What if he regrets what we did last night?
I shake the thought from my head. He told me last night was the best night of his life. He didn’t have to say that.
I get to my apartment building, and my last hope dies in my chest when I find him neither in the courtyard nor waiting outside my door. My stomach is a roiling mess as I look around my room, trying to remember the moment he removed his arm from over my body. When did he leave? I can’t even recall when my head no longer rested on his chest. He was there when I fell asleep. Gone when I woke. What happened in between?
My eyes flick to the bottles of pills on my desk, and I glare at them. Maybe he tried to wake me this morning, but I was too deeply asleep. I check my reader. Still no messages from him.
What if he messaged me when my reader was dead? What if he said something sweet, but thinks I never responded on purpose? What if he thinks I’m avoiding him?
I feel like I’m losing my mind.
“Damn it, Darren,” I say to my reader. “Where are you?”
I DON’T SLEEP THAT night. I don’t take my pills. Until I know where Darren is, I blame my medication for making me miss his exit from my room. Besides, I keep hoping I’ll hear a knock at my door at any moment. But it doesn’t come that night or the next morning. It’s Saturday, and our work shifts line up again. He has to be at the bus stop. Or the rail.
He isn’t.
I can barely focus in the laundry room. Marlene and the other women try to engage me in conversation, but I can’t keep up with what they’re talking about, much less chime in. I’m torn between anger and worry and fear. What if something happened to him?
I think back to that night he came to my room acting crazy. He said he felt like someone was following him. Was that part true? Was someone following him?
I’m biting my nails, fingertips raw and tender, all the way home on the rail. I watch out the window of the bus, seeking any sign of Darren. When I reach our housing center, I circle building four, where Darren lives. I want to kick myself for never asking which room he’s in. How has he seen my room, yet I’ve never seen his?
It’s almost curfew, but I’m still rounding his building, over and over. I see a shadowed figure enter the courtyard, and my heart races. But it can’t be him. Too short. Too round. I approach the man anyway. He startles when he sees me racing toward him.
“Hey,” I say. “Do you know Darren—” Panic rises in my throat as I realize another fact missing from my mind. How have I never asked his last name? Have I told him mine?
“Darren,” the man echoes.
“Yeah. Tall, dark curly hair. Dark green jacket. A couple years older than me.”
He shrugs. “That could be a lot of people.”
I clench my hands into fists and grind my teeth to keep from shouting in frustration. The man turns away, but I persist. “You don’t know anyone named Darren who lives here?”
He glares, his patience wearing thin. “No. Now get wherever you belong before curfew.”
I let out a groan, then stomp away from the building toward mine. Up the stairs, I take two at a time, then pass my floor and keep going up, up, up. I’m out of breath as I reach the roof, but I don’t care. I turn in a circle once I reach the center of the roof, but there’s nothing. No sign of him. No forgotten reader, no shred of clothing. Nothing to suggest we were ever there two nights ago, naked in each other’s arms. My knees go weak at the thought.
I return to my room, biting my nails again, even though there’s nothing left to bite. Once inside I check my reader, but just like every other time, there’s nothing to see.
I can no longer ride the hope that Darren’s schedule got crazy and I’m overreacting. It’s been a full two days, and Darren hasn’t contacted me once. There are only two possibilities. Either he’s avoiding me on purpose. Or something very, very bad has happened to him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I leave my apartment before sunrise and stand outside building four. Darren is off Sundays, so I can’t rely on him following any kind of schedule. Still, I wait. If I stand outside his building long enough, I’m bound to see him.
Right?
It’s almost noon—I know this because I’m constantly checking my reader—when I see an enforcer round the corner of the building into the courtyard. I’ve been standing in the courtyard since I got here, moving from one side to the other, questioning everyone I can. Everyone so far has responded to me the way the man did last night. They don’t know Darren. Too impatient to care. Could someone have reported me to the enforcers?
I’m about to turn tail and run when another thought crosses my mind. Enforcers may be terrifying with their black helmets, their padded suits, and their thick clubs, but they are supposed to protect us. Or our city, at least.
It’s a long shot, but I head toward him, heart racing as I close the distance.
“Badge,” he demands before I can stop in front of him.
I reach into the pocket of my jacket. My fingers are quivering as I fumble to separate my city badge from my room key. When I hand it to him, he scans it. After a few seconds, the light turns green. He’s about to hand it back to me when he pauses, looks back at the panel on his wrist.
“Why aren’t you in the Select District right now?” His voice is brusque as he eyes me through the visor of his helmet.
I’m caught off guard. The Select District? Why would I be there? “I don’t work today.”
“That’s not what this says. Says you work in the city Sundays. Extended curfew clearance, too.”
My mouth falls open as I search for words. Dr. Shelia must not have filed for my city clearance to change when she arranged my resignation from my jobs. I raise my hand, showing him the remnants of the stitches that haven’t dissolved yet. “I’m injured. I don’t work today.” At least both things are true.
He stares at me a few seconds longer, then hands me my badge. “I’ve gotten reports of a non-resident loitering and harassing the tenants of building four. Is that you?”
I nod, though it terrifies me to do so. “I’m sorry. I should have come to the precinct sooner instead of trying to handle this myself. I’ve been looking for a...friend who lives here. Something’s wrong. I haven’t seen him in days, which is highly unusual.”
“Friend’s name?”
“Well, here’s the thing...I only know his first name. It’s Darren. He lives in the building, but I’m not sure which room.”
I can see his eyes narrow through his visor. “You are looking for a friend whose name and room number you don’t know.”
“Correct.” Can he see how badly I’m trembling?
“It doesn’t sound like you’re very good friends.”
“We are, it’s just—”
“When did you last see him?”
“Thursday night,” I say.
“So it’s been less than seventy-two hours.”
My throat feels dry. “Yes.”
“There’s nothing I can do about that. If you haven’t seen this friend of yours in three days, it’s probably for a good reason.”
Tears glaze my eyes. “But I’m really worried about him.”
What I can see of his expression softens. “Look, kid, Publics can’t report other non-kin citizens until a week has passed, and without a last name, you can’t report him missing at all.”
My shoulders fall and hot tears stream down my cheeks. “What if something bad happened?”
The enforcer shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. Finally, he says, “If he’s actually missing, his employers would already have reported him to the precinct. We’d already be on it.”
I want to feel comfort at that, knowing his absence would surely be noted where he works, if he’s truly absent at all. But what would enforcers even do, aside from clear out his apartment so they can rent it out to someone else, then file an arrest warrant for missing work? It’s not like they’d go looking for him or treat it like an actual missing person’s case. Publics don’t ma
tter like that. Probationaries even less.
“You can’t loiter here, regardless of what you think has happened to your friend.” His harsh tone has returned. “Get back to your own building.”
I nod and turn away, my vision swimming through tears. When I’m in front of building seven, I look behind me. The enforcer didn’t follow. Good. Instead of turning into the courtyard of my apartment, I head to the bus stop. I have other plans.
I ARRIVE AT THE CITY and immediately seek out the Golden Tempest where Darren said his friend works. Since it belongs to the Hightower Hotel, it isn’t far from where I work. All hotels are within a six-block radius of each other. It’s mostly Elites who work in the Select city who stay at these hotels. I’m surprised there are so many. Why would an Elite choose to stay anywhere but their own shining city?
I find the Hightower Hotel, then the Golden Tempest, which has its own entrance. But I don’t go inside. This is where my plan brought me, but I didn’t think of what to do next. I can’t just go up to the host’s desk and ask to see a man named Mitchell, a man I’ve never met and know nothing about, aside from the fact that he provides Darren with illicit table scraps and leftovers.
I hover in front of the door, watching patrons come in and out. Then I round the building to the alley, where I find dumpsters and back doors. This is where I wait. Almost an hour passes before one of the doors opens and a man in a black uniform—not much different from the ones I wore at my restaurant jobs—comes out with a black plastic bag. The uniform is promising. It means he isn’t a supervisor.
I approach him as he tosses the bag into the dumpster. “Do you know Mitchell? Who works here?”
The man startles, then narrows his eyes with suspicion.
“Please, it’s important.”
He puts his hands on his hips as he assesses me. “Yeah. I know him.”
Relief washes over me. “Is he here today?”
“Maybe.”
“Can you tell him to come out here when he gets a break? I’ll wait until he’s off if I must, but it’s really important that I speak to him. It’s about a mutual friend who I think is in trouble.”
The man’s expression softens, and he nods. “I’ll tell him.”
When he goes back inside, I start pacing and biting my nails. Every time the door opens, I stop and watch expectantly, hoping the person who comes out will be looking for me. Hours pass and the only people I see are bearing garbage bags; not one gives pause, much less scans the alley as if they are expecting someone.
It’s nearing 6 p.m. before a new face arrives. He looks a few years older than me, and when he enters the alley, he seems hesitant, eyes scanning left and right before they fall on me waiting behind a stack of empty crates. We lock eyes and he shuts the door behind him.
“I hear you’re looking for me,” he says, brow furrowed. His eyes are a pale blue, his head shaved, and a shadow of stubble covers his chin. He’d be handsome if I didn’t compare him to Darren.
My mouth feels dry as I find my voice. “You’re Mitchell?”
He nods.
“Do you know Darren?”
He stares at me, but I can’t tell if it’s from suspicion or confusion. “Who?”
“Darren.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t know a Darren.”
My heart sinks. Then again, maybe he thinks I’m here to confront him about providing Darren contraband. “Darren told me about you. He said you’re his friend. I think he’s in trouble, or something bad has happened. I just want to know. Have you seen him the last two days?”
“I told you, I don’t know who you’re talking about. I don’t know a Darren.” His voice is even. But is he lying? He has to be! Darren knew about him, at least enough to tell me where he works. So there’s a connection somewhere. Is it possible Darren goes by another name?
“He’s the one you give leftover food to. You should have seen him on Thursday night. He got food for us. Stew, broccoli, bread rolls, wine—”
“I told you, I don’t know him. And I didn’t give anyone food on Thursday.”
“I’m not here to get him or you into trouble. I’m here because—”
“I. Don’t. Know. Him.” His face is flushed. “Now get out of here before I call an enforcer.”
Before I can say a word more, he opens the door and slams it behind him. I stare at it for countless minutes, hoping it will open again, hoping he’ll reappear and apologize. Hoping he’ll tell me about Darren.
It doesn’t happen.
When I realize this, tears well in my eyes and I slam my back into the wall of the building to keep myself from collapsing. What the hell is happening? Nothing makes sense! Darren is nowhere to be found. He hasn’t contacted me. The person he’s supposed to know claims not to know him. What do I do now? I already know enforcers won’t help. Perhaps if I were an Elite or even a Select...
I stand up straight, an idea coming to mind. It’s a long shot, but it might be my last hope.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I don’t stop until I reach the frosted glass door to Dr. Shelia’s clinic. Only then do I hesitate, considering whether this is a good idea. She did call herself my advocate. If anyone were to help me, it would be her. I open the door and try my best to summon both calm and confidence as I march into the waiting room.
Emily looks surprised to see me. “Oh, hi, Claire. You don’t have an appointment today, do you?”
I squeeze my fingertips into my palms to keep my hands from shaking. “No, but I was hoping she might have a minute to spare for me today. I can wait however long it takes.”
“Dr. Shelia doesn’t normally work Sundays.”
It hadn’t even occurred to me that she might not be in. “Is she not here, then? Why are you here?”
“Dr. Shelia came in for an emergency call with a patient, so I was called in to work too. I can check in with her after she gets out of her appointment and see if she can see you after. Does that work?”
I nod.
“What should I tell her your visit is regarding?”
I open my mouth, but I’m not sure what to say. The truth? “I’m worried about something that’s happened, and I’m not sure who else to go to.”
Emily can’t keep the concern out of her eyes, but she plasters a fake smile over her lips. “I’ll let her know. Have a seat.”
I sit, though I can hardly hold still. My legs shake whether I cross my ankles or force my feet firmly into the ground. My hands won’t stop moving, so I alternate between biting my nails and tapping my fingers on the armrest. Time seems to tick by at a snail’s pace.
Finally, a man emerges from the back hall and enters the waiting room. His shoulders droop, footsteps shuffling as he checks in with Emily. When he turns away from the desk and brushes past me toward the door, I catch a glimpse of his face. It’s flushed, his eyes bloodshot, a look of terror in them. I sit upright, chilled, as I watch him close the door behind him.
“Dr. Shelia will speak to you now,” Emily says, stealing my attention back to her. “Go on back. She’s already there.”
The man is forgotten as I stand, my anxiety building higher with every step I take toward her office. There’s no guarantee Dr. Shelia can help me, or that she’ll even respond well to this impromptu meeting.
I enter the room and find Dr. Shelia already at her desk, smiling. She looks uncharacteristically happy, especially considering the state of her patient who just left. “Come in, Claire. Have a seat.”
I take my usual seat on the couch but can’t bring myself to meet her eyes. I know if I do, I’ll see her smile falter. It will be replaced with judgment. Worry. Disappointment. She’ll know I’m a wreck. She’ll know I’ve stopped taking my medication.
It doesn’t take her long to catch on. “Maybe you should lie down,” she says.
I breathe a sigh of gratitude and lay back on the couch. My heart is racing so fast, I feel like the couch will shake from the force of it.
“I’m glad you came to
me, Claire. Emily said you’re worried about something and needed someone to talk to. Tell me what’s going on.” Her voice is smooth, calm, even. It helps put some of my nerves at ease.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Darren is missing. He has been since Friday morning. I haven’t heard from him. I haven’t seen him. Something has to be wrong, but no one has been able to help me.”
“You’ve tried contacting him?”
“That’s the worst part! I woke up Friday morning and found my reader had died overnight. The only way to get it to turn on was to reset it. Once I got it working again, his contact code and all our previous messages were gone.”
“I imagine that must be frustrating for you. Still, it’s been less than three days. Why do you think something is wrong? He could be busy with work or other things.”
I shake my head. “Our relationship isn’t like that. He’s tried to see me every day since we began seeing each other. And if we haven’t had time to hang out, he always messages.”
“Relationship dynamics can shift. You’ve only been together a couple weeks. Perhaps his need to communicate every day has cooled off.”
“No, he wouldn’t do that. Not after...”
“Not after what?” There’s a knowing quality to her tone.
I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks. Did I think I could show up here unannounced and not have to talk about what happened between me and Darren? I decide to start with something I don’t feel embarrassed to confess. “He said he loved me, and I said it back.”
I can feel her eyes on me, but she doesn’t say anything in response.
The heat is still rising in my face. I can’t stand her silence, so I say, “I know he meant it. We both did. He wouldn’t stop speaking to me out of nowhere.”
“What else happened?”
Damn it all, she knows. I suppose that’s what it takes to do her job well. My fingers are curling and uncurling, so I bind them together, then wring my hands. “We slept together.”
Silence again.
Twisting Minds Page 11
