Page 94 of Man of the Year

I push him out of the way, carefully lift the blinds while making as little noise as possible, and open one of the window panels.

“Come on.” I motion to him. “Be very quiet.”

Thank god for the one-story guest house. The windowsill is only three feet off the ground, which I cross in seconds. This side of the guest house is hidden by shadows, which is great.

Rosenberg pants and crouches like a raccoon as he clumsily jumps off the windowsill as if it’s the third floor.

“Follow me and stay close,” I order. “We need to hurry.”

I trot along the side of the guest house, toward the back, and then dart as fast as I can across the lawn to the back garden. It’s close to a football-field length, but as long as I can make it to the other side of the property’s fence, I can hide out in the bushes while they search for me.

Wind whistles in my ears as I run. My heart races. I don’t look back to check if Phil is following—he’d better be.

I trip over something on the ground, stumble, fall, and roll like a sack of potatoes.

“Christ!” I howl, feeling pain in every limb.

“You all right?” Phil is by my side, panting, too, as he bends down, hands on his knees, staring at me.

It’s dark here. The only dim light comes from the sparse solar garden lights sticking out of the ground. My white button-down is soaked with water and sweat, and so are my pants. I get up and hiss, feeling the burn in my right ankle.

“Help me,” I tell Phil. “I think I sprained my ankle. We should be only a hundred or so feet from the back fence.”

I’ve never actually seen it, except in the property pictures I looked at before renting this mansion.

Loud voices in the distance make my nerves shoot on edge. “Quick. They’re on us!”

A radio beeps from that direction, and that’s all it takes for Phil to swing his arm under mine, holding me around the back, and help me move forward. He’s taller than me but has never done any exercise. Nevertheless, it must be adrenaline, or the promise of money, or the threat of prison that makes him move fast, hauling me forward with astonishing strength as I limp along.

I see a light ahead. They must have lights along the property line. As we hurry among the trees and shrubs, the pathway clears, revealing the fence.

Well, what do you know?

The eight-foot fence has an opening with a small waist-high metal gate with a lock. Dumb, really, considering that anyone can jump over it in seconds. It’s the camera mounted on top of the fence, pointing at the gate, which makes me grunt in frustration.

I’m sure someone is watching us, but I can’t worry about it right now, because the voices in the distance get closer.

I’ll easily get over the gate myself. My thumb drive is in the wrong hands—nothing I can do about it. But I have another little stash back at the guest house. I’ll find a way to get it back, but there’s no way I’m sharing it with Phil. I really don’t have time for a pep talk with him either.

I push him away and fish in my pants pocket, finding what I’m looking for—the syringe cartridge. It’s meant for Phil, who is kicking the gate lock, trying to break it but failing.

“We’ll just have to crawl over it,” he says, turning toward me when I pull the syringe out and, popping the cap off, lunge at him.

I’m fast. I’m super fast. Usually. But this time, only a split second before I reach Phil, aiming for his neck, my ankle gives out with a sharp, awful pain that makes my legs weak. I howl and collapse against the gate just as Phil jumps away.

“What are you doing?” Phil cries out.

He watches me from a safe distance, wide-eyed like an owl, as I scramble to my feet.

Realization dawns on him. “You! Liar!” he shouts, his chest rising, his eyes darting to my hand that holds the syringe. He knows what those are—he’s seen me use them, though most of the time, when I had to sedate the girls, he was drunk.

I can’t argue, but I need to pull off a lie one more time. Phil can’t stay alive, absolutely not.

“I need this injection,” I lie, hoping that he falls for it again. “It’s a painkiller. Otherwise, I won’t make it.”

My ankle hurts like a mother, but I clench my teeth and hoist myself up. My back is purposefully turned toward Phil. I need to fake more pain and confusion to get close to him.

“Give me a second, buddy,” I pant, pretending to roll up my sleeve for an injection, meanwhile swaying, hunching, stumbling backward toward him.

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