Cole’s intimate understanding of Shaw’s process unnerves me.
Stomach clenching, I ask him, “How do you know that? How did you find out what Shaw does? And how did he find out about you? Were you friends?”
Cole sits tall in the driver’s seat, seeming to fill the whole space of the car. Seeming to loom over me.
Asking him questions is terrifying.
“You want me to tell you information that could put me in prison, while you refuse to share any of your secrets with me.”
I flush. “It’s not the same.”
“No. What you ask is more dangerous … for both of us.”
I take several shallow breaths, no oxygen in the car. My brain races faster than my heart.
I don’t talk about my past with anyone.
And Cole is no therapist—he’ll use whatever I tell him to manipulate me. To gain even greater control.
On the other hand, we’re equally curious about each other. I want to know his history as badly as he wants to know mine.
Tit for tat. Pay to play. That’s how the world works.
Sighing, I say, “I’ll tell you what you want to know. But you have to tell me something first.”
Cole’s fingertips give one restless tap on the woolen thigh of his trousers. He weighs the offer.
“You can ask one question,” he says. “Not about Shaw.”
The devil always counters.
“Fine,” I say, so quickly that he narrows his eyes at me.
The silence stretches between us as I consider what he might answer fully and truthfully. And what I most want to know.
Finally, I ask:
“Who was the first person you killed?”
4
Cole
I start the car, turning the wheel in the direction of Seacliff.
“Aren’t you going to answer me?” Mara asks from the passenger seat.
“I’m not just going to tell you … I’m going to show you.”
She falls silent beside me, watching the narrow roadways widen out as we leave her rundown neighborhood, venturing into the broad, tree-lined streets leading up to China Beach.
Tension builds in her body as each minute passes. Mara can’t help her curiosity, even when she’s afraid of what she might learn.
I rest my hand on her thigh to calm her.
It works—the tight muscle relaxes under my palm. She leans against my arm, her head resting on my shoulder.
I remember that Mara told me she doesn’t even have a driver’s license. In some ways she’s remarkably independent, but she has these holes in her education. Things she couldn’t teach herself, because nobody would lend her a car to practice.
Abruptly, I pull the Tesla against the curb.
Mara sits up. “What are you doing?”
“You’re going to drive us home.”
She sputters, holding up her hands. “I don’t even have a learner’s permit.”
“Oh, well in that case, we better not. I don’t want to break any laws.”
Mara snorts, but remains stubbornly seated on the passenger side.
“What if I scratch it? What if I run into a tree? This car probably costs a hundred grand!”
“A hundred and sixty, actually. It’s the performance model.”
Her face blanches, eyes widening.
“No fucking way!”
I reach across her to open the door, unbuckling her seatbelt and shoving her out.
“We’re not negotiating. You need to learn to drive.”
“What if I crash it?”
“Then I’ll buy another one. It’s a hunk of metal, I really don’t give a shit.”
I’m climbing out myself, trading positions with her. We cross paths in front of the headlights, Mara warily eyeing the car as if it’s an animal, crouched and ready to swallow her whole.
“Doesn’t it drive itself?” she asks, slipping behind the wheel.
“You’re gonna do it. Now sit down and buckle up.”
Once we’re both seated, I walk her through the controls, showing her the paddle shifters, the turn signal, the accelerator, and the brake.
Understanding that I’m not going to drop it, there’s no getting out of it, Mara pays attention. She remembers everything I tell her, and asks questions when she doesn’t understand.
“The regenerative brakes will kick in automatically once you lift your foot off the accelerator,” I tell her. “So you won’t even need the brake pedal most of the time.”
“Alright,” Mara sighs. “Let’s get this over with.”
She puts the car in drive, then slowly presses down on the accelerator. The Tesla leaps forward. Mara shrieks, slamming on the brake. We’re both thrown against our seatbelts, faces inches from the dash.