Chapter 10 C10

Ryan

"You what?" Ana breathes. Her eyes are saucers.

I hadn't planned to tell her about the scene I found in the woods, but I also couldn't come up with an explanation for the firearms that would satisfy her.

"It was last week. I found a helicopter about fifteen miles from here. I think it's the one you came from. You had a bump on your head when I found you. Somehow you escaped the crash with just that injury and made it here."

Telling Ana this bold-faced lie is much harder than I would have expected it to be. I hate deceiving her. She deserves the truth. But if I've learned anything about Ana over the last three weeks, it's that she can't handle this truth. It's a blessing she doesn't remember the incident on her own.

"Why did it crash?" she asks.

"It's hard to tell. The news said it was probably bad weather." Another blatant lie.

Ana's face goes from pale to white.

"It was on the news?"

She looks like she's about to collapse. I wonder if she might have another panic attack. That thought prompts me to speak before thinking.

"Yeah, but it's fine. They reported that you died in the crash too. Everyone thinks you're dead. When I ordered this stuff, I heard about the crash being on the news, since it wasn't very far from here."

"You told someone about me?"

"No." I pause. "Well, he knows there's a woman here, but he didn't put two and two together. I doubt he will. My brother's an idiot. But even if he did, he doesn't want anyone to know about me. He's not going to tell anyone about you."

Ana stares at me. "I thought you said you were hiding from your family up here. Why does your brother know?"

I feel my stomach sinking into my feet. "My family does know that I'm here, but they're the only ones."

"So why are you hiding up here instead of living with them? What is wrong with you? Do you have any idea what I'd give to be able to see my family again, just once? You have a family, and look at all they're doing for you! Surely if they're willing to go to all this trouble of keeping you supplied up here, they'd be able to help you keep a low profile back home. Besides, who cares about some guy who almost died in Afghanistan years and years ago? Why do you need to hide here?"

I don't say anything. So much for her not asking questions about things I don't like speaking about.

"Who are you, really?" she asks, her gaze intense, her eyes boring into mine.

I look down at the table. I don't suppose I have much reason to keep this from her. At first I thought she would tell people about me for the money and fame that information could get her. Now I know that she's interested in neither. I don't really know why I haven't already told her. Maybe it's because she's the first person aside from the guys in the military who didn't treat me differently because they knew who my family was. I liked being just Ryan, not the celebrity, not the person my parents were trying to force me to be.

"Answer me," Ana says, smacking the table with her hand. I look back up at her. She looks angry, but I can still see the paleness in her face from the shock of my revelation about the helicopter. I can't keep lying about this to her. I sigh.

"Do you ever watch reality TV?" I ask.

She looks completely thrown off guard. "What? I - no," she says, her expression becoming confused.

"Read tabloids?" I ask, already tired of this conversation.

"No," she says, her confusion changing to a look of near-suspicion.

"Ever heard of the Burkes?"

Her face clears and recognition springs into her eyes. Damn. So much for the hope that my obnoxious family isn't as famous as I feared. I watch as her eyes narrow and her head tilts to one side. She seems to be looking at nothing, her eyes unfocused near a spot over my right shoulder. Suddenly her gaze snaps to me and is more scrutinizing than I've ever seen it.

I look away, feeling very uncomfortable with this attention.

"Oh," she says, and I glance back up at her face. Her expression relaxes and her eyes widen. "The son who died. That funeral - your funeral - was everywhere. What was that, three years ago?"

"Five," I say. "Did you watch it?"

I don't know why I asked that question. I kind of hate myself for it.

"No," she says quickly. "I just remember that it happened. I don't watch their show. I don't even remember what you look like."

She seems to be telling the truth. I suppose it's some small relief to know that she's not truly that familiar with who I was.

"Everyone thinks you're dead," she says.

"Yes."

"But you're not."

"No." I thought this was obvious.

"Why?"

"You really have no idea how ruthless the media can be, do you?"

She looks at me questioningly.

"It was the only way to get them off the scent for good. I'm sure some tabloids still run articles about me being secretly alive, though. They do that for all sorts of celebrities who've died, especially under unusual circumstances. Even little kids, sometimes. It's disgusting. If they knew I was still alive -"

I stop, not wanting to contemplate that future.

"Why do you have issues with your family, then? They've agreed to help you fool the world that you're dead."

"No, they didn't."

"What?"

"They didn't agree. They wanted to use me for publicity. For their show. They didn't quite have the network convinced to sign them yet, so Mom wanted to use my face to-"

I stop again, definitely having said too much. I suppose it was probably obvious by the ski mask that something unfortunate had happened to my face, but she doesn't need to know how bad it is.

"Then why are they helping you?"

"I'm blackmailing them."

"Oh," she says, and finally looks away from me.

An awkward silence follows. I thought telling the truth about a secret you've been keeping was supposed to make you feel better, but I don't. I feel worse.

"They did use your face to get their show," she says abruptly.

"What?" I ask, horrified.

"Your picture was everywhere. Your military portrait was on the news, in magazines, newspapers, even some talk shows. Your funeral was the first episode of their TV show. I remember thinking that was kind of sick, to use a real person's funeral as a pilot episode for a reality show."

She looks at me again and squints a little as she studies my face. I squirm.

"I still don't remember what your picture looked like. I just remember a hat and a flag in the background."

She's quiet for a moment, still studying me.

"How old are you?" she asks.

"Twenty-six."

"Oh," she says, her eyebrows lifting. She finally looks away from me and seems to consider this.

"How old did you think I am?"

She looks back at me. "A little older than that." Her expression shifts from nonchalant to accusatory. "So you told your brother about me."

"He won't tell anyone. He's stupid, but he's not that stupid. If he tells anyone about you, he'll pay for it, and he knows that."

She considers this. "Would that be your brother Joe?" she asks.

"Yes," I say, a little dismayed that she seems to know of him so well.

"Hmm," she responds, wrinkling her nose like she's smelled something bad.

I laugh. I can't help it. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone react to him like that," I say.

She gives me a look. "No offense, but your brother is kind of... ick," she says, the look of displeasure returning. She pauses to think again. "I also remember a woman. Maybe your sister? She was tall, blonde-"

"She's not my sister," I interrupt. She's talking about Saph. Talking to her about my family is one thing, but I am NOT going to talk to her about my ex-fiancee.

"Who is she?" Ana asks.

"Not my sister," I say, and decide it's time to do something else somewhere else.

~~~

After a quiet lunch some hours later, I look up from my spot on the couch at the sound of something clattering on the coffee table in front of me. It's Ana's Glock. She's standing in front of me, suspicion in her eyes.

"Why does the sight of a crashed helicopter make you buy three guns?"

I was hoping she'd forgotten about my non-explanation for arming her. As I search for an explanation that won't send her into a panic attack, she becomes impatient.

"Why would that make you want more weapons? What did you find there?"

I look into her eyes.

"Ana, one of the victims in the crash was a US Marshal."

Her eyes widen.

"His ID said Johnston Stevens," I say, confirming what I think she already knows.

Ana's face falls. She slumps down to sit on the couch beside me and as she stares at the coffee table, her eyes fill with tears.

"You're in witness protection, aren't you?"

She looks back up at me with fearful, watery eyes.

"Aren't you?" I repeat, more of a statement than a question.

Ana nods, then pulls her knees up to her chest and buries her face in them, her arms coming around her head. I move a little closer to her and place my left hand on her shoulder.

"I won't let anyone hurt you, Ana. You know that, right?"

She nods again.

"I bought the guns for you because I want to teach you how to defend yourself. I want you to be able to rely on yourself for protection, not other people. I thought that if you learned how to use a gun, you might not be so scared all the time."

I'm beginning to think this may not have been the best idea. Perhaps she finds the guns unsettling and scary too. I consider packing the guns back up and storing them away, out of sight, out of mind. Just as I'm about to do it, Ana's head lifts and she sniffles. Her hands reach out for the Glock and she holds it gently, almost cradling it in her hands.

"When can I start with this?" she asks.

"After you learn how to shoot the Winchester," I say. "Then you can move on to the Glock, if you can break it down and rebuild it without help in less than two minutes."

"When can I start with the Winchester?"

"Tomorrow morning, as soon as it's bright enough outside."

She looks up at me, and for the first time I don't see fear in her eyes. I see determination.

~~~

That night as I lock all five guns in the cabinet, I wonder if keeping her here is a good idea. According to the article Joe read to me, she was supposed to testify against the man who murdered her family. She was probably the key witness. However, no one can force her to testify. She can only do it of her own free will.

I look over at her as she gathers up the last of her new books and places them on a shelf. She doesn't seem very willing to testify. She doesn't seem willing to do anything that involves leaving this cabin. I have begun to recognize in her the same tendencies I had when I first moved here. Today was her first time going outside and it took quite a bit of convincing even for that. When I came here, I didn't go outside for weeks. I stayed holed up inside until I finally realized it wasn't healthy. But I didn't get panic attacks just from being outdoors. I wonder if I'll ever be able to convince her to go outside again.

"Why are you locking those up?" Ana asks.

"Gun safety, remember?"

"It's not like someone's going to break in and take them. The only thing gained from locking them up is making it harder for ourselves to get them out if we need them."

I ignore her and continue unloading the rifle in my hands.

"Do you think one of us is going to shoot the other in the middle of the night?"

I stop and look up at her. That question hits close to home. On more than one occasion, I've woken up from a dream with a loaded Beretta in my hands and no memory of how it got there or how it became loaded. When the only person I could harm was myself, it was merely troubling. Now that Ana could be the unsuspecting victim of my PTSD-induced nightmares, I'm taking more thorough measures to make sure I can't get my hands on a loaded weapon unless I'm fully cognizant of my actions.

"Are you planning to shoot me?" I ask, trying to spin the question back around on her.

"No," she says.

"Then the guns go in the cabinet. End of conversation."

She frowns at me. I go back to ignoring her.