I can't sleep. I'm not good for that. Even when we were little—when Charlie and I would take turns telling horror stories about the devil, the old man in the sack, and the shitty people who lived in our building—Charlie was the first to snore. Tonight is no different.
As I keep my gaze fixed on the deep black crack that runs across the stucco ceiling, I can hear the echoes of my mother crying. And Dellacosta leaving home forever. For
what the hell nobody told me? Still struggling with the answer, I listen to Charlie's labored breathing. When he was sick it was much worse: an asthmatic wheeze that used to keep me vigilant like a human heart monitor. It's a sound that will haunt me forever—like the sound of my mother's sobs—but as I turn and look at Charlie, as the minutes tick by and his breathing settles into a regular rhythm, I try to find some relief in the feeling that Finally, we are getting a moment of rest. Between the photographs, the non-disclosure agreement, and the leads from Five Points Capital, there really is a light at the end of the tunnel. And then, as if out of nowhere, the light disappears, stolen by light blows against the window glass.
I sit up in bed.
The blows stop. I don't move a muscle. And the blows start again. The sharp, persistent thump of a knuckle against the glass.
"Charlie, get up," I whisper.
It does not move.
"Oliver," the voice comes clearly from outside.
I jump out of bed trying not to make a sound. If I scream, whoever is outside will know we're awake. I go over to Charlie's bed to uncover him.
"Oliver, are you there?" the voice asks.
I turn, surprised, and drop Charlie's blanket. It's not just any voice...
"Oliver, it's me.
... is a voice I know. I quickly walk over to the door and peek through the peephole just to make sure.
-Opens...
I turn the key and remove the lock. The door opens with a slight creak and I look out into the darkness.
"I'm sorry, did I wake you up?" Gillian asks with a slight smile. As usual with her, she can't stay still. She shoves her hands into her back pockets and then shifts her weight from one foot to the other, swaying like she's a folk singer.
-What are you doing here?
"I don't know… I couldn't stop thinking about the remote control… and the pictures and… I couldn't get to sleep, so I figured…" She breaks off abruptly and takes a quick look. to my shorts. I blush; she laughs. Listen, I know you have your own reasons for doing this, but I really appreciate what you're doing with my dad. He... he would have thanked you.
My face does nothing but redden intensely.
"I'm serious," Gillian says. "I know," I say.
Enjoying the moment, she adds, "When is your birthday?" -What?
—What sign are you, Aries or Leo? Melville and Hitchcock were Leo, but she…" He pauses, taking in my reaction. You are Aries, right? "How is it possible that...?" How did you know?
"Come on, stiff, it's etched on your forehead: the perfect posture, that tone—patronizing and admonishing when you speak to your brother, even those immaculate white boxer shorts…"
-They are new.
"There's no question they are," Gillian says, looking down for another look at them. I blush again and she laughs. Come on, she adds. Put some clothes on, I'll let you buy me a cheap cup of coffee.
I look over her shoulder at the deserted street. Even at this hour it's not a very smart idea to go out in public.
"What about a voucher for another occasion?"
She steps back slightly, and the look of a wounded puppy takes over her face.
"It doesn't mean you have to go either..." I add by way of invitation.
Gillian stops and turns quickly.
"Does that mean you want me to stay?"
It's a joke and we both know it. Charlie would tell me to close the door without wasting a second. But that would only leave me lying in bed in the dark staring at the ceiling unable to sleep.
"I'm just saying I have to be careful."
"Oh, because of the…I hadn't thought…" Gillian hesitates in the sweetest way possible. It's one of those moments where no one would be able to fake it. Of course I want you to be careful. In fact…" A teasing smile lights up her face.
-What?
"Put on some sneakers," she says, beaming now. she just got me have an idea.
-To go out? I don't think it's…" "Trust me, handsome in underpants, this will be one of those times you'll thank me. No one will know we are there.
Gillian says something else, but I'm still savoring the word handsome.
"Are you sure there's no danger?"
"I wouldn't ask you if there was danger," she says, suddenly serious. Especially when we're in this together.
That is the momentum that gets me to the top of the mountain. If Gillian wanted to hurt us, Gallo and DeSanctis would be here hours ago. Instead, Charlie and I enjoyed a whole day of peace and quiet. From now on, the more time Gillian spends with us, the more risks she's taking. But she doesn't care. She wants to know the truth about her father. And so do we. She leaves a quick note for my brother and I glance over to make sure he's still asleep.
"Don't worry," Gillian says. He'll never know you're gone.
As we walk along the pier I have to admit that he was right. In a city that prides itself on being seen, Gillian has found the one quiet place where no one looks.
"Lonely enough for you?" Her," she asks as our shoes click on the wooden planks of the Miami Beach Marina. All around us, the docks are utterly silent. On the beach, a security guard is making his usual nightly rounds, but Gillian waves her hand in a friendly gesture, and that's enough to keep him at arm's length.
"Do you come here often?" - I ask her.
"Wouldn't you?" Her," she replies as she hits the brake.
I'm not sure what she's referring to, that is, until she points to a small fishing boat, white and visibly weathered, bobbing along the dock. Barely big enough to fit six people, she has seats covered in worn cushions bearing the Miami Dolphins emblem and a windshield with a crack down the middle. With a light, precise movement of her feet, Gillian tosses the sandals into the boat.
-It's yours? -I ask.
"My father's last gift," she says with obvious pride. Even atheist engineers still appreciate the majesty of catching a fish in the twilight.
As she unties the ropes that hold the boat to the pier pilings I can see her slender arms glistening gracefully in the moonlight. She jumped into the boat without hesitation. Gillian starts the engine and takes the steering wheel with a light but sure hand. It must be four in the morning, but there are still some really wonderful views out at sea.
With a sharp left we leave the marina and, ignoring the "Don't Make Waves" signs, Gillian pushes the throttle forward and sends us bouncing through the dark water. The bumpy ride is enough to throw us back in our seats, but we both grip the dashboard and struggle to stay upright.
"If you don't get above the windshield, you can't taste the ocean!" Gillian yells over the noise of the engine. I nod and run my tongue over the salt that the air deposits on my lips.