Page 65 of You Can't Hurt Me

I notice how large his pupils are, black orbs blotting out the iris. I wonder what he really knows, what he’s really divulged? My mind flashes to him sitting opposite Eva, sharing all our family secrets. I try to join the dots of their relationship, the arc that began in her consulting room, led to the purchase of that pregnancy test, and all that followed.

“Come in,” I manage curtly. His lips brush my cheek and I grimace inwardly, turn away.

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” He steps back to appraise me. “What’s up with you?”

He follows me into the sitting room, glancing at the mess that I haven’t had a chance to tidy up, an old pizza box on the sofa, an empty wine bottle, a glass tipped on its side on the rug. Amira has left for a fortnight visiting her mother in Paris and her absence compounds the air of neglect.

“So where have you been?”

I slip a scrunchie off my wrist, twist my hair up into a ponytail, avoid his stare by turning to scoop up some debris from the floor and taking it into the kitchen. “I haven’t been anywhere,” I say. “Just working here mainly.”

“Come on. Don’t be coy.”

“Are you checking up on me? Did you let yourself in while I wasn’t here?”

His face stretches into an amused smile. “I do own half the apartment, you know. Why are you upset?”

“I’m just tired. Working hard on the book; it’s finished now. All over, you’ll be happy to hear. Coffee?” I open the fridge door, smell the curdled milk in the carton and pour it down the sink. “Forget that.”

“Anything stronger?” he asks, and spots my iPhone on the side, removes the charger from mine to attach his own. One simple act that says so much. I say nothing but my insides broil as I replace it back in my phone.

“Anna, come on.” He laughs teasingly, as if I am the child, not him. “I’m down to zero. You’re on forty percent.”

He picks up the last apple from the fruit bowl, bites into it. His mouth is slightly open and wet. Flecks of apple skin catch in the corners of his mouth. I shake my head, my stomach churns.

“What’s up with you? It’s only a phone charger. Anyway, tell me, how’s lover boy?” Tony squints at the bottom shelf where there’s a couple of lemons and a carton of unopened tomato juice. “How about a cheeky Bloody Mary?” He pulls out a bottle of Grey Goose vodka in the freezer compartment. “You don’t mind if I fix myself one of these,” he says, distracted, plonking the bottle on the counter.

“Not for me, thanks, but help yourself.”

“Something really must be up.”

Instead I make myself a cup of green tea, try to swallow down nausea as I watch him slosh vodka over bloodred juice. He clinks my mug.

“Well done and cheers. So you did stay over with him?” He winks, lingers indecently on the wordstay.

I open my mouth and shut it again. I know I’m giving myself away.

“Ah, the celebratory fuck.”

The words hang for a moment, sharp and ugly and true. He’s right, of course. I hate myself because, somehow, he can still read the temperature of my mood so well, he still sees me after all these years.

It was a transaction after all, a means to an end. Nate got what he wanted, his memoir all wrapped up, a gullible ghostwriter who was a good sport.

Nate studies me, softening.

“Are you okay? Seriously. I mean you look like shit. I know it’s none of my business but I worry for you.” He drains the vodka, eyes still on me, before his gaze turns gentle, familiar. “Whatever you’ve got drawn into, whatever you feel about him, you should know he’s bad news. You can tell me,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“I found something,” I say, a crack of emotion in my voice.

Tell him. Don’t tell him.

Patient X...

I blink hard, fall back through the years, to a time when we were coconspirators, having fun even when the grown-ups weren’t. Six years old and playing slapsies in the back of the car, the ennui of a French campsite where he taught me how to kill wasps in tumblers slathered in jam and honey, sneaking my food onto his plate when my father’s back was turned so he wouldn’t lose his temper. We took care of one another. It’s what siblings do. But now I’m not so sure who I can trust anymore, least of all Tony.

“What did you find?” he asks more gently and I look away. I can’t confront him quite yet about Patient X.

Instead, I tell him a warped story about the receipt because somehow I need to tell him something. It’s clear he knows I’ve discovered information, but not what. Perhaps this will be enough to give him a little bait, let me bide my time.

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