MARRY YOUR KILLER
Chapter Twenty-One: The Box
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The contract sat in Keifer's desk drawer.
Jay stood in the doorway of the study, her arms crossed, her face calm. Keifer was at the desk, his hands flat on the closed drawer, his head bowed. The morning light came through the window, thin and gray, the kind of light that promised rain.
Neither of them had slept. They had left the hospital at noon. They had driven back to his house in silence. The city had moved past them—jeepneys and taxis and people who didn't know that somewhere in a desk drawer, a contract was waiting to be opened.
Ci N was in the living room with Felix, pretending to watch TV. Percy was in the kitchen, pretending to make food. Aries was at the table, pretending to read. Yuri was in his corner, pretending to sleep. They were all pretending not to watch the study door.
Jay walked in. She closed the door behind her.
Keifer looked up. His face was tired. His eyes were dark. He had been sitting there since they got home, his hand on the drawer, not opening it.
"You didn't open it," she said.
"I was waiting for you."
She walked to the desk. She stood beside him. The drawer was closed. The contract was inside. Twenty-three pages. Two years. A promise.
"You want to open it," she said.
He looked at her. "I want to know what you want."
She was quiet for a moment. The house was quiet. The city was quiet. The whole world was quiet.
"I don't know," she said.
He pulled the drawer open.
The contract sat on top of a folder, white paper, black ink. He lifted it out. He set it on the desk between them. She could see her signature at the bottom, neat and sharp. His was beside hers, darker, steadier.
She touched the edge of the paper. Her finger traced the line where she had signed her name.
"We made this contract because we were scared," she said.
"Yes."
"We made it because we didn't know each other."
"We were strangers."
"We made it because we thought the war would end and we would walk away."
He didn't answer. His hand was beside hers on the paper. His fingers were still.
"What if we don't walk away?" she asked.
He looked at her. His face was close. His eyes were dark.
"Then we don't walk away."
She looked at the contract. At the pages that were supposed to protect them. At the promise they had made to leave before anything could grow.
"Two years," she said.
"Two years."
"A lot can happen in two years."
He smiled. It was small. Tired. Real.
"A lot can happen," he said.
She picked up the contract. She folded it. Once. Twice. Three times. She walked to the desk. She opened the drawer. She put it back inside.
Keifer watched her. He didn't move. He didn't speak.
She closed the drawer. She turned to face him.
"We don't burn it," she said.
He stood up. He walked to her. He stopped in front of her.
"No?"
She shook her head. "We keep it. We keep it to remind us."
"Remind us of what?"
She looked at him. His face was tired. His eyes were dark. He was the most terrifying thing she had ever wanted.
"That we were scared," she said. "That we didn't know. That we made a promise to leave before we knew what we could be."
He touched her face. His hand was warm. His fingers were gentle.
"And now?" he asked.
She leaned into his hand. Her eyes closed.
"Now we wait," she said. "We see what happens. In two years. In one year. In tomorrow. We see what grows."
He kissed her forehead. Soft. Slow.
"And if something grows?" he asked.
She opened her eyes. His face was close. His breath was warm on her skin.
"Then we figure out what to do with it," she said.
He smiled. He kissed her. Not soft. Not slow. A kiss that said everything they hadn't said yet. A kiss that promised nothing and everything.
She kissed him back. Her hands were in his hair. His hands were on her waist. They stood in the study, the contract in the drawer, the sun rising over Manila, and for a moment, there was no war. There was no contract. There was just them.
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Ci N found them there, hours later.
He had been waiting. He had been watching the door. He had been counting the minutes. When it opened, he was standing in the hallway, his phone in his hand, his face bright.
Jay walked out first. Her hair was loose. Her face was soft. Keifer was behind her, his hand on her back, his face the same as it always was—calm, steady, unreadable.
But Ci N saw. He saw the way Keifer's hand stayed on her back when he thought no one was looking. He saw the way Jay leaned into him when she walked. He saw the space between them, smaller than it had ever been.
He didn't say anything. He didn't record. He just watched.
Jay saw him. Her face didn't change. But her hand found Keifer's. Their fingers laced together.
"Ci N," she said.
"Yeah?"
She smiled. It was small. Quiet. Private.
"We're keeping the contract," she said.
He stared at her. "You're keeping it?"
"We're keeping it. For now."
He looked at their hands. At the way they fit together. At the way Keifer's thumb moved against her skin.
"But—"
"We're waiting," Keifer said. "To see what happens."
Ci N looked at his sister. At the woman who had never let herself want anything. At the woman who had signed a contract to leave before anything could grow.
"And if something happens?" he asked.
Jay looked at Keifer. He looked at her. They didn't say anything. They didn't need to.
"Then something happens," she said.
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The box appeared on the desk the next day.
It was small, wooden, dark. Keifer found it when he came into the study. There was no note. No explanation. Just the box, sitting where the contract had been.
He opened it.
Inside was the contract. Folded. Neat. And a key. Small, silver, old. He picked it up. It was warm in his hand.
Jay came in behind him. She stopped when she saw the box.
"What is that?" she asked.
He held up the key. "I don't know."
She walked to the desk. She looked at the box. At the contract. At the key.
"Where did it come from?"
"I don't know."
She picked up the key. It was light. The metal was worn, like it had been used for years.
"A key to what?" she asked.
He shook his head. "I don't know."
She looked at him. His face was tired. His eyes were dark. The key was warm in her hand.
"We keep it," she said. "We keep it until we find out what it opens."
He looked at the key. At her hand. At the contract in the box.
"And if we never find out?"
She smiled. It was small. Quiet. A smile just for him.
"Then we wait," she said. "We see what happens."
He took the key from her hand. He put it in his pocket. He closed the box.
The contract stayed inside.
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END OF CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE