My mind went to the burner phone tucked beneath my mattress, the one Naen had sent, the one I'd kept untouched and waiting out of caution. Caution had reached its end. Declan was convinced I was senile, saw me as a pawn he could move at will across a board only he could read. He was about to find out the old engineer had never stopped thinking. He wanted theater for his birthday.
He wanted a curtain call. I dried my face. I pulled one long, slow breath. The shaking stopped. "Very well, Declan," I said to no one in the dark.
"You will get your show." I stretched out on the pillow with my eyes open against the ceiling and began laying out the plan piece by piece, sequence by sequence, contingency by contingency. Stopping them wasn't enough. I intended to take apart every layer of what they'd constructed and leave nothing standing. When they stepped out of that restaurant Friday night, they would not be heading toward a first-class seat bound for Dubai.
They would be looking at the inside of a police car. The father in me was coming undone. The engineer, the survivor, refused to. I lay still and waited for first light. There was a great deal of work ahead.
Dawn came with a sharpness I hadn't felt in months. The accumulated weight of grief had lifted just enough, replaced by something with edges, cool, directed, exact. The plan was real. It was dangerous and pulling it off demanded a performance without a single crack. But no other option existed.
I needed a phone. I needed to reach Naen and it had to be today. I stayed in my room until Declan left for his morning gym session. That cleared the field, just me and Ingrid. She was in the living room, a green smoothie on the cushion beside her, her attention fixed on her phone screen.
I eased into the bathroom without a sound, turned the lock, and cranked the shower to full heat. Steam built until the room was opaque with it. I studied the face in the mirror for a moment. "Showtime, Walter," I said quietly.
I seized the towel bar and wrenched it. Then I threw my open palm against the tile wall with everything my body had and screamed not a short cry of surprise, but a ragged full-throated sound of agony that would have carried to every room in the penthouse. Help me, help. I went down onto the tile floor and drew myself into a tight curl, both hands clamped hard over my right hip. Ingrid's footsteps hit the floor like hammer blows, and came fast down the hall.
Walter, what is it? She called out, fists working the door like I fell. I managed. The voice I gave her was scraped raw, fractured with invented pain. I think I broke something.
My hip. Oh god, it hurts. She shouldered the door open. Steam rolled out past her. She took in the sight of me, folded on the wet tiles, face contorted.