by Nina Laurin
“I feel…” I don’t know how to put it into words. But even as my brain is struggling, I blurt out, “I feel watched.”
“Watched,” she echoes. She’s sitting across from us on an ergonomic chair, while Scott and I are in separate armchairs. She measures me with a shrewd gaze from behind her glasses.
“Yes. Exactly. Watched. Am I crazy?” I try to make it sound like a joke but it falls flatter than cardboard. No one even cracks a smile. I guess we don’t use the C word here.
“A lot of people aren’t all that comfortable with living here,” she says. “I mean, SmartBlock. They think they’re okay with the terms but in the long run, it turns out they’re not so okay. It weighs on them. It can make them think and act irrationally.”
Scott ever so subtly rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell me we have to move now,” he mutters. But I’m hanging on to Dr. Stockman’s last word. The way she says it. It’s a placeholder word, standing in for something else she wanted to say.
“‘Irrationally’?” I ask. “Is that your way of saying crazy?”
“It’s my way of saying that some people aren’t ready,” she says. “No matter what they get in return. At first they’re happy with all the cool gadgets and functions of their smart home but then they start to wonder. Even though their personal information is perfectly safe and it would be highly illegal for IntelTech to violate the terms of their contracts. Even though there’s nothing to worry about. But our inner fears don’t always make sense.”
“And so?”
“And so, they start to perceive their beloved home as something hostile. As an enemy. And that can lead them to act out in strange ways.”
“I see,” I say. “Is that what happened to Lydia?”
* * *
“Great,” says Scott. “Just great. Now how are we supposed to come back? I’m so embarrassed I don’t know how I’m going to face her again.”
“You’re embarrassed?” I ask. “And what are you so embarrassed about?”
“Is that a real question? You made a scene.”
“I did not—”
“The look on her face. I was mortified. She had no idea who this Lydia was. And you kept attacking her and wouldn’t let it go, like a pit bull. What on earth was that about? Who’s Lydia?”
“You’d know if you ever listened to what I tell you.”
He shakes his head. In the back seat, Taryn has been watching cartoons but now she’s asleep, her head lolling and her mouth open. So Scott and I have to keep our voices down, although it’s getting harder by the minute.
“You,” he’s saying. “It’s you. You don’t even realize it’s the exact kind of behavior she was talking about. You’re paranoid. You’re—”
“—irrational,” I finish.
“See? Even you understand it.”
“I’m not irrational. I don’t like people prying into my life, that’s all.”
“Then I have some news for you. You’re living in the wrong place.”
“Well, it wasn’t my fucking idea!” I blow up. Panicked, I check on Taryn in the mirror but she doesn’t even stir. So I go on, my voice low but unable to conceal the anger within. “I would have been happy enough with your standard ADT system. A camera or two. New locks.”
He groans. “New locks,” he says. “I get it, I get it. I should have changed them as soon as the work was finished. I didn’t. It was all my fault, then.” He says it all in a monotone, like it’s something we’ve argued over a million times before. When the police asked me why we never changed the locks, I didn’t know what to answer. I said we just hadn’t thought about it. We got back our spare key and put the whole thing out of our minds.
I don’t know what Scott said when they asked him.
It’s so tempting to go down that road now. To start guilt-tripping and blaming that, in the end, might lead to me getting what I want. But for reasons I don’t entirely understand, I resist. “Scott,” I say, “can we move back?”
He gives an incredulous chuckle. “Move back? Where?”
“I don’t know. To the city—”
“We are in the city.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I’m not so sure. Where else would we go?”
“We still have—”
“No.” He gives a decisive shake of his head, his look mildly incredulous.
“All I’m saying is we haven’t sold it—”
“Because no one in their right mind wants to buy it! For a normal price, anyway. And you can’t be serious, Cece. You were dying to get away from there! You realize I did all this to get us away, right?”
“But we have the option—”
“Not really, no. And besides, you remember. We have a contract with these guys. Two years.”
My throat knots. Of course, that contract we’d pored over for days. We couldn’t see the catch back then.
“What happens if we break it off? They can’t force us to stay in a place we don’t want to live in. In a house that’s actively trying to harm us.”
My husband rolls his eyes skyward. “Here we go again. First, to answer your question, they could sue us, which would drain our finances, and then we’d have to sell the old house to some lowballer just to keep our heads above water. You’re not the one who’s been paying the bills lately, and it shows. And second, the house isn’t trying to harm you. What do you think this is, Terminator? I, Robot? Sure, the house has some glitches. First versions always do. But it’s the future, and to resist it is counterproductive and just, well, silly. You report the bugs and move on. Please, Cecelia. I’m begging you. Move on.”
I don’t know what to say to make him listen to me again. I sulk as we drive onto our street. The windows of the other houses are aglow, a friendly, warm light that suggests cherished family moments happening inside. Our windows are dark. Even the decorative lights on the façade are out.
“And anyway,” Scott says as he pulls up to the driveway. The garage door opens to let us in. “I don’t understand why you didn’t just tell her the whole story.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
This Saturday, I meet up with Anna for brunch.
Something so normal feels like an incredible accomplishment. When was the last time I met a friend for a meal? It had to be almost two years ago, way before the home invasion. Although, come to think of it, it has to be even longer than that. Before the renovations started. Before the black mood of failure and disappointment engulfed me like quicksand.
Not that I can call Anna Finch anything close to a friend. Sure, she was friendly enough when she came by. But the incident with the collision is still fresh in my mind, and I can’t help but think it must be fresh in her mind as well. She can’t be that quick to forgive and forget.
But when she sent me the invitation, Scott happened to be in the room, and he thought it would be good for me. So I accepted, more for his sake than because I genuinely wanted to go out. Or to meet her.
Venture is a little world unto itself, complete with a mall and restaurants and a fashionable Central Boulevard lined with cafés and exorbitantly expensive high-end boutiques. They never seem to be crowded but someone must shop there to make it worthwhile to keep them open. Maybe it’s that optimization the brochures kept bragging about. The businesses are actually flush with customers, yet you never have to stand in line by the fitting room or wait for a table at a restaurant.
Central Boulevard is lined with lush trees—one has to wonder how they got so big in only five years or whether they were brought in that size to begin with. The flower beds overflow with blooms. The terrace of the brunch place is shrouded in aromatic wisteria to the point where it has an otherworldly, fairy tale vibe. Could the flowers be masterful replicas or maybe even some clever GMOs? I pause at the entrance, pretending to study the retro-style menu on a chalkboard, and discreetly feel the closest branch with my fingertips. Definitely not plastic.
When I look up, Anna is already waving at me from a table in a corner. It’s not necessary
. The phone in my pocket buzzes, and when I take it out, all the info I need flashes on the screen. My brunch with Anna E. Finch, at 12:30, is now, and my seat is at table B7. No need for a hostess to seat me or give us menus as those upload automatically as soon as we sit down.
Glancing around, I conclude that it must be optimization. There are just enough busy tables to make it feel cozy and comfortable but not so many that it’s noisy and annoying. The tables next to ours are empty but there’s a group of four two tables away. They’re poking busily at their phone screens without talking to each other, probably choosing what they’re going to eat. They all wear dresses and heels, and I can’t help but feel like I stick out. I showed up in jeans and a blouse, with almost no makeup. Anna, in contrast, is wearing a beautiful silk sundress, her hair up in a French twist. When she picks up her phone to look at the menu, I notice her skinny gold bracelet and a manicure so fresh it looks like it could still smudge. Self-conscious, I pick at my own bare nails, feeling even more like a loser.
Not that I could compete with her or the women at the other table. It’s not just that their appearance practically breathes money. They’re also classically beautiful in a way I never managed to be. It’s subtle. There’s nothing about me you could point your finger at, nothing overtly hideous, but a subtle asymmetry of features. Legs just a touch too short, nose too long, eyes too close together. And I’m not going to lie, a cute outfit and shiny nail polish definitely wouldn’t hurt right now.
A waiter appears and brings a tray of drinks to the other table. I point the phone camera and the name of the libation pops up on the menu at once. Strawberry peach mimosa, low sugar.
“Should we get those?” Anna is saying. I nod distractedly as she taps at her screen, putting in the order. However, the charge doesn’t show up on my phone.
“Don’t mention it,” she says, tapping and swiping away. “I invited you so it’s my treat.”
This is it, I realize. This is why these places, this Central Boulevard, never felt quite right to me. It’s not my first time here—I’ve gone out on brief shopping jaunts, gotten coffee, went out to a restaurant with Scott a couple of times, and it was nice. Comfortable. But I’ve never felt like I looked forward to returning. Now I know why. They replicated some romantic destination down to a T—beautiful architecture, trees and flowers, inviting terraces. They forgot one aspect: normal human interaction. Everything is done through the phone, and so no one has any reason to look up from their screens to look at each other.
As Scott said the other day, what can I do? It’s the future. No point complaining about it.
“This place is great,” Anna says. “It’s where I go with, you know. My real-life friends. When they come down here.”
She’s smirking conspiratorially but I can’t shake the odd feeling. She makes it sound like we’re not in the most prosperous neighborhood in town but in some insane asylum.
“And what do your real-life friends think about it?” I ask, not meaning anything duplicitous.
She chuckles and raises her carefully filled-in eyebrows. “They think I live in Big Brother’s lap. But they don’t get it.”
“Probably just jealous,” I say automatically.
“No,” she says, frowning. “Not jealous. Not everyone gets it. I think it’s cool that you go to a place and they remember your order exactly how you like it, every time. Or that I never have to look for parking. Or that the grocery store never runs out of Basque blue cheese and black heirloom tomatoes, even when you do your shopping late on Sunday night. And what do I have to give in return? I have nothing to hide.”
“Not everybody is against it because they have something to hide,” I say.
She scoffs. “Sure. They just think they might have something to hide, in the future. Well, I don’t do anything illegal, and I don’t plan to anytime soon. So I’ll have my comforts if nobody minds. Right?”
Perfect timing—the waiter arrives with our mimosas, which he sets down on the table with a flourish. Then, wordlessly, he disappears. No Would you like something else? No Have you made your selection? No need to ask us how we’re enjoying our order either—the rating system is built in. This small talk isn’t necessary anymore. Isn’t it great?
“There are still some situations where I’d like at least a little privacy,” I say sotto voce. She’s already turned her attention back to her phone, choosing her meal. I can see the wheels turning beneath her perfect smooth forehead: egg white omelet, or treat herself and go for the yolks?
“Like what?” she asks without looking up.
“Medical records, for instance.”
“Those are already private, Cecelia.” She sips on her mimosa, and, reminded, I pick up mine. It’s not bad at all. Fizzy. The fruit part tastes real too. Real like the wisteria? “Didn’t you read what you signed?”
“Of course I did!” I say, a little offended.
“So many people don’t. I’m a lawyer. I’m all too familiar with it.” She takes another sip and rolls her eyes. “And on that point, I agree with you. People take these things too lightly. It’s not an iPhone user agreement, you know? It’s your life. But as a lawyer, let me tell you, it’s a good contract. And you’re always allowed to negotiate if there’s something you just can’t concede.”
Really now. No one told us we could negotiate. We were given the agreement to go over, to show our lawyers if we wanted, to think on. Then we could sign it or not. No other option given.
“And mental health?” I blurt.
“Same thing. Nothing to worry about. If you totally don’t trust them, just find a doctor in another area. But if you ask me, Dr. Stockman is the best. And she takes her patients’ privacy very seriously.”
I sit up straight. I could swear I’m turning pink. “Dr. Stockman?”
“Yes, she has a private clinic up on Rosehill Boulevard. I go there, and my husband does. It’s been a joy.”
I’m taken aback at such directness. Maybe she’s from a different world but it still seems unusual to me to brazenly declare that you go to a shrink. Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, steeped in an outdated stigma.
As if she can hear my thoughts, Anna giggles. “No shame whatsoever. Half the neighborhood goes to her. Everyone I know does. If you don’t already, you should.”
“Wow” is all I manage to say.
“What? It’s not that special.”
“Not at all. It’s just, for the happiest town on the face of the earth, we all sure have a lot of issues.”
“Not necessarily issues,” she says. “Just maintenance. Do you only go to the dentist when you’re about to lose your last tooth?”
She’s right, I guess. But at the same time, I detect a kind of defensiveness in her words, in her tone. I must have hit a nerve.
“It’s just—I’m not sure I can trust her,” I say. “With that old-school tape recorder thingy of hers.”
I don’t realize my slipup until a smile illuminates Anna’s face, as if to say Gotcha, at last. But, seeing me blush, she rushes to reassure me.
“Oh no, don’t be embarrassed. So you go to Dr. Stockman. Good for you. And I assure you, you can trust her. She’s probably the only person in this whole damn town you can truly trust.”
My eyebrows rise, which makes Anna grin more broadly. “Well, honey, I’m a lawyer after all, what do you expect? I trust no one. But it’s an excellent decision to go to Dr. Stockman. You won’t regret it. Especially after what you’ve been through.”
I’m stricken mute. I sit there, my palms and armpits suddenly swampy, my mouth dry and spine rigid. All of a sudden I feel watched. No, not just watched—seen.
“You’re Cecelia Holmes,” she says with a little frown, making a subtle inflection at the end of the phrase as though asking me to confirm. “You’re that woman I read about in the paper. The one who killed the man who broke into her house?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Growing up with Therese, always on the verge of poverty, or so I thought, in
dingy apartments and cheap clothes and with no prospects, I don’t remember what exactly I hoped for in the future. I certainly never aspired to be the woman Anna Finch read about in the paper.
Although that certainly explains a lot. The way she yammered on and on about herself without so much as pausing to ask me the most basic questions, like what do I do for a living, where I’m from. I assumed it was just more typical rich-person selfishness. And that sudden about-face, in spite of how she nearly ripped my head off after the collision. She recognized my name later, and curiosity drew her to me, with a nice handy excuse of an apology. I suppose I can’t blame her—she’s a lawyer to boot.
Not that I needed a lawyer at any point. I was within my rights to do what I did. The police asked me the same questions over and over but I got the feeling that no one really wanted me to slip up. They’re not monsters.
Besides, I was a housewife with a small child, and the man I killed, it turned out, had a long and ugly history. Burglary, larceny, drug offenses, even two years in prison. And Mr. Benning of Benning and Co. hired him without overthinking it, all because he agreed to work for a subpar wage. He’d been working for Benning for two years. Since then, two of the homes where they did renovation work had gotten burglarized, and no one made the connection.
So if I wanted to blame someone for what happened, I had a wealth of options. Mr. Benning, incompetent police. But somehow, subconsciously, I chose to blame my husband. Him and his crazy idea to tear apart our home and replace it with something supposedly better. His ego. His unwillingness to compromise, which led us to scrape the bottom of the barrel when looking for contractors.
He put Taryn, my greatest treasure, in danger. So I blamed him, and then Scott picked up on it, and then he started blaming himself. But that was at odds with how he saw himself. Scott is one of those men who needs to be seen as the good guy, reliable, loyal. And more than that, he needs to see himself that way. So he could continue blaming himself forever, admitting that he fell short of his aspirations as the good husband, father, and provider, or he could find a solution no matter the cost.
