Page 36 of The Devil's Weakness

“Why did you risk bringing me this food?”

“I know what it feels like to go hungry. It sucks. How long has your brother been an addict?”

Her eyes go wide at the depth of my question.

“Jesus, I thought we’d start small. Like, ‘What’s your middle name?’ or ‘How old are you?’”

I laugh at her reaction. Her spirit has always held my attention.

“I already know those things about you, though. Marie; 29.”

Her face remains expressionless this time.

“Okay… well… What'syourmiddle name then? How old areyou?” she questions.

“Uh-uh. First, that’s two questions. Second, I asked you a question first.”

“Five years. What’s your middle name?” she asks quickly and in the same tone that I used when I answered her question.

“Bryan. Is he only addicted to H, or does he have other habits?”

“I don’t know,” she answers after a moment. She looks down again, with sadness in her eyes. “I mean, I think there are more, but I don’t know for sure.”

After a moment, she asks another question.

“How do you know so much about Michael and me?”

“Michael, because he gets himself into trouble at The Devil’s Lair far too often. You...” I pause.

Do I tell her the full truth? If so, would it change her opinion of me at all? Enough so if she gets out of here, she’ll not hate me completely?

Here goes nothing.

“You, because since the moment I laid eyes on you behind the diner that night, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head. I needed to know more about you. But it wasn’t enough. Now I want to know things I can’t find through an internet search.”

She sits stock-still, like a statue. I swallow, nervous and unsure what to say next. I clear my throat, trying to prepare myself for her next question. I have a feeling they’re about to get more serious.

“What’s your real name?”

No one has called me by my real name since I ran from my parents’ house the night that my father killed my mother. I can’t bring myself to say it, let alone have someone else use it.

“Different question.” I shake my head.

“That’s not fair,” she complains.

I shoot her with a look, letting her know I’m not budging.

“Different. Question. Or I can leave right now.”

“No,” she responds quickly. It's hard to hide how much I like her not wanting me to leave. “Please stay.”

She takes another sip of water before firing off her next question.

“How old are you?”

“37. What happened to your parents?”

She looks at me, considering her words.

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