Page 37 of Do Not Open

I chew my bottom lip. “Yeah, that was a lot.” I’d been planning to tell him I wanted to reenact a scene in hopes he’d leave the room to go get a book, but what if my plan doesn’t work? What if he doesn’t leave the room? Or what if he does, and the plan fails anyway? Is it worth the risk when the scene he chose is so unbearable? “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

“What’s your favorite?”

The question surprises me, but it’s given me a chance to turn this whole thing around. I rack my brain for a scene I wouldn’t mind recreating. “Um… InDevil Don’t Care, there’s the scene where they’re in the car crash, and Devin has the ice pick with her the whole time, but Ian doesn’t know it. So, when he leans over, she lets him kiss her and shoves it into his neck.”

He smiles. “Your eyes light up when you talk about your work.”

“I miss it,” I admit. As the words leave my mouth, I’m shocked to realize it isn’t a lie.

“Do you want to act it out?” he asks, studying me. “Get a feel for it again?”

I shake my head. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve gotten to replay some of my favorite scenes to remind you how much you love this, to bring it all back, but maybe I’ve been going about this all wrong. Maybe you need to replay some of yours, too.”

“Seriously? You’d take me in a car?”

“Obviously not.” He purses his lips. “But we could pretend. Obviously, I’m not going to actually let you stab me either.”

Like I let you carve your initials into my leg, you mean?

He seems to read my mind because he quickly adds, “I’m not the one who needs refreshing, Mari. I already know how much I love your books. How important they are. For you to feel it—really, really feel it—you have to live the moments as real as they can be. Hurting me won’t affect you. It’s you that needs to feel the pain. I’m sorry, but it’s just the way it has to be.” He stands, wiping his palms on the legs of his jeans. “I’ll be right back.”

I’m still shocked by what’s happened, that this somehow worked, and confused about what’s about to unfold. But I have no time for that. He’ll be back any minute. I lie flat, pulling my knees up to block the view of the camera across the room, and grab his bowl. If he sees that I’ve done this, I’ll just say I wanted to sneak a bite of his since mine is practically gone. I reach across the nightstand and pick up the tube of toothpaste.

I have no idea if this is the best or worst plan of my life as I empty the entire tube into his bowl, the thick, white paste forming a noodle across the lumpy, green melting ice cream. I close the tube and put it back before stirring his ice cream quickly until it’s mixed well.

The ice cream in his bowl is a shade or two lighter by the time I’m done with it, but it’s hardly noticeable. I put his bowl down, adjust so I’m sitting normally again, and continue eating mine.

Remembering his warning from earlier, I know I might’ve just sentenced myself to death, but at least I can say I went down fighting.

It’s what my characters would do.

It’s funny when I think about it. I guess I’m acting out one of my books without realizing it. It’s just one I haven’t written yet.

CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE

When he returns, my ice cream is completely gone. I place it on the tray next to my plate and lean back against the pillows I have stacked in front of the headboard.

He holds up the book proudly. “Got it.”

Now that the excitement of the moment has worn off, the nerves about what’s going to unfold next are setting in. I need him to start eating and to buy myself time. “I need to reread it to remember exactly what happens. Maybe I could read it tonight before we do this? Like you said before? And then we can come at it from a fresh perspective.”

He flips through the pages. “No need. I usually have them tabbed, but I can probably find it. I’ll read it for you.”

“Oh. Um, okay. Sure. Thanks.” I swallow, preparing myself for the worst. “I mean, how exactly are we going to do this if we aren’t in a car and I don’t have a weapon? Just fake everything?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a yellow, unsharpened pencil. “Not everything. I thought we could use this as the pick. So you don’t actually hurt me, but you get a better feel for the action of it.”

“Okay, great.” I could shove it in his eye perhaps, but it would have to be a lucky shot, and if I miss, the result would be detrimental. It feels too risky, especially with the door locked and nowhere to run. I imagine him running after me, half of the pencil sticking out of his eye, blood pouring from the socket. It wouldn’t be a fast enough method of murder without an escape plan.

He passes the pencil to me, brandishing it like a wand, and continues reading silently, his eyes skimming the pages.

“How about this?” I offer, extending a hand. “I’ll find the page while you finish your ice cream. That way, we can keep watching the movie, too, and then, when it’s over, we’ll do the scene.”

He looks up at me quizzically, something worrying in his eyes.

I’ve pushed too far. Too hard. He knows something’s up. He knows I want him to eat his ice cream, and now he won’t. Or worse, he’ll force me to eat it. This was all for nothing.

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