This Is How I Disappear

“Wait, wait,” red-head interrupts my desperate rambling. “Now you want to be held for ransom?”

I nod mutely.

“And you want me to call your family with directions for the drop, risking myself so that the newscasters stop speculating?” He rubs a hand through his already ruffled red hair.

“If the news thinks that I’m guilty, the police can’t be far behind. Besides, I thought you were serious about the whole ransom thing.”

Red-head yawns. “Why should I?”

“Well…” I stall, thinking wildly, “You…uh….” Crap, I say at a loss.

Red-head rubs his tired eyes. “Look. I was out all night covering your tracks. Even if they do suspect you, they have no proof you were there.”

I gnaw at my lip ring anxiously. “But what if you missed something?”

Red-head glares. “Like what? Your backpack was unopened, and the only thing you touched was a gun. I even wiped down the dumpster you were leaning against.”

I continue worrying my lip ring until a thought hits me. “T-there was a scrap of paper,” I stutter out, “and-and a pen.”

Red-head freezes.

“You saw it?” I guess. “It’s still there?”

Red-head exhales heavily. “If they test it for prints, all they’ll glean from it was that you owned a pen that was at the scene of the murders. They already think you’re connected. That’s not evidence to accuse you of murder, unless you falsely confess.”

“How do you know?” I challenge.

“Because my brother and I watched a lot of cop shows growing up, and then he became a cop,” red-head replies.

I am suddenly imagining a bigger version of red-head slumped on the little couch wrestling with his little brother over the remote. This makes me smile. “Your big brother’s a cop?” I chortle. “Well, that’s ironic.”

“No,” red-head snaps, “he’s my little brother.”

“Oh,” I say, taken aback. A littler red-head wrestling him for the remote. “Oh. How old is he?” I wonder, because red-head is already pretty young.

His jaw twitches for some reason, but he answers anyway. “Nineteen. Three years younger than I am.”

“You’re twenty-two,” I decide to state the obvious. “I figured you were at least twenty-five or something,” I expound, to make it less awkward.

Red-head’s expression doesn’t change; he doesn’t speak.

“What’s his name?” I blurt and mentally smack myself. You ask for his brother’s name when you don’t even know his own, my brain congratulates me. Your manners are superb. “I mean,” I add quickly, “I don’t know your name either….”

“Our names are Mikey and Gerard,” red-head answers easily.

Mikey and Gerard. Wait. “Which one…?”

Red-head smiles challengingly. “Guess.”

Okay, guess. Mikey or Gerard. Does he look like a Mikey or a Gerard?

He looks like neither, my brain puts in.

Or either, I agree.

“You don’t have to agonize over it, Mikey-or-Gerard tells me. “I’ll just correct you if you’re wrong.”

I bite my lip ring. “Um, Mikey?” I hazard a guess.

His lips quirk upward infinitesimally. And you only noticed because you tend to stare at them, my brain remarks. I cough a little, and look at his hazel eyes.

“Yeah,” he says with mirth lining his voice, “I’m Mikey.” Then he erupts into laughter.

“Right, you’ll just correct me if I’m wrong, will you?” I retort dryly.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps out. “Your face was just too good!”

I shook my head and rolled my eyes. “So it’s Gerard,” I confirm.

He nods as his laughter dies down. “Or is it?” he counters seriously after a second.

I hesitate. “Is it?” I ask warily.

“Maybe,” he says cryptically.

“You are…infuriating,” I reply. It’s Gerard, definitely Gerard, I assure myself and my brain.

That’s redundant, my brain chides. I am you.

Yes, I am aware, I reply. But it’s Gerard, right?

Yes, my brain answers to my satisfaction. Or, it continues, it could be Mikey, or even some other name.

Oh come on, I reason. Why would he lie about his name?

Reason number one: he’s a murderer. Sometimes murderers aren’t the most honest people in the world. But, hell, maybe I’m too quick to judge—his abs would never lie to you, my brain snarks unwelcomely.

I indulge my eyes momentarily. Okay, cut the sarcasm, I order.

Or maybe it’s just that he has a really odd name, like Slartibartfast.

No one would name their kid that, I inform the fan in my head.

The point still stands, my brain insists. Or maybe his name is Frank, and thought that would be an awkward admission.

I raise my eyebrows slightly. That would be awkward, I muse. Imagine dating someone—I mean, knowing someone with the same name as you. Weird.

I heard that Freudian slip, my brain intercedes smugly, and I’m the only one who heard it, so there’s no need to correct yourself.

There was nothing Freudian about it, I deny. Just the wrong word.

Oh, of course, my brain placates sardonically. Totally just a normal slip of the tongue.

Shut it, I demand.

Okay, but you’ve been zoning out while staring at him for the last couple of minutes, my brain informs me.

Damn it. Red-h—Gerard(?) is gazing right back at me questioningly. “Uh, sorry, spaced out,” I mutter, looking down at my feet where we stand on the threshold to his bedroom.

“So…” Gerard (is it Gerard? or is it Mikey?)(or is it Frank?) says and I look up again. “The ransom note?” he reminds me.

“Oh, yeah!” I exclaim, glancing at watch on his arm. “You gotta make that phone call right now!”

“You’re lucky I have some spare burner cells,” he grumbles, retreating into his room. Nice back, my brain commends.

Thought I told you to shut up?

You were thinking it too, my brain defends, but lapses back into silence.