Chandler was a spy. She worked at an ultra-secret government agency, killed bad people for money, and was exactly the type of dangerous person that I didn’t want hanging around my husband and daughter when I was gone.

  “It also makes me uncomfortable for you to listen to my conversations.”

  “Don’t get your boy shorts all wadded up, Lieutenant.”

  “I’m not a cop anymore. And how do you know I wear boy shorts?”

  “I’m not snooping to be pervy.”

  “So answer the underwear question.”

  “A guess. You’re in your fifties and need to drop ten pounds. If you want to tuck in the gut your choice is granny panties or boy shorts. Even though your current wardrobe has fallen off, you still have enough pride to avoid the granny panties.”

  “Fair enough. But how do you know I need to drop—”

  “Access to your camera roll. Jesus, Jack, you know telecommunications companies only exist to leak all of your personal data. You want privacy, get a burner phone. Also, Sam is right. If she is going to be the hero of her own story, you need to die first.”

  “That’s… crazy.”

  “For the sidekick to become the hero, the hero needs to die.”

  “Maybe she becomes a hero, and I grow old and become the sidekick.”

  “Doesn’t work that way.”

  “Do I have to die too?” Phin asked.

  “You’re a guy,” Chandler said. “You can be the wise old man figure.”

  “What about the wise old woman figure?” I asked.

  “There are no wise old women,” Chandler said. “There are only wicked old women. We call them witches.”

  I wasn’t going to argue. “What do you want, Chandler?”

  “You’re going up north with Val Ryker?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I’m going to come along.”

  That was an unexpected twist. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a woman who cared about fall foliage.”

  “I need some girl time.”

  I found that hard to believe. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “In my line of work you don’t exactly make friends, Jack. Just because I can kill someone in seventeen different ways with a crayon doesn’t mean I don’t need occasional camaraderie.”

  “You want camaraderie? And how many ways with a crayon did you say? Seventeen?”

  I couldn’t even think of one. Maybe shoving it up their nose?

  “Also…” Chandler hesitated. “I… I need your advice on something.”

  “The woman who can speak eighteen languages needs to pick my little old brain on something?”

  “I speak twenty-six languages. And yes.”

  “I don’t see what I could possibly teach you, Chandler.”

  Phin nudged me and whispered. “Stop being a dick. She saved my ass. Twice.”

  “So you go with her,” I whispered back.

  “I’m doing that thing with Sam. Also, she scares the crap out of me.”

  “I can hear you both,” Chandler said.

  “Chandler, no offense—”

  “Whenever someone says that they’re about to offend you.”

  “You just don’t seem like the type of person who likes hanging out with friends.”

  “That’s what my shrink says.”

  “You have a shrink?” I blinked. “Isn’t that some sort of national security leak?”

  “We talk about my feelings, not the countless people I’ve retired.”

  “Assassinated,” I corrected. “Retired people continue to breathe so they can play golf.”

  Chandler pressed. “I have your flight information—”

  “Of course you do.”

  “I’ll meet you in the airport in Madison. I’ll get a rental, we can drive up together.”

  A relaxing getaway with my friend suddenly got a lot more weighty. “I need to check with Val.”

  “I already did.”

  “And she agreed?”

  “No. She’s already dialing your phone right now to cancel. See you at MSN tomorrow.”

  Chandler hung up just as Val called.

  I picked up by saying, “Do not leave me alone with Chandler.”

  “I can’t go, Jack.”

  “She probably won’t murder us both. Probably.”

  “You know I don’t like Chandler.”

  “She’s likely listening right now,” I said.

  “I don’t care. I told her exactly that when she called. But it’s not secret agent James Blonde who’s the reason I can’t go. It’s Lund.”

  Lund was her hunky firefighter beau. “Lund won’t let you?”

  “I can’t leave him right now. He broke both of his hands saving a cat from a collapsing building.”

  Of course he did. That sounded exactly like Lund.

  “Jesus, Val. Is he okay?”

  “The cat is fine,” Lund interjected.

  “Tell Lund I said hey,” Phin said over my shoulder.

  “Hey Phin,” Lund answered back. “I’m on so many painkillers I could chew off my own tongue and not feel it.”

  “Cool. How about those Packers?” Phin asked him.

  Apparently privacy on a phone call was an archaic concept to the entire world. I turned to the father of my child, my expression icy. “Do you want the phone so you can talk to him?”

  “Gotta go, Lund, the old lady is being bitchy.” Phin winked at me as he left the bedroom.

  I was a strong woman so I refused to beg. “Val, please, you have to come along,” I begged.

  “He can’t even go to the bathroom by himself, Jack.”

  “It’s true,” Lund added. “I just pissed all over my bandages. They smell like asparagus.”

  “He’s on a lot of painkillers,” Val explained.

  “And a lot of asparagus,” Lund said.

  “What about that thing you wanted to talk to me about?” I asked.

  “I’ll Zoom you, Jack.”

  I lowered my voice. “Val, Chandler’s a lot. How about you bring Lund?”

  “You’re not seriously suggesting that,” Val said. “You know they have a history. When he and I were taking a break, that bitch seduced him.”

  “That bitch is still listening,” Chandler said, butting into the call. “It’s supposed to be a girl trip, but I might make an exception for Lund.”

  I rubbed my face. “Jesus, Chandler. Boundaries.”

  “I liked the James Blonde joke, Val. But I’m currently a redhead.”

  “I currently don’t give a shit,” Val replied. “Take plenty of tree pics. Jack, we’ll talk later. Chandler, try not to kill anybody.”

  “You’ve killed people too, Val.”

  “Person. You’ve killed entire villages.”

  “I spared women and children,” Chandler countered. “Mostly.”

  “Is it strange that everyone I know has killed people?” I asked myself aloud.

  “I’ve only killed deer, ducks, and six packs,” Lund volunteered. “And that asparagus. Do we have more asparagus?”

  “Hey Jack, you should invite Val to that escape room trip with Harry,” Chandler said, apparently enjoying her intrusion in my life.

  “They don’t really get along,” I explained.

  Chandler tsk-tsked. “She doesn’t like me, she doesn’t like Harry. Val, have you ever talked to a therapist about antisocial personality disorder?”

  Val snorted. “Haven’t you tortured people to death, Chandler?”

  “Sure. To save the world. But I wasn’t being a jerk about it.”

  “Later, Jack.” Val hung up.

  “I need you to stop listening in on my calls like some deranged stalker,” I told Chandler.

  Chandler didn’t answer.

  “I know you’re there. I can hear the gears turning in your little spy head.”

  “You think Val doesn’t like me because I fucked her boyfriend?”

  “She probably doesn’t want to swap Snaps with you. And Lund is her fiancé.”

  “Huh. So it’s serious then? He’s a good guy. Maybe with a good guy in her life she’ll stop being so negative.”

  “I know you’ve had all kinds of trauma in your past, but you gotta start trying to act like a human being, Chandler.”

  “My shrink tells me the same thing. Make small talk about mundane things, she says. So… did you see last week’s episode of Grey’s Anatomy? What a show, right? All that medical stuff that happened. And all those characters doing doctor things.”

  Jesus. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I hung up. Then, for good measure, I turned off my phone. I considered taking out my SIM card, then wondered if SIM cards were even a thing anymore, then realized that both Phin and Sam had cell phones and if Chandler wanted to listen in, she’d listen in.

  The company you keep, right?

  I got up and went to the kitchen, seeing Phin and Sam pick up dog turds while Duffy the hound squatted next to a hydrangea and made some new ones.

  On my counter, my elderly calico cat Mr. Friskers whined, begging for food.

  “I don’t want to go to Northern Wisconsin with Chandler. Or to California to see McGlade.”

  The cat did not appear to be sympathetic.

  “Why does it seem like I don’t have any say in my own life?”

  Mr. Friskers walked up to me—

  —and then swiped a coffee mug off the counter, sending it to the floor. He’d been doing that for over a decade, and we’d long ago switched to plastic drinkware to avoid any more breakage. But it was still obnoxious.

  “That’s why no one likes you,” I informed him.

  He hopped off the counter, went to his empty aluminum bowl, and swatted that across the room. It clanged, predictably, and for the hundredth time I made a mental note to replace the metal bowl with a plastic one.

  Then, for the hundredth time, I remembered that he chewed up his last plastic bowl and then shit bits of plastic on our bed, which was why we switched to aluminum.

  What was the solution? A bowl that attached to the floor so he couldn’t bat it around?

  I didn’t want to have to get a screwdriver every time I needed to clean his bowl.

  A firm reprimand anytime he misbehaved?

  Mr. Friskers didn’t take well to training. It took me two years just to get him to stop jumping on my head and trying to claw my eyes out.

  New cat?

  Something I considered, every day. But I’d had him for over fifteen years. How long could he have left?

  I sighed, knowing he’d probably outlive me. Especially if Sam finally had her own adventures.

  “I guess we’re stuck with you,” I said to the cat in a loving voice.

  He knocked his food bowl into his water bowl, splashing liquid all over the floor.

  “I’m not going to feed you if you keep acting like a dick.”

  He kept acting like a dick.

  I fed him anyway.

  So much for sticking to my guns.

  Where did I just hear something about sticking to guns?

  The information eluded me.

  I forgot what I was in the middle of doing, went to feed the cat, and saw I had already fed the cat.

  Senior moment? Normal age-related short-term memory issues?

  Or was I having a more serious issue?

  Phin came in, followed by Duffy. Phin went to the sink to wash his hands. Duffy the basset hound went to lick up the water Mr. Friskers had spilled.

  “Hon, have you noticed me having any trouble remembering stuff lately?”

  He wiped his hands on his jeans and gave me a look. “You’ve been distracted lately.”

  “Really?”

  “You forgot you had a roast in the oven. Burned it so bad Duffy wouldn’t even eat it. And he ate a squirrel that had been dead for a week.”

  “Right,” I said, trying to recall that memory. “Last week, right?”

  “Two days ago.”

  Huh. That wasn’t good.

  “Six hundred and forty-seven,” Phin said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Random number. You really think you’re having some cognitive issues?”

  “I dunno. Brain fog. Could be from the bug.”

  Our family had shared whatever current edition of Covid-19 had been going around, and I still hadn’t completely shaken off the lethargy.

  “Want to see someone? Get it checked out?”

  “I dunno. Maybe.”

  “What was the number I just said?”

  “Six hundred and forty-seven.”

  “Correct. When was the last time we had sex?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “It was four days ago.”

  “That long? So why am I still sore?”

  Phin winked. “Because I’m a brutish, unstoppable sex machine. Want to?”

  “With Sam in the house?”

  “She can put in her earbuds, play videogames.”

  I felt distracted and wasn’t really in the mood. “How about a quick BJ in the bathroom? My back hurts so you can stand on the toilet.”

  “Sounds super romantic,” Phin deadpanned. “I’m in.”

  He led me by the hand, and halfway into it I stopped, overcome with panic.

  “Jack? You okay?”

  “The number you told me…” I looked up at him, my eyes getting glassy. “I forgot it.”

  CAPTIVE #82

  Somewhere in the Northwoods

  She awoke from a nightmare, abruptly jerking to a sitting position, gasping as if she’d been holding her breath for an extended time, and after a few moments of frantic disorientation the realization of her predicament hit full-force and the fear threatened to devour her and she wished so badly she could return to the safety of that nightmare rather than be forced to confront the current, inescapable horror.

  Her enclosure was small, rectangular, made of concrete blocks and mortar, its width not much more than her shoulders, its height not enough to even crouch. She couldn’t fully stretch out her legs without hitting walls. Her upper body had been propped up on another sharp cement block in an awkward sitting position, knees together and bent to the side, as if trying to fit in a bathtub that was too small.

  Her mind raced as fast as her pulse.

  A prison cell?

  A grave?

  It isn’t much larger than a coffin.

  No light. No door. No escape.

  This is familiar somehow. Almost expected.

  Why?

  I can’t remember why.

  The odd position she found herself in made some sort of sense, but the reason remained sealed in the recesses of her mind, mimicking how she was sealed in this tomb.

  What was the name of that story? Premature Burial? The Tomb of Ligeia?

  The Cask of Amontillado.

  That old Edgar Allan Poe tale where a man was entombed alive behind a brick wall.

  This isn’t a way to temporarily restrain me.

  I’m meant to die here.

  In the darkness she ran trembling fingers over her body.

  I’m wearing a bathrobe. No pain from injuries, no dampness from blood.

  A headache. Disorientation.

  Was I drugged?

  She swallowed, her throat moist.

  That’s good. I haven’t been here long enough to get thirsty.

  Maybe the mortar hasn’t fully dried yet.

  Maybe I can push or scrape my way out.

  Her hands probed the walls, pushing and flexing, hoping to find some leeway, some spot where cold stone wiggled or shifted. All the mortar seams she touched were dry and rough.

  This is an old structure.

  But I was recently sealed in here. Posed in this odd position.

  She filled her lungs, then sucked in tiny breaths to inflate them to capacity. After holding for five seconds, she blew out hard through her mouth.

  Oxygenating my blood. Blowing out all the carbon dioxide. Clearing my head and slowing my heart rate.

  I remember how to do that. But I don’t remember how I got here.

  She repeated the breathing exercise three more times, then felt relaxed enough to concentrate.

  Concrete blocks are eight inches by sixteen inches.

  I haven’t been in here for very long. There have to be several blocks that were recently laid, the mortar still damp.

  Find those blocks, push my way out.

  She slowly rolled sideways. When her bare skin brushed the ground she found an inch of small, rough stones. Grabbing a few, lifting them to her face, she took a careful sniff, then touched her tongue to a pebble.

  Rock salt.

  Why is rock salt obvious?

  What is my brain screaming at me to recall?

  She tried to pin down her last memory, tried to piece together any clue of how she got there, and suddenly and horrifically realized the reason for the salt. The reason for the posed position. The reason for being sealed alive in a concrete tomb.

  When the memory came, it came with screaming.

  JACK

  Lake Flathead, Wisconsin

  It doesn’t look like the listing pic.” Chandler frowned as she pulled into the unpaved driveway, river rock and gravel crunching under the tires of the rental SUV.

  On the B and B rental app the house appeared bright and well-maintained, almost austere, promising a fun party atmosphere intertwined with moments of thoughtful introspection while communing with nature.

  In reality, the house looked like a moldering dump that had a rough fight with time and weather, and got its ass kicked.

  “Everything is Photoshopped these days,” I said. “No skill even needed. Press a few keys and some AI program will turn your shitty rental property into every vacationer’s dream palace.”

  Chandler threw the vehicle into park, her frown deepening. Her red hair, cut short, was tucked under the Packers baseball cap she’d bought at the airport. Like all good secret agents, she made an effort to blend in.

  She glanced over her shoulder. During the ride up Chandler had been preoccupied-slash-obsessed about being tailed, and had even ridden a cloverleaf exchange unnecessarily to check if anyone was following us.

  I didn’t mind her paranoia. I’d had more than my share of bad people try to hurt me. Or worse.