OBSIDIAN

Chapter 1 The gun sits on the table between us. I don't remember her putting it there. "You look scared," she says. She's smiling, but there's something wrong with her mouth. Too wide? No. That's not right. She's barely smiling at all. I'm seeing things that aren't there. Constructing a narrative from the space between her teeth. The warehouse smells like copper and rain. Or maybe that's from before. I can't remember when I last ate. Was it yesterday? The light through the broken windows is grey, which means it's either dawn or dusk. I've lost track. "I'm not scared," I tell her. She laughs. I know this laugh. I've heard it before in places that don't exist anymore. Or do they? The warehouse walls are concrete, but I could swear they were brick when I walked in. Red brick. No. They're definitely concrete. "Your brother called," she says. "Three times." "I didn't hear my phone." "You did. You just didn't answer." She tilts her head. There's a scar above her eyebrow. When did that happen? I've been looking at her for... how long? "You always do that. You hear it and you ignore it and then you pretend you never heard it at all." "That's not true." But it is. It is true, and the fact that she knows it makes my skin feel too tight. "The Marseille shipment arrives Tuesday," she continues, and her voice sounds different now. Softer. Or maybe I'm going deaf. "You already made the call. Three hours ago. While you were in the bathroom. I heard you." I wasn't in the bathroom. I was here. I've always been here. "You're lying," I say. "About which part?" There are three of my men against the far wall. Or there were. I look and there's only one now. He's very still. His name is Marcus. Or maybe it's Michael. One of my men is definitely dead somewhere. I remember the sound of it. The wet finality. But that was last week. Or last year. "Castellano won't take the bait," I tell her, and I'm not sure why I'm saying this. I don't remember deciding to speak. "He will," she says. She reaches across the table and touches the gun. Her fingers barely graze it, like it's hot. "Because he's already bought the information from someone else. He knows about the shipment. He knows about all of it." "Then why are you here?" She doesn't answer. Instead, she looks at me like I've asked a question in a language she doesn't speak. There's pity in her expression. Or contempt. They're starting to look the same to me. The rain is getting louder. It sounds like it's inside my head now. Like it's filling my skull from the inside out. "I'm here because you invited me," she says finally. "Don't you remember?" I don't. I don't remember any of this. The last clear thing I can recall is my brother's face, twisted with rage, telling me something I wasn't supposed to hear. But when was that? This morning? Last month? "You came to me," I say. It's the truth. It has to be the truth. "Did I?" She stands, and the movement is too fluid. Practiced. I watch her walk around the table, and I can't stop watching her. It would be easier to close my eyes, but I'm afraid that if I do, when I open them again, I won't recognize where I am. She stops in front of me. I'm still sitting. She's still standing. The power dynamic is crystal clear, and I'm the one without power, and I don't remember when that happened. "Your father is dead," she says. "My father died ten years ago." "No." She places her hand on my chest. I can feel her heartbeat. Or maybe it's my heartbeat. "He died last week. You were there. You watched it happen." That's not right. That's absolutely not right. But when I try to access the memory, it's like touching a live wire. There's pain and then there's nothing. "You're trying to confuse me," I say. "I'm not trying to do anything." She leans down, and her face is very close to mine now. "I'm just telling you the truth." "Which is?" "That you already said yes. Hours ago. Before I even walked through that door. You were always going to say yes." I want to tell her she's wrong. I want to stand up and throw her out and call my brother and warn him. But my legs don't work. Or maybe I'm not trying to stand. It's hard to tell the difference. She picks up the gun. It looks small in her hand. Delicate. "Thank you," she says. "For what?" "For making this so easy." She turns and walks away, and I watch her disappear into the rain. One of my men follows her. Or maybe all of them do. I can't seem to count properly anymore. I'm alone in the warehouse. I've been alone for a very long time. I look down at my hands, and they're shaking. I don't remember being afraid until just now. But maybe I've been afraid the whole time. Maybe I'm just now admitting it. The gun is gone. I don't know if it was ever really there. I put my head down on the table and listen to the rain fill the warehouse. It sounds like forgetting.