by Nina Laurin
Bright, gray daylight fills the car. My head is ringing. And right outside the driver’s side window stands a black-clad figure.
I fumble for the controls. My first instinct is to turn on the engine and get the hell out of here—he can’t chase me on foot, can he? But I mash the buttons in vain. The car doesn’t even sputter, like I’m sitting inside a giant toy with dead batteries.
The figure raps on the glass once more. I inspect him up close. It’s the motorcyclist who flipped me off, light reflecting off the visor of the bike helmet where his face should be.
I shake my head mutely, wondering how to reach for my phone in my back pocket without him noticing.
Then he raises his hands, and I flinch out of sheer instinct—but he only removes his helmet.
I choke on an exclamation. The dissonance hits me like a sledgehammer. The perfect pixie face and the slicked-back hair—I know her before I really recognize her. She looks different, caked in tacky, too-dark makeup.
But I know who she is. I saw her just a short while ago. Her name, though, is on the tip of my tongue, just out of reach. As generic as she is. Jamie? Janet?
Jessica. Clarisse’s assistant.
“Get out of the car, Cecelia,” she says. Even her voice is different. Gone is the smoothness of it, which in retrospect only betrayed how little she really meant what she said. There’s a raspy edge to it. A vocal fry that betrays what I previously thought she wasn’t capable of: genuine emotion. “I’m not going to harm you.”
I open the door and climb out. My bones ache, and my back is stiff. It’s hard to maintain dignity but I sure try. “What do you want from me?” I demand.
“I’m sorry but I had to disable the car. I need to talk to you. Outside Venture, as far away from IntelTech as possible.”
“Why? What do you want?”
“I think you know.”
“I don’t. And even if I did, why on earth would I help you with anything?”
“Because this isn’t just about you. It’s about Lydia.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Jessica leads me to a car at the end of the parking lot. How long has it been sitting there? Was it there when I came to visit my mother yesterday? I never noticed it because it’s not the kind of car you notice. It’s so old I can’t even venture a guess what year it’s from. It’s rusting through, and the seats are lumpy. I fidget in the passenger seat, wondering how safe it is to drive this death trap. The air smells like chemical freshener hiding a familiar whiff of old tobacco. I wonder where she got this old mastodon. What on earth did I get myself into?
“What do you know about Lydia?” I ask softly. My voice is instantly drowned in the roar of the engine—God, I forgot how loud these old cars really are.
“Was she real?” I try again, feeling pathetic.
This time Jessica takes pity on me. “Of course she was real.”
“The house,” I say, my mouth dry, “it did something to her.” My mind races. “The malfunctions were no accident, were they? Is my daughter in danger?”
Jessica inclines her head. “I don’t think so. Not yet. That’s why we had to meet far away from SmartBlock. IntelTech can’t find out about this. If they do, I don’t know how far they’ll go to stop us.”
“Us,” I echo. “What ‘us’? I haven’t agreed to help you.” Yet.
“I’m part of a cooperative,” she says.
“Cooperative,” I echo. “The same cooperative that tried to run me off the road? Charming.”
She ignores my attempt at sarcasm. “We want to stop IntelTech and what they’re doing.”
If I weren’t so frightened, I would laugh. It’s not the most plausible scenario. “Stop IntelTech? How are you going to do that? And most important, why?”
“How—we’ll get to that soon enough. And why—because with a tech company playing God with people’s information, no one is truly safe. You of all people should know that.”
She stops the car close to a park, in a part of town I’ve never been to before. It’s run-down. The houses on the streets we pass to get here are in various states of disrepair, most storefronts are empty and dirty, and a few of the buildings look outright abandoned. When I see it all, the nervousness I’ve been feeling spills out into tics. I tap my hands on my thighs.
“Why are we here?” I finally ask.
“This place is next on IntelTech’s radar,” she says somberly.
“If you ask me, it could use a little love,” I mutter under my breath and immediately regret opening my mouth. What is this woman on about? Some sort of collective. Whatever they call themselves.
I remember those, back when I was in college. They protested things like pipelines and condo builders and what have you, and a couple of them even approached me a few times as they handed out leaflets outside the dorms or glued posters to the walls of university buildings.
But they always seemed a little alien to me. I just couldn’t relate to their motivations or methods, even though I was supposed to be smack-dab in the middle of their target demographic. Maybe it was because most of them, if not all, came from such blatantly privileged backgrounds. It was painfully obvious from how they spoke and from their perfect, gleaming, straight teeth, the product of expensive braces. All the dreadlocks and thrift-store clothes couldn’t hide the fact that they paid their tuition from their trust funds. If they were just typical rich people, not giving a damn about anything but themselves, I wouldn’t have liked them better but at least it would have been more honest.
It was Scott who explained to me the rationale behind their behavior. It’s not so much guilt as self-preservation, he said one time. If they overtly flaunted their wealth and voted Republican so they could get a tax cut for the next fiscal year, the poor would literally eat them. The only sensible way to stay safe is to embrace all the social causes so that the poor could instead admire them, all the while hoping to become them someday.
It made sense to me then but now, as I study Jessica’s profile, I can’t read anything in her expression. What does she have to gain? And more important, where do I come in?
“IntelTech is going to buy up the homes, then demolish or restore only the façades. Then it’s going to stick a camera and sensor into every nook and turn it into another SmartBlock. And eventually they’ll move in on another neighborhood, and another, and the thing is, people will welcome them with open arms because they’ve seen and heard for years how wonderful life is in Venture. There’s already a whole social media campaign underway. Only one thing remains: They must prove that the concept is a success.”
“No offense,” I say, feeling contrarian, “but from the looks of it, it is.” It sure works for my neighbors.
We exit the car and walk through the empty park. I glance around nervously but Jessica seems unconcerned.
“Don’t worry, there was only one camera, and it’s disabled,” says Jessica.
Somehow, this fails to put me at my ease.
“Cecelia, does it not make you nervous at all that one company knows everything about everyone?”
“That’s a rhetorical question if I’ve ever heard one.”
“Of course it’s a rhetorical question. Because you, and everyone, should be nervous.” Jessica pauses and gives me a sideways look. “And please, don’t say you’re fine with it because you have nothing to hide.”
For some reason, her tone sends a chill down my spine. I cover it with a chuckle. “Everyone has something to hide. Don’t you believe in accountability?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” she says, not taking my bait. “For IntelTech above all. Because, Cecelia, that house did something to your predecessor. Something bad. I think you know it already.”
“You’re the one who denied it.”
“Because even I don’t know for sure. That’s why we need you. They may have found a way to erase Lydia from existence but there might still be proof. And I need you to get it for us.”
Silence settles over the park. It c
ould be that I’ve gotten so used to the manicured look of Venture but the surroundings strike me with their drabness. The grass is patchy. Cigarette butts and beer caps and other garbage is strewn everywhere. A few benches sit here and there, not one of them intact, covered in graffiti, missing planks, with rusted nails protruding all over the place. Even the sparse trees look like they’re dying.
“What proof? Can’t you get it yourself? You’re the one who works there.”
“I can’t get it. Not without a significant risk of being found out, in which case everything we’ve been working for is for nothing. But you—you already have access. And I figured you’d be willing to help. After all, you live in her house.”
I’m stricken speechless.
“You already figured out that IntelTech targets vulnerable people,” Jessica is saying. “People who have been victims of crimes and who are willing to compromise their privacy in exchange for perfect safety. But you aren’t perfectly safe. And Lydia is proof. I know you would do anything to keep your daughter from harm, Cecelia.”
“What do you want me to do?” I ask hoarsely.
“They’ve removed all traces of her,” Jessica says. “All digital traces. But there might be something left. Something IntelTech couldn’t erase with a few clicks.”
My mind whirls. Everything comes together, slowly at first, and then forming into a full picture almost at once, just as Jessica says, “There’s a recording that contains vital information.”
“At Dr. Alice’s office,” I say, breathless. “The tapes. Do you think she…she kept them?”
“I think she did. I need you to go to her office—I’ll fix you a solo appointment, it’ll only take a second—and then, while she’s distracted, I want you to get the tapes for me. For us. For Taryn too.”
“I don’t want to go back there,” I say. “That house tried to feed me bleach. And my husband—” I gulp. In spite of myself, I’m close to tears. “Why am I telling you, anyway? You must know everything about everyone.”
“You must go back,” she says. She puts her hands on my shoulders and looks me straight in the eye with a determination that verges on unnerving. “Reconcile with your husband. Or at least pretend to.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“Your husband isn’t all he seems. He’s been lying to you too.”
“I already know that,” I mutter.
“That’s not what I’m talking about. Promise you’ll help me, and I’ll help you in turn.”
“I’ll help you,” I blurt before I can change my mind. “What is happening? What is Scott hiding from me?”
She measures me with a look, then takes a breath. “Did you find the key yet?”
I frantically pat down my pockets. It’s right there, where I left it. I take it out and look at it, lying in the palm of my hand.
Jessica raises her eyebrows. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s almost…impressed.
“At least you keep your eyes open. You wouldn’t believe how oblivious people can be. This key opens a storage locker.” She smirks. “Remember, this is my gesture of good faith. I followed your husband’s comings and goings, which violates my IntelTech contract big-time, and if it comes out, I’ll be unemployable. So pay attention. Scott’s been liquidating his assets. There’s no gambling problem. What cash isn’t in the offshore accounts yet is in that locker.”
I feel numb. “Why would he be doing that?”
“My wild guess is that he’s planning to leave you.”
I shut my eyes. I’m such an idiot. What else could it possibly mean?
“If you don’t believe me, see for yourself. I’ll give you the address and the locker number. Then you’re on your own.”
* * *
The moment I see it from the highway, I know Jessica was right. It’s the color scheme that I recognize from the plastic tab attached to the key. The big sign reads MOVING AND STORAGE—MONTHLY PLANS AND AFFORDABLE RATE$. The dollar sign instead of the S is a particularly stylish touch.
The lockers here come in three sizes, and the one my husband rented is of the smallest size. Cheapskate, I catch myself thinking. For all his good qualities, he’s never been one to spoil his woman, my Scott. Curiously, I never let myself remark on this before. I thought it was uncharitable because he’s always taken care of me, and that’s what truly counts. Or so I told myself as I gritted my teeth—very, very discreetly—at the discount jewelry and store-brand groceries and oh, why don’t we just stay in tonight on Saturday nights and big occasions alike.
Even as he got yet another big raise, he’d pick the cheapest bottle of wine at the celebratory dinner I had to practically drag him out to, and he never tipped a penny over 15 percent. He checked the credit card statements every month, meticulously adding up every charge and bristling if he saw that I’d dared to get a pedicure.
How stupid I feel, standing in front of that open locker and looking at the contents. How could I have believed the line about the gambling problem? The only cards that ever held his interest were Dick’s Sporting Goods gift cards. There it is, all that money, in a nondescript duffel bag.
I zip it up and pull it out, then close the locker and turn the key, which I put back in my pocket. I throw the duffel in the back of my car and drive off without wasting another moment. Since I’m living fast and loose today, I take my phone out and fire off a text to that number I keep deleting from my phone.
* * *
I find the right address at the end of a maze of ugly little houses. It’s not that far from Therese’s. Small world?
It’s a little shocking. The love of my life, living here? My mother was right. I could have ended up here as well, in this ramshackle little mobile home.
I walk up three crumbling stairs, wondering if I’m going to get tetanus from some rusty nail, and knock on the door. I suspect he was waiting on the other side because he opens almost immediately.
“Hi, Cecelia,” he says with a sheepish grin. I’m taken aback. Does he really not realize how far below me he is now?
“House-sitting again?”
He throws a glance over his shoulder. I can’t see much behind him because the light isn’t on but I can guess what it might look like. An unhealthy, stale smell wafts out the door.
“There’s no need for that,” he says, wincing.
“Why are you trying to blackmail my mom?”
“Blackmail? Hey, a guy can fall on hard times.”
“Listen, Andrew. Here.” I thrust the duffel at him, and he catches it, a bewildered look on his face. “This should be more than enough. Never go near me or my family ever again.”
“Or what?”
God, how he’s changed. To think I ever thought he was anything other than trash. Maybe I’m the one who changed. And, like it or not, I have him to thank for the lesson.
“Or I’ll call the police. Because when you think about it, there’s nothing you can blackmail me with. Is there?”
He holds my gaze. His look is blank, and I read in it little more than impatience—like he can barely believe his luck, and he just wants me to go away so he can go spend the money on cheap booze and cigarettes and whatever will make him feel like someone better than he is.
“You don’t even deserve this but consider it a gift. I feel sorry for you.”
I feel his gaze on my back as I walk away. He still stands there, holding the duffel bag, as I get back in my car. I close the doors and lock them—he’s not going to come after me, he’s too big of a coward, but precaution never hurts.
Then I call Scott.
“I’m so sorry,” I say to his voice mail, and sound like I mean it. “I’m coming home. Let’s try to make it work.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I park a little bit farther away from Dr. Alice’s office than I need to under the pretext that it’s a nice day to walk outside. Yet the walk is over before I know it, my attempt to stall the inevitable having fallen flat. There’s a knot in the pit of my stomach.
I feel like I’m back in elementary school and I got a bad grade, debating whether to tell Therese and face her wrath—or lie to her and risk her finding out and face the same wrath, tenfold.
Some things never change, I guess.
But Dr. Alice Stockman isn’t Therese. She’s a mild-mannered psychologist who I’m about to defraud, betraying her trust in me. I try not to even think about what will happen if I’m caught. And for what—to have answers, I tell myself. To be safe in my own home. For Taryn.
The knot in my stomach turns from mere nervousness to plain old guilt when Dr. Alice appears and welcomes me into her office as warmly as ever. I know the retro, cozy space with the wainscoting and moldings and obsolete fixtures from the past is meant to put me at my ease but today it’s not working. She’ll notice. If she hasn’t already. She’s a psychologist, for God’s sake. She’ll see right through me—right through this whole stupid scheme. How did I let myself get talked into this?
But Dr. Alice is nothing but kindness. “I see you’re nervous, Cecelia.”
“A little,” I say. No point in pretending.
“Does it have something to do with why you called an emergency meeting?”
I smile shakily. Of course she’d think that, because it’s the most likely conclusion. I nod, continuing to fidget.
“Do you want to try and tell me about it?”
I know what I’m supposed to do. Jessica instructed me. Keep talking, even if it’s just rambling. I’d even made up some talking points beforehand, except now they’ve mysteriously evaporated from my head.
“I saw my ex-boyfriend the other day,” I blurt. “From college.”
“I see.” There’s now a knowing smile on her face. So this is what it’s about, I can practically hear her thinking.
“And I just—it was so sad. We had such a bad breakup. I thought Andrew was the love of my life. I was devastated. And now he lives in this little ramshackle house, a total dump, while I live here. Isn’t it funny, how things seem so huge and important and insurmountable but then with a little distance, you realize they weren’t all that?”
