She waits until I move to the edge of the bed. I can stand with my arm still attached to the bed, but then I lose the fabric giving me a modicum of privacy. I take the fork and dig into the dish, taking a bite as the garlicky flavor hits my tongue and I recognize plantains and pork.
“It’s good,” I compliment, wanting to be on her good side in case being here means she might help me escape. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she nods in approval as I continue eating. “I was Mac’s part-time assistant for about a year before he sent me on vacation back home to the republic. He insisted, and I know now it was so he could commit murder without me asking questions. They snatched me at the airport, and my own family didn’t know, because I meant to surprise them. When I didn’t reply to Mac in over a day, he called my family. And then he went hunting.”
“Did he catch the people who took you?” I ask, enthralled by her story.
“Some of them,” she narrows her eyes at me and purses her lips. “We thought we got the top guy three years ago, but I’ve recently learned it is someone else who pulls the strings.”
Taking another bite, I process the information. It sounds like Di and Mac, as she calls him, spend a lot of time researching and hunting down the people he kills. So at least he’s methodical and not impulsive like kidnapping me suggests.
“You know about him,” I state. It is time to lay my cards on the table. “Everything. Including that he’s a psychopath with his own TV show. And about his hobby.”
“Ha, nice way of putting serial murder of bad people,” Di laughs and pulls out her phone. She types something with a smirk on her face and then looks at me again. “Yes, and I help him. Plus, he’s not the only psychopath with a platform. I’d rather help one with a code.”
“So, you won’t be helping break me out of this luxury prison?” I venture.
“Sorry, no.” She shrugs, looking only a little guilty about it all.
“Well, at least you brought me good food.” I pick up the fork and scoop some more mofongo into my mouth.
Chapter eight
Mac
Duringabreakinfilming, I see the camera to Ethan’s room is off. I text Di and she says it’s only out for me, sending a screenshot. My mind is set at ease, until a news notification pops up about me.
“Talk Show Host Owen MacKenzie Spotted with Mystery Man in SF.”
In a grainy nighttime shot, likely from the end of the alley, there’s a picture of me holding Ethan’s hand as I drag him from the charity event to my waiting car. His face is turned towards me, but mine is clear as day. I didn’t even remember holding his hand as we left, only that I was in my head about what to do with him. I skim the article and see speculations about my sexuality that I’ve skirted for years.
A message from my publicist pops up and it’s in all caps, so I dismiss it and put my phone on silent again. We go into the next segment interviewing a survivor of fentanyl overdose, and I’m glad the audience surrenders their phones. I don’t need them gossiping about me as a distraction.
That’s what articles about who I’m dating and if I’m into men boil down to. A distraction.
The rest of the show goes well, the audience reacts in expected ways, and before I know it we’ve called cut. I already let the production manager know I’m not available for interviews, but they have a stamp with my signature to put on headshots for them.
Waiting until I’m in my dressing room to check on Ethan is a mistake. When I finally open the app, after washing my face and changing my clothes, I find a surprise. I hate surprises.
Di is sitting in a chair facing Ethan in the guest house bedroom. I’m glad to see he’s got his lap covered, something in me possessive over the man I’ve kidnapped. A primal part of me screams MINE. I tell myself it’s just that I want to use him to catch his father, I push the thoughts aside.
The fact she brought him food isn’t the surprising part. It’s that she left her house at all. I bought the bungalow down the hill from my current place with my first paycheck, and she rarely leaves. I don’t blame her, after her ordeal, but I’m shocked she ventured out for my little captive.
Ignoring my publicist’s calls and the production team’s request I stay to discuss tomorrow’s show, I leave the studio and am glad I drove myself today. My Audi A6 was my other luxury purchase besides the two houses. I buy nice clothes to keep up appearances, but most of my money goes to hunting the people I kill. Plus, Di skims from their offshore accounts to supplement our activities.
Zipping through town in the normal afternoon traffic, I get honked at and a few middle fingers, but I’m not the first asshole they’ve seenin a luxury sports car in LA. Probably not even the first they’ve seen today.
Pulling into my driveway, I don’t bother with the garage, parking behind Di’s classic, yellow Volkswagen Beetle. She won’t let me buy her something newer, but she also rarely drives.
Di drove today. And she’s liable to drive me crazy.
Right when I reach the door to go outside, I see Di closing the door to the casita. I meet her in the middle by the pool as the sun shines down on us, and I don’t even need to say anything before she’s answering my unspoken questions.
“Yes, I blocked your signal so I could sneak in, but the cameras were never offline. I can’t find anything on him that says he’ll try anything to hurt me or anyone else,” she adds, knowing of every person on the planet, hers is the only life I care one iota about. “Be nice to him.”
Narrowing my eyes, I take a deep breath. She wasn’t hurt and Ethan is still inside. “Why should I be nice to him?”
“Honestly?” Di asks with a scoff. “He's innocent.”