Far from being convinced by Charlie’s replies, Michael found himself less and less satisfied with these answers.
“Any one of those I could swallow by itself,” he pressed. “But taken together, Charlie, I don’t think so. Too many coincidences. Too many thin explanations. And it’s more than that. The entire time we’ve been together, I’ve never seen you eat. I guess you didn’t think I’d notice the breakfast I brought you rolled up untouched at the bottom of the trash bag. I’ve never seen you sleep. I’ve never seen you use a bathroom. In fact, don’t take this the wrong way, man, but you’ve never even changed your clothes, let alone taken a shower, and you don’t smell bad. Not even a little. You don’t smell like anything.”
Again, Charlie said nothing.
“And back there.” Michael gestured down the road behind them. “That wasn’t just some fancy driving, it was impossible. There’s nothing wrong with my eyesight and I couldn’t see the road at all. You must have been going fifty miles an hour, lights off in the pouring rain, making every turn perfectly in the pitch freaking dark. That was the last straw.”
He paused, looking for any sign on Charlie’s features, any flicker of anger, nervousness, or embarrassment that might shed light on how Charlie was feeling about all this. There was nothing, and that, Michael understood, was a response in itself. Charlie was unperturbed, if anything, upbeat, and Michael was surprised to find himself suddenly fearful. He had wanted answers, real answers, had needed them, but now, poised ever closer to confirmation that there was something truly out of place with Charlie and not just a baseless paranoia in Michael’s head, he was afraid.
“What are you, Charlie?” he said with terrible softness.
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