Matt de la Peña - The Living

Shy wondered what “we” the guy was referring to. Had to be the company Franco had mentioned, LasoTech.

“All I need to know,” the man went on, “is what was said in those last few minutes. Because we have, in fact, spoken to the two women you referenced in your official police statement. They both claim that when they walked outside, you and Mr. Williamson were engaged in a conversation.”

Fear shot through Shy’s body.

Throughout the many hours of questioning that followed the suicide, Shy had never mentioned speaking to Mr. Williamson. It had never occurred to him that the two old ladies might have said something about it. So, what now? Did he add new information to his story? Wouldn’t that make people even more suspicious?

“What were you and Mr. Williamson discussing, Shy? What was he sharing with you?”

Shy stared at the floor in front of him, the ship moving as erratically as his thoughts. Why was he so worried, though? It’s not like he had anything to hide. “He wasn’t making any sense,” Shy finally answered. “That’s why I never brought it up.”

The man nodded. “Maybe it will make sense to me. Try to remember his words.”

“He called himself a coward,” Shy said. “I remember that. And he asked me where I was from.”

The man wrote all this down. “And where did you tell him you were from, Shy?”

Shy shrugged. “I don’t get why any of this matters, sir.”

“Please,” the man said. “Call me Bill. And it matters because my client needs to know everything that was said, no matter how irrelevant it may seem to you. Now, where did you tell him you were from?”

“Otay Mesa. In San Diego.”

The man nodded and wrote this down. “And how did Mr. Williamson respond to this?”

“He said he knew it was by the border.”

“And after that?”

Shy knew he was explaining things out of order, but his conversation with the comb-over man didn’t make any sense no matter how he told it. “He said he had a bunch of vacation homes. And when I congratulated him, he got mad. I’m pretty sure he’d had a lot to drink.”

The man nodded, still writing.

“And that’s it,” Shy said. “Then those two ladies came outside.”

The man looked up from his pad of paper. “There’s nothing else, Shy? You’re sure?”

“There’s nothing else,” Shy lied. He glanced over his shoulder again, at the open door to the hall.

The man put away his pad of paper and his pen and walked over to the window. It was raining so hard you could barely even see the water now. “Rough storm,” he said. “I understand it will be over by morning, though. And we’ll be on our way to Hawaii.” He turned back around, said: “You ever been to Hawaii, Shy?”

Shy shook his head, feeling overwhelmed by everything. The storm. The questioning. The memory of the comb-over man falling. Addison crying and asking who he was. He looked over his shoulder at the door again.

“One of my favorite places on earth,” the man continued. “My wife and I go every year. We like to walk the beach early in the morning.” Bill turned to Shy. “You’d like to enjoy Hawaii, too, wouldn’t you?”

Shy stared at the guy, trying to figure out if he was being threatened.

“I still have a few more interviews to conduct,” Bill continued. “And if your story doesn’t check out, I’ll be forced to find you. Do you understand what I’m saying, Shy?”

“I gotta go,” Shy said, backing away. “I gotta get back to work.”

The man’s face grew cold and he pointed at Shy. “Don’t walk away from me, Shy.”

Shy shrugged, then spun around and hurried out the door, into the hall. Before ducking down a flight of stairs he looked over his shoulder, saw that the man was still pointing at him.

First thing Shy did when he got back to his cabin was lock the door and log on to Rodney’s computer.

Still no email from his mom about Miguel.

He wondered if the lack of communication was a good thing or a bad thing as he pulled off his wet shoes and socks, his shirt. He collapsed onto his cot and closed his eyes, the backs of his lids stinging hot with exhaustion, the storm shifting everything around in his room.

If he could just fall asleep.

Then everything would be okay.

He’d wake up rested and the storm would be over and his thoughts would be clear again. He’d Skype with his mom, and she’d tell him the good news about Miguel. The medicine was already working. He was going to make a complete recovery. And then Shy would go meet with Franco about the man in the black suit. Bill. And he’d find out who exactly he was and what he wanted.

Everything would be okay if he could just fall asleep.

But Shy couldn’t shut off his stupid mind.

There was too much to worry about: the surging storm and the questions about the comb-over man and Miguel lying in the quarantine unit and even the look on Addison’s face when she asked who he was. He tossed and turned for almost an hour before finally sitting up and deciding he needed to go find Carmen.

He slipped his feet into fresh socks and a backup pair of shell tops, pulled on a new shirt. He left the cabin hoping Carmen would forgive him, at least for tonight. She could go right back to being mad in the morning if she wanted, but right now he seriously needed her.

The ship was lurching so violently now it was impossible to walk straight. Shy found himself stumbling up the stairs like a drunk, holding on to the railing and the walls. As he staggered down the hall, though, he realized he was no longer nauseous. He cracked up a little in his head, amazed that Shoeshine’s wristband was actually keeping him from feeling sick. It was the one positive in the entire night.

Shy popped his head into the Normandie Theater. An older-looking comedian was telling bad Titanic jokes to a small, scattered crowd. The Grand Casino was nearly empty, too. The colorful strobe lights still flashed and dealers manned their tables. Cocktail waitresses were huddled near the bar. But only a dozen or so passengers were playing in the poker tournament.

Shy kept looking over his shoulder as he moved through the ship. He was sure he’d spot the suit guy following him at some point, but there was never anyone there.

He ducked his head into a few of the clubs. House music or hip-hop still blaring, but the dance floors all deserted. He found Kevin in Blue Water Disco pouring drinks for two women sitting at the bar. Kevin looked up and they waved to each other; then Shy continued toward the front of the ship.

It was eerie seeing all the hot spots empty this early in the night. Usually passengers were everywhere, drinking and gambling and eating, dancing in the clubs, soaking in the Lido Deck Jacuzzi. But tonight even the main promenade was quiet. Everyone apparently waiting out the storm in the comfort of their own cabins.

Eventually Shy made his way to the Karaoke Room, where Carmen, still wearing her fancy dress and heels, was standing on the stage, watching a news report on TV.

She was the only person in the room.

“What, nobody showed up?” Shy called to her from the door.

Carmen shut off the TV and spun around. “Hey,” she said. Even though she was smiling she seemed upset—because of the storm, he assumed.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Of course I’m okay.” She kneeled down, started packing up her things. Over her shoulder she told him: “A few people wandered in earlier, looked around, then wandered back out.”

Shy leaned against the wall for balance. “What were you just watching?”

Carmen ignored his question.

She stood up, locked her equipment in a trunk on the right side of the stage, picked up her bag and moved cautiously down the stage stairs, toward Shy. “This storm’s tossing us all over the place. Doesn’t exactly make people feel like singing.”