Chapter 17th

I didn't hurry home – I couldn't, even if I wanted to.

In fact, I barely knew how I was able to walk straight. My limbs felt cold… stiff. And yet, walk I did, all while holding on to that card.

I held it firmly between rigid fingers, and kept it there even as my knuckles grew sore. And when I finally arrived, when I closed the door behind me, the warmth, the scents, the cozy spell of being home nauseated me. The corridor I entered seemed to shift and move beneath my feet, I grew dizzy…

And where was Chris while all crumbled? I had a feeling he might soothe me – if anyone could, that was him! Seeing him just might wash off those awful words, it might dispel those absurd associations my idle brain conjured up, the absurd suspicion that he could possibly be… something so bad I could barely pronounce it, barely realistically think about it without wanting to laugh… the worst possible scenario.

I moved – dragged my feet – to the living room, supported the heaviness of my own weight against the doorframe and stared. Chris was there, wiping his hand in a cloth. There was a hammer on the carpet, a toolbox by the fireplace, nails scattered around it.

"Hey!" he greeted me nonchalantly, his face light, completely alien to the blow I had sustained. But I guess my eyes lingered in his, I guess they must have really widened with unnatural interest as I counted the tools on the floor, for he was quick to supply my unhappy wondering with an answer – a mocking air pulling the side of his mouth into a smile "The hinges on your window were a bit loose." Was his charming excuse, the one his perfectly-lined white teeth offered, the one his eyes instilled as they watched my reaction with careful interest. "Honestly…" he sighed, picking up the hammer, briefly looking at it before tossing it into the toolbox "I don't know how you've been sleeping at night, with this menace."

I didn't reply, but my eyes bulged bigger, prompting a laugh out of Chris.

"It's a dangerous world out there…"

I couldn't help but turn my eyes towards the door – out there, picturing said menace – the same one the cop warned me against. It was out there, it wasn't here. And Chris worried about it, too.

I never knew Chris to be a worried man… I'd never seen him worry before.

But then again… I knew very little of him, indeed.

Disturbingly little.

It made my heart heavy. My eyes moved astray.

"But don't worry…' a slight twitch of a frown moved his eyebrows together, as if I'd said something. He wiped his fingers in a rough fashion, pushed the cloth into the box and proceeded to get up "That problem is covered." He stood, straightening his clothes, pulling his hair in place and offering me a fresh, hearty smile "The boogeyman will stay out… little red riding hood safely in."

"…the wolf?" I timidly inquired.

"Sorry?" Chris's smile came slowly undone.

"…don't you mean the wolf?"

His smart eyes narrowed; his lips stretched again:

"Right! The wolf."

An awkward, uncomfortable silence ensued, one in which he watched, and I shrunk, suffering, probably making my altered state very clear.

"So…" Chris eventually probed "…about that other thing… The one we discussed."

He paced around the couch, then towards me. I watched him eagerly, longing for it to hit me – the irrefutable realization that he could not be any of those things; for the effect his handsome smile had on me, for those dreadful impressions to dissipate completely…

…but for some reason, this time it wasn't working. It wouldn't go away – that shaky, panicked feeling. In fact, the more Chris approached me, the more he stared at me with those carefully investigating eyes, the more his smile hesitated half-way as he analyzed me, the tenser I grew. Maybe it was too great: my fear, the effects of that toxic suggestion. Maybe it had crossed some threshold and grown so that I couldn't deal with it, not on my own, and if I really wanted to get past it – past it and out of that murky water my feet had sunk in – I'd have to say something, to tell him and hear him talk back – hear him deny it, laugh it off and convince me I was being absurd.

I guess I stared at him with that growing expectation hanging on my tongue: the courage to speak. I blinked, forgot to breathe, opened my mouth to say it, but my throat was dry and stiff… I said nothing, nothing even though his narrowing eyes discerned it – my commotion, my lumpy secret. Finally stopping and standing before me, I felt his eyes dive deeper into mine, yanking my current state from the source and then lingering there to assess the damage. It made me anxious… positively so: he'd seen it. He's address it. We'd talk. We'd be alright… I forced a smile, but it faltered. I tried a sigh of relief and it wouldn't come either. Something was off.

Chris took a careful step further, his eyes investigating me, watching me from the corners even as he turned his head to look about us; and as he breathed in a deeper, concerned breath, I was sure he would talk – I braced for it. But then his gaze abated, left mine, and I had the strange impression he faked a smile.

"…that other thing…" he picked up again, as if it was barely relevant anymore "…did you get it?"

His eyes…they still watched sideways, careful, probing. The task didn't matter. Something else did – my silence.

"Well? Did you?" he smiled more warmly, probed more sweetly… as if I might break otherwise.

"Y-yes" the choked words escaped me. How silently? I didn't know.

"Good!" A confident, excited smile stretched there "Easy enough, I assume?"

I felt the strain on my eyes – I believed they bulged out, and thus reminded myself to blink again.

"You never cease to amaze me. Now then…" there it was – the snaking sideways look, the fake smile… "…can I have it?"

The air grew thick as we stared at each other. The muscles around his face… I could swear they stiffened as I lingered, as my hands jealously protected the small bag I clutched on my side. But I guess I didn't have a choice – not when cornered as I was, not when he stood before me as he did. I slowly opened the bag, pushed my hand inside.

"Oh, but…" he raised an index finger to stop me, as he remembered something "One second!"

I watched him turn around and walk back into the living room, to then return to me with something in his hands "Here, now…" he held open a plastic bag, encouraging me to produce the icepick and place it there.

I observed the plastic with what little processing power I had left, partially understanding that, if we were talking about finger prints, they must be preserved. Why so careful though? Why must he hold it perfectly open as he did, at arm's length, as if the tool was infected? I delayed as I reflected.

"It's okay…" Chris encouraged with a reassuring smile "You can pick it up as it is. Just place it in the bag."

Finally, I did as I was told, and watched as Chris carefully positioned the bag, fishing for the icepick, then folding it around itself as many times as he could.

"Why do you need it?"

Chris looked up at me. I had not been analytic enough before… not sufficiently critical to reason as I did now, and the words escaped me – groggy, like in a dream.

"W-what are you gonna do with it?" I inquired as Chris watched me. My head grew lighter still, scared of the answer… scared of what further conclusions they'd push me towards.

"I've told you…" he replied placidly "Compromise."

It rippled upon my crumbling state like scratches on burned skin. So much so… that I grew afraid of asking. But ask I did anyway:

"How?"

Chris sighed and looked down at the tool, slowly turning it between his fingers as he mused… as some distant tension manifested on his facial muscles. Then, reaching some conclusion, he tucked it carefully in his pocket:

"Let's just say it will come in handy later." He looked up, unworried.

Of course… that didn't answer my question. It only raised a few more, speaking to my growing turmoil. But as the questions piled, answerless, I began to see no point in making them… no point in seeking to know what I already knew.

His eyes… they looked blatantly into mine, as if waiting for it – for what I had to say, the pointy thorn I skated around with that timid yet very explicit fear. If I said it… could those exposed ideas be scorned to the point of dissolution? I wondered if Chris could do it – if my adoration for him could make it all go away, if I could believe him if he smiled and said I was being stupid. No… I feared I couldn't. More than that… I think I'd simply receive some declared confirmation that would conjure a nightmare that had yet to materialize – as if it wouldn't otherwise. I felt defeated… there was no way around it. I clung to the doorframe, collapsing, crumbling.

Chris sighed, as if I'd said something. He sighed, rubbed his face, then walked right past me; like me, he didn't have to ask. He moved to the front door, pulled the small curtain on the upper glass panel and looked around the street, then he turned the key, locking it, as if expecting some sort of show. Next, he walked past me again – my eyes following him, eager for an explanation, but he wouldn't stop. Something had gone unspoken, something that upset him. He walked to the kitchen, checked the door there too, carefully looking around the backyard through the glass, before locking it and passing the latch. Did he look for the cop? Did he assume I had prepared him a trap? Was that why his face looked so laden when he walked back to me, but turned to enter the living room, out of sight? I didn't turn my neck to look inside… I was too broken. But I did see the general light go dimmer, did hear the curtains running fast through the rails as he pulled them…

"I guess…" I heard him speak through a big sigh, then I saw him stop at a distance from me, staring, decided "…we have some things to talk about. Don't we?"