The Long Siege - Chapter 8

I stop. Dementia. I’m scared by an old woman with dementia

The thrumming in my skull is a brutal percussion section, each beat a reminder of the cheap whiskey and forced camaraderie at last night’s ‘celebration’ with the uncles of the Jade Dragon. Sunlight, sharp and unforgiving, cuts through the dusty windows of my tech lair. I gulp on a glass of water eagerly when my phone lights up. It’s Elise. The deep-seated nausea comes up again, along with a feeling of bad omen. A forward message from an unknown number.

We have a proposal for you. Then, I open the file. The video is shaky, shot through the downpour, and I… my dark silhouette against the storm-lit campus, picking up the knife by its tip, then the burlap sack. I walk out of frame, toward the construction dumpster. The clip is short, damning, and expertly edited to show only my culpable actions, not the attack that preceded them. Then Elise copies-pastes another message. $50,000. Or this goes to the police. You have 48 hours.

I take my morning diabetic pill and recall the events. It seems my undoing is coming from the shade behind a beautiful flower, Elise. I look through the bars of the balcony, imagining a mind map on each of the spaces between them. Who needs the money the most? Uncle Ty? A final rip off before I go, setting me as an example for his underlings? Uncle Long, pressuring me into submission and crawling on my knees to accept his offer? The timing’s too perfect, the knowledge’s too precise. They have the resources to make this blackmail happen. Have I been too careful that it forced them to do this desperate act?

As I light up my morning cigarette, my mind snags to Elise. She appeared right as the key did. She was there at the ambush. Now, the forwarded message. Is she the thread, or the weaver? I dissect her face in my memory—the high, sharp cheekbones, the determined set of her jaw. Yes, she has altered her eyelids, but it’s normal and even more confusing since Brooke has natural two eyelids and a rounder, softer face. Again, no ghost of a sisterly connection I can find. It would be much easier for me if they are sisters. Nevertheless, uncle Tam ambushed me in a place I wasn’t accustomed to, and that’s her place. I can’t let her out of my suspicions, and thus, there’s only one way it can be done. I text her back and go on with today’s schedule.

The blackmail requires a hefty number, it’s their job to worry about it, not me. It’s funny that it’s the same situation for the money borrower. Once they get your money, it’s your turn to worry about whether they will pay it back? Reverses the reverse psychology, that’s how you keep cool and trace people’s motives. Keep cool and keep fit, for I feel in the next few days, I will have to fight again. I drop on my own weight and do two sets of push-ups, sit-ups, squatting and finish the exercise with a ten minute walk. Normally, I’ll require epic orchestra music to start the day, but today, I need to dance in the sparks, for the strings around me have been pulled.

I meet her at a cramped coffee shop, the air thick with the scent of roasted beans and low-level anxiety. She looks tired, the professional veneer cracked. She shows me her phone, the same message displays as she fidgets with her fingers. “It only shows you, but I was there. My wound is not healing in two days.”

“I don’t have that kind of money,” I say, my voice rough. I watch her closely, every micro-expression, every flicker in her dark-flecked eyes. Is there a gleam of satisfaction beneath the worry? Is this the performance? “Not even close.”

She bites her lip, her gaze darting around the room before landing back on me. “What about… your friends? The Jade Dragon? Could they… help?”

The suggestion is a flare in the fog. Is this her play? To push me back into their grip? I dismiss it with a sharp shake of my head. “I’m done with them. Asking for help is asking for another leash.” I lean forward, lowering my voice. “But there might be another way.”

And the dance begins. I offer her a thread, mine.

“The man who attacked me is Brooke’s father,” I begin, letting a sliver of truth bleed into my tone. “He wasn’t entirely wrong to come after me. Not because I killed her. I didn’t. But because I know who did it.”

Elise goes very still, her coffee forgotten. Her reaction seems genuine—the arrested motion, the sharp intake of breath. But I know genuineness can be rehearsed, especially for a person who studies people’s minds like her.

“It’s Aunty Three,” I say firmly. Elise’s eyes lifts up, a sign of recognition, of complicity. She has heard it before from me. “Brooke was smart, ambitious. Got herself involved in the shady trade, but she got greedy. She tried to skim from a shipment, thinking she could outmaneuver a drake.” I let the story hang, inviting Elise to connect the dots, to weave a plausible, tragic end in her own mind. “Aunty Three doesn’t tolerate betrayal. But Brooke was clever. She would have hidden the money. A cut that large… she’d have kept it somewhere safe.”

“Where?” Elise whispers, her eyes wide. Is that fear? Or the anticipation of a hunter seeing its quarry step into the trap?

“Her apartment. The police searched it, but they were looking for drugs, for a suicide note. Not for a hidden stash.” I produce the key from my pocket, the cold brass feeling like a brand in my palm. “Our blackmailer wants fifty thousand. Our best chance of finding it is in there.”

I hold her gaze, the key lies between us. It feels like a lively thing, a vine to bind us in damnation. She put her hand on top of the key, on top of mine. “How can you be sure the money is even there?” she asks, her voice a whisper. “It’s been months. The police, her family…”

“That kind of money is the only thing that gets a girl like Brooke killed,” I state, my tone is flat and final. “Aunty Three gets even. But she’s still looking for what was taken.” I can see the logic settling in Elise’s mind, a dark puzzle clicking into place.

“But how do you know they didn’t find it?” she presses, her therapist’s need for certainty battling the chaos of the situation.

A ghost of a smile touches my lips. “I’m out, but I’m not deaf. I still have people who owe me favors.” It contradicts the story of my clean break, the mutilated foot I showed her as proof of my exit, but in this world, contradictions are just layers of truth. I watch to see if she’ll pick at that thread. She doesn’t. She just nods, accepting the currency of owed debts.

The communal house in District Five is a relic, a stack of aging concrete and faded paint where the ground floor shops exhale the scents of dried seafood and incense. The staircase is narrow and dark, the air is still and heavy with the silence of noon nap. “Act normal,” I murmur, my voice barely a breath as they ascend. “Like we’re here looking to rent a room.”

We are halfway up the second flight when a door creaks open. An old woman emerges, her movements slow and deliberate. She stops, her milky, cataract-filmed eyes fixing on us. She doesn’t speak, just watches us like she’s a silent guardian of the stairwell. The seconds stretch, the only sound is the frantic beat of my heart. Does she remember me? I don’t remember her, but people in the same block often gossip and put their noses out whenever drama happens. She might have seen me taken out by the police.

Just as the silence becomes unbearable, Elise’s posture shifts. She loops her arm through mine, her body leaning into his with a sudden intimacy.

“Honey,” she says, her voice bright and slightly breathless, “this place is good. Very quiet. And look, the stair has a concrete handrail. It’s safe for my pregnancy.”

The performance is flawless. The concerned expectant mother, evaluating a home for her family. I feel a jolt of unwilling admiration. She’s good. Too good.

The old woman’s stare softens, a barely perceptible relaxation in her hunched shoulders. I seize the moment, offering a respectful, shallow bow. Elise mirrors the gesture, a picture of demure politeness. The woman gives a slow, grizzled nod. I guide Elise out of her sight as quickly as possible. Sensing her gaze on our back, I make a detour to the far end of the level, then backtracking to Brooke’s apartment.

The door clicks shut, sealing us in the tomb of the past. The air is thick and motionless, heavy with the sweet-rot scent of forgotten flowers and dust. Brooke’s apartment is a fossil, a still life of a life violently interrupted. A fine layer of grey powder coats every surface, a result of the police’s invasive signature. But beneath that, the chaos of the girl herself remains. Clothes are strewn over a faded sofa, empty food containers crowd a small table, and a sewing kit has spilled onto the floor, scattering buttons and multi-colored threads like confetti.

Elise takes a sharp, quiet breath beside me, her eyes wide as we adjust to the gloom.

My own gaze sweeps across the room. This is where it started. This is where I ended it. “The police turned it over,” I say, my voice low, “but they were looking for drugs and proof that I killed her, not a hidden fortune.” I move with purpose, my eyes scanning the detritus. On a cluttered shelf, a photo in a frame catches my eye—Brooke, her smile bright and careless, her arm linked through her father’s. I already told Elise about it, but I would rather not let the happy memory mess up my plan. I casually turn it face down, gone.

My focus shifts to the wardrobe. The doors groan in the silence as I slide them open. My hands push past cheap dresses and jeans, and then I find it. The coat. Out of place in the tropical heat, a statement piece of dark wool with a faux-fur collar and cuffs. Brooke had loved its theatricality, its many pockets. “So many zippers, Harry! It’s like rabbit’s holes.” He’d had one tailored inside the sleeve, just for her. A perfect hiding place.

I can feel Elise’s presence behind me, her curiosity a tangible force. I need to guide her without seeming to. “See anything?” I call out, my voice tight with a feigned stress I’ve perfected over a lifetime. I lean against the wall near the bathroom door, running a hand through my hair, a picture of a man on the edge. From this angle, I have a clear sightline to the coat I’ve just left slightly askew in the wardrobe.

Elise moves past me into the bathroom to search. The moment she’s out of sight, my movements become a blur of silent efficiency. I pull a thick envelope of cash from my own jacket. My money, the real seed for my escape, now a prop in a darker game. I slip it deep into the secret sleeve pocket of the fur coat. My heart hammers a single, triumphant beat. The trap is set.

By the time Elise emerges, I’m back at my post, leaning against the wall, the very image of desperation. Her eyes sweep the room again, and they land on the wardrobe. “That coat,” she murmurs, her sharp mind latching onto the incongruity. “It’s so out of place. Why would she have that here?”

“She liked to stand out.” I shrugged, pushing off the wall. “She said flashy things make you less suspected, not more. People see the show, not the secret.”

Elise approaches the wardrobe, her movements now full of curiosity. Her fingers brush over the fur collar, then drift down the sleeve. I held my breath watching her. As her touch finds the slight, unnatural bulge. Her eyes flick to me, then back to the coat. She unzips the hidden pocket.

The moment she pulls out the thick envelope, her face transforms. The clinical analyst is gone, replaced by wide-eyed, genuine shock. “Harry,” she whispers, her voice trembling with a convincing blend of fear and exhilaration.

I allow myself a sharp, relieved exhale. She’s found it. Or is she? As she turns, something on the floor catches her eye. She kneels and picks up a wooden bead, half-hidden under the bed, nestled between a lost button and a dust bunny. “What’s that?” I ask, my voice a degree too casual.

“Nothing,” she says, closing her fist around it. “Just a bead.” She stands, stuffing the envelope into her own bag. “Let’s go.”

As we slip back into the hallway, the old woman is already there, a silent, waiting sentinel. Her milky eyes fix on us, her mouth a stern line. “Who are you two?” she demands, her voice raspy with age and suspicion.

I freeze, my mind goes to a rare blank slate of panic. But Elise is already moving forward, her chin raised. “I’m Brooke’s sister,” she says, the lie delivered with a stunning conviction. “Just to retrieve some stuff.”

My heart almost stops when she says that. But then, I realize the woman’s face has one sagging side. A post-stroke tell. She probably has developed dementia as an after stroke effect, and Elise is just improvising. Elise, oh Elise, the second woman who makes my heart beat like that.

“Arh,” the old woman grunts, her mind struggling to find a foothold. “Tell Mrs. Huynh to dye her hair. She’s turned gray.”

“Of course, granny,” Elise says, her voice sweet as poison. “Honey, we should go. We are late.” She addresses me. Her hand has found mine. Her grip is tight and sure as if she thinks I would hurt the old lady.

We are halfway down the stairs when the shout follows us. “Tell Brooke her rent is late!”

I stop. Dementia. I’m scared by an old woman with dementia. I turn and walk back up, my movement is slow and deliberate. The granny’s eyes are clouded with confusion as I stare at her. I lean in close, whispering, “Granny, do you know who the girl with me is?”

She blinks. “Your wife? Who are you?”

“Brooke’s boyfriend.” I slip a few bills into her gnarled hand. “Here to pay her rent.”

Her face softens into a vague smile. “Ah, yes, yes. Thank you young man.”

I catch up to Elise at the bottom of the stairs and grab her arm. I turn her over to face me and without a word, I pull her in. I kiss her under the dim light of the stairwell. It isn’t gentle but real passion from me. It is an eager, desperate attempt to dominate the unpredictable variable she represents. And for a terrific moment, she kisses me back.

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