze. He pulls up a chair across from Wendy and me, still smiling, then removes his sunglasses so we can look him in the eyes.
Brown. They are brown.
His hand comes up from under the table and darts at us. And even though we’re a couple of dangerous people ourselves, we flinch back.
Until we realize he’s introducing himself.
“Nick Tate. As I live and breathe. I’m Carter. Carter Couture. No relation to any other Carter Couture you’ve ever had the misfortune of bumping into.”
I extend my hand, feeling like I have no other choice, and he shakes it. Then Wendy does the same.
“Oh,” he says. “By the fuckin’ way, man. Great trip. The itinerary.? Who did that for you?”
“What?” Wendy asks.
“Who planned this trip, man? It’s fucking…” He shrugs with his hands. Like he’s at a loss for words. “Marvelous.” Then he points at me. “Did you plan this trip?”
“I did,” Wendy says.
“Wendy Gale. Clap, clap, claps.” He says this as he clap, clap, claps. “Dog sleds. You had me hooked at the dog sleds. I called Sash up and I said, ‘They’re dog sledding!’ I was on the team a mile behind you. We actually camped together one night. But we were all bundled up in that winter gear. You probably didn’t see me.”
He pauses, a little bit of hope in his eyes. Like maybe we did see him.
But we didn’t, so we say nothing.
He goes on. “And then that trip to Svalbard? Polar bears and reindeers. I was working at the hotel for that one. I served you one night there, too. During the Northern Lights fest. But again, winter clothes. Did you see me?”
“No,” Wendy says.
Carter looks disappointed.
I’m actually disappointed myself. We should’ve spotted this dude.
“Anyway. I love the north, but when we went all tropical and hit up the Maldives, now that was fun.” He puts up a hand. “Don’t worry, I didn’t serve you there. I was working on my tan.”
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Oh. Right.” He smiles at us. “One year. It’s up today. So.” He rubs his hands together and looks at Wendy. “I’m gonna ask you three questions and you’re gonna answer me.”
“Then what?” I ask.
Carter looks at me. Drops the smile. “Well, I won’t know that until I hear her answers, now will I?” Then he directs his attention back to Wendy. “Ready?”
She nods.
“OK. Number one. Do you know your truth?”
I hold my breath. Because we haven’t talked about her truth since that day in the truck.
“Yep,” Wendy says.
“Good,” Carter smiles. “Question number two. Who killed Chek?”
Fuck.
Wendy looks down. But just for a moment. She looks back up at him, meets his gaze head on, and says, “You can leave now.”
“We’re only on question number two.”
“I don’t care.” And Wendy has turned on her assassin voice. “My truth is none of your business. And neither is my cure. So you can leave. Now.”