Page 89 of Tangled Up

“I think my brother and my aunt are probably worried about me.” Not to mention Beck, Jessica, Kevin, Ronnie…

“Let them worry.” She stops in front of me and seems to realize she’s going to have to untie my arms or at least help me sit up to drink. She puts the water down, glaring at me. “I’m fully prepared to put you out again if you try anything.”

“I won’t.” I relax my brow. I do my best to appear nonthreatening.

She pulls at the knots until my left arm is finally free. It falls to my side, and I groan at the sudden rush of blood to my limb. Pushing with my legs, I manage to get myself into a sitting position, taking the pressure off my still-bound right shoulder.

“Thank you.”

“Here.” She shoves the thin plastic cup at me, but I can’t lift my left arm yet.

“Give me a second. The circulation was cut off. I can’t lift it.”

She puts the cup on the nightstand and walks away to the other side of the room again. She’s not pacing anymore. The television is off, and we’re sitting in this tiny, cheap motel room facing each other.

From what I can tell beyond the curtains, the sun is setting. I’m still in my black leggings and “Cozy Season” sweatshirt, and she doesn’t appear to be on the verge of letting me go any time soon.

I try to deduce what she wants. She’s not agitated, but she is nervous. She’s been on the run since she skipped out on her furlough, and I can’t forget the messages and the letter she sent me.

“Do you have a gun?” I’m almost afraid to know the answer, but she only turns away.

My arm is finally starting to regain sensation, and I pick up the cup, taking a sip of the best ice water I’ve ever tasted. It’s so good, I finish it all in two sips, then I lean my head against the padded headboard, closing my eyes and mentally saying a little prayer.

“We’ve got to get going now.” She starts pacing again, chewing her nail. “We’ve got things to do. You’re going to do exactly as I say, you hear me?”

“I hear you.” My voice is stronger, and I keep my tone gentle. “What do you want me to do?”

“I told you before, you took what I cared about most. You destroyed my life, and now I’m going to make you fix it… Or you’ll wish you had.”

She sits on the bed, I watch as she digs around in her crocheted bag until she pulls out a small piece of notebook paper.

I recognize it at once, and a chill moves across my shoulders. “You were in my bedroom?”

“Beck Munroe.” She reads, flickering her eyes from the paper to me and back again. “I have to say this pro list is ridiculous. Good in bed? Hot? What are you, fifteen?”

I don’t answer. I’m still recovering from the fact she broke into my room and took the list.

She doesn’t wait for a response. “Beck Munroe is the man you love? How would you like it if someone lied to him about you? If someone called you a criminal and a horrible person, and everybody believed her? How would you like it if he left you because of it? If you suddenly lost him?”

Her voice grows faster and louder with every question, and I fight against my own panic at her building agitation.

I’ve got to stay calm. “I actually did lose him once. It was very hard.”

“Hard? You know nothing.” She crumples the list into a ball and throws it on the floor. “It’s devastating, and you did that to me. You made everyone hate me. You made them believe I was bad for my babies.”

I watch as her breath comes faster, as her chest rises and falls, and she races to where I’m sitting on the bed, putting her face directly in front of mine. “I would never hurt my babies.Never! I love them!”

“I believe you feel that way.” Again, I fight the fear tightening my throat. I hold my expression, my voice, everything steady.

“Then why did you say that about me?” Her voice grows louder as her mood rapidly deteriorates.

“Alize?” My voice is gentle, as if I’m trying to lead her to a safe place. “Do you think you can take care of your babies right now? Today?”

Her eyes go wide, and her fists furl and unfurl. She stomps around the room, her dark ponytail bouncing down her back. She’s simultaneously young and old, heartbreaking and terrifying.

When she doesn’t answer me, I press on, calmly. “I think you know if you don’t take your meds, your mood is unpredictable. It’s dangerous for them.”

Her eyes squeeze shut, and at least she’s listening to me. I hope. I’m doing my best not to accuse her of anything or even allude to her neglect. I really want her to untie my other arm, and somehow, I can try to slip out of this room.

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