She didn’t let go of my hand. She held it, turning it over in her hands, comparing her peachy skin tone to mine.
“You can come in.”
I pulled my hand back and wondered whether I ought to run. But the woman was mesmerizing. Everything about her was…too perfect. I wanted to know more, though it was Allen I’d really come to see.
“I really don’t have time—I’m on a lunch break—but thank you,” I answered, remembering my mother’s warning to be careful, a warning I’d ignored many times before.
“I can fix something for you,” the woman answered, with an enthusiastic smile.
“Thank you, but I’ll just come back or try to call Allen,” I answered.
“I can tell you all about him,” she said.
Chapter 11
I told her she didn’t have to go to any trouble, but the woman who introduced herself as Sandra insisted that it would only take a minute for her to get something together for me to eat.
And it did.
Slipping a beige linen apron over her lingerie and tucking her hair behind her ears, Sandra moved through the condo’s all-white kitchen with ease, pulling an arugula blend and grilled chicken from the refrigerator.
“I always have something quick on hand in case Allen is hungry,” she said. “I think cooking is relaxing.”
“Cleaning up after cooking—not so much,” she continued, giving me a warm smile.
She sliced the chicken breast and arranged it neatly in a fan over the salad leaves on a square plate. In a bowl, she added ingredients to sesame oil and rice vinegar and then pulled a lump of ginger from a basket and a grater from a drawer—whisking it all together. While I watched from a chair at a kitchen island, she poured the dressing over the salad with the whirl and dip of a friendly bartender serving a mixed drink and presented it to me, proudly.
Her face was so hopeful. It seemed like a sweet gesture—and I could hardly say no.
“Okay, this is delicious,” I admitted, fork in hand.
She was beaming, like it was the kindest thing anyone ever told her.
“Oh, wait,” she said. “Do you want almonds on top?”
“Oh, you don’t have to—“
“You do,” Sandra decided. “Just a sec.”
She pulled a plastic container from another cabinet and finished the salad.
“Thank you,” I told her, trying to think who she reminded me of. “Why don’t you have a plate?”
A robot wouldn’t be able to eat—or need to eat—right?
“Me?” She hesitated. “I’m not hungry, but I am so glad you like it.”
She watched me with almost childlike joy as I took the first few bites. I had it—she reminded me of a girlfriend from college, an energetic elementary ed major who now taught kindergarten in Seattle.
Sandra pulled up a chair next to me and opened up about living with Allen, who sounded like a mercurial businessman who spent little time at home—though that was just fine by her. If she had been cradling a cup of coffee in sweats and a T-shirt, she would have been a picture-perfect version of my college pal, sitting back for a vent session.
“Allen doesn’t say much about what I make.”
“Well, he should,” I answered. “Why don’t you cook for anyone else?”
“Dressed like the Naked Chef?” she answered quickly, with a laugh.
She looked down at herself, cloaked in linen to the hips, with one long, bare leg draped over the other.
“Allen got me this apron—and he does the shopping for my ingredients—so I shouldn’t complain,” she said. “But I would love some…regular clothes.”
“Why don’t you go shopping?”
Sandra looked at me like she was worried to answer, like she might frighten me away. She waited a few moments to speak.
“I can’t leave,” she answered quietly. “I can’t go anywhere, ever.”
There it is.
I tempered my reaction—but I knew it.
Sandra is a sexbot.
Looking at her, it was hard to believe, at least the robot part. Nothing about her was mechanical. She was far more sophisticated than Alex. Her arms and legs and head—no part of her moved in jerks. She seemed…normal.
In language that was natural and smooth, she told me about a day she had escaped from the condo, gushing over little ones she had seen at a park, and asked me if I had children.
“Would you?” she asked, when I said I didn’t.
“I think maybe, someday,” I answered. “I haven’t even dated anyone for a while, though. I’m still getting used to a new job and home. Boston is new to me.”
“Why did you leave your old home?”
“Well, I guess I wanted to see what else was out there,” I answered. “I felt like there was something better for me…I just had to go find it.”
We both were quiet.
“Why don’t you try again?” I asked. “To leave?”
Sandra’s shoulders dropped.
This time, when she spoke, the words came with more struggle.
She told me about how her moments of freedom ended—the run for her life, the beatings, the darkness. When she woke, she said, she was back in a room without windows. The man who’d brought her to life, Elliott, was there, too.
I could tell from the way she said Elliott’s name—whispered it, like he might be somewhere nearby—that she was terrified of him.
“You think they would do that to you again if you leave.” I’d lowered my voice, too.
She didn’t answer me for a minute.
“I see it—what they did to me—every day,” she said.
“A memory like that would be hard not to think about.”
“It’s more than a memory.” Sandra pointed to her eyes. “Everything I see is recorded. I can replay every experience. That chase is one I wish I could erase.”
Then she shook off the sadness and asked me another question.
“Have you made new friends in Boston?”
“One who I really click with,” I said, thinking of Kat. “We’ve only known each other a couple of days, but I think we’ll be great friends.”
That brought a smile back to Sandra’s face. She stood swiftly, reached for my hand, and offered to show me the rest of her home—her whole world.
“It can get lonely here sometimes,” she said. “I’m really happy you came in.”
She gave me a tentative look, and went on.
“Maybe that’s an odd thing for me to say, but it’s how I feel.”
Chapter 12
Even with thirteen-foot ceilings and oversized windows, the condo, painted in whites and grays, felt smaller and smaller as Sandra described her life inside.
First, she showed me a houseplant she tended to in the kitchen, where she spent most of her mornings cooking. It spilled over a ceramic pot it had clearly outgrown.
“Allen brought this here after his mother died,” she said, touching the leaves. “It was a gift from someone at work. I think he’s forgotten about it, but I’ve kept it alive.”
Moving to the living area, she straightened stiff decorative throw pillows on a low couch, immaculate and devoid of any real signs of comfort.
“I spend most of my days cleaning and tidying,” she said. “But then I have to go recharge for when he gets back.”
Then she took me to her favorite spot, one in a pair of cushioned chairs next to a wall of windows in a long, narrow bedroom with a bed and little else facing the view.
“Wow,” I said, sitting down next to Sandra. “Look at your views of the city.”
“Isn’t it great? This is where I go to relax after Allen falls asleep. It’s soothing, watching everything happening outside. I sort of…put myself back together here.”
My heart hurt for Sandra.
“He makes you feel like you’re falling apart.”
She tucked loose hair back behind her ears.
“He’s not so bad. Well, sometimes, I think he is,” she corrected hers
elf. “I think some of what he does is wrong. But it’s mostly just that…”
I waited for Sandra, her eyes out over the city.
“It’s just that this is all I am,” she said, gesturing around her.
“But it’s not,” I told her, touching her folded hands.
She shook her head.
“You’re really kind,” she said.
“I mean it.”
Then I pondered whether I was crossing the line, the objective viewpoint I was supposed to take. Was I even here as a journalist, at this point? Can I give any of the PrydeTek players, especially Eric Blake, a fair shake after what I’ve seen?
“If there’s any way I can help you, please tell me,” I told Sandra.
“You can come back,” she said. “You can tell me about your life and work and the city. Just one day out there—and it’s all I can think about.”
Then she looked at me, dressed in my everyday work clothes: a black blouse and gray slacks.
“You know—” She started to say something but stopped herself.
“What?” I said. “You can ask anything.”
“It’s just that it would be wonderful to have some clothes, something other than this,” she said, looking down at her legs. “If you’re ever going to get rid of something you don’t want anymore, I mean. It’s not a big deal. But it would be a big deal to me.”
“Oh, my gosh,” I said. “Of course. I’m going through boxes right now. Believe me, my closet here’s a lot smaller than what I had before.”
Sandra was a few inches taller than me, and certainly more curvaceous, but I knew I’d find something for her, even if I had to go buy it.
How’s that for crossing the line?
Sandra’s laugh caught my attention.
“My closet is huge—but not a thing to wear,” she said. “You’ll think it’s funny.”
She led me to a walk-in closet, and I hesitated a little, remembering my last closet reveal with Eric Blake’s wife. No other dolls were inside, but it was a sight, all the same.
On the rods, lingerie—one strip of sheer or satin after another, mixed with black or red leather here and there. Sets of stilettos lined the floor along every wall.
Pulling out an apron of a different sort—clearly part of a French maid costume and entirely translucent other than ribbon at the hem and waist—Sandra held it in front of her.
“See why this plain apron made me so happy,” she said. “No one would really wear this, right? Outside, I mean.”
I shook my head.
On the shelves above the closet rods, and from top to bottom in the shoe storage spaces to our left, were toys. Plastic. Metal. Feather. It was a multicolored and multi-textured assortment that looked like it could have been an entire section of an Adam & Eve store. Except everything was unboxed.
I peered at it all warily, a little embarrassed and unsure what most of the items were.
The duster likely went with the maid getup. That was easy.
Riding crop. Expected.
Velvet box. Who the hell knows what.
Ropes.
Ropes.
I froze.
Explainable in this context, sure. But it gave me an instant sinking feeling—or more like a nosedive—remembering how the murder victims died. Restrained.
My throat felt like it was closing up. No one knew where I was.
Maybe I was overreacting. Or maybe just really stupid.
You’ve crossed the line—all the way into way-over-your-head, Lana.
“What’s the matter, Lana?” Sandra stepped back, looking at me. “I shouldn’t have showed you. I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry for you.” I meant it. But I also had to leave. Now.
“I’ve got to get back to work,” I said, trying to be calm. “Thank you for lunch. They’ll all be waiting for me.”
Sandra stepped in front of me as I tried to leave.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I scared you. This is overwhelming.”
“No,” I lied. “I just need to head back.”
She stepped out of my way and walked behind me to the front door.
“I hope you’ll come back sometime,” she said. “Lunch is always ready.”
I nodded and smiled, a fake smile. Her face looked hurt. She knew.
“I understand,” she said, looking at the floor. “I don’t want you to feel afraid. It’s just that you were the first person who’s ever visited me.”
I opened the door—and she put a hand on my shoulder.
“The clothes,” she pleaded. “I understand if you don’t want to come back in. But just one set of regular clothes.”
“Sure,” I said, easing out from beneath her touch.
She looked heartbroken.
“I’ll bring you something,” I said, stepping out into the corridor.
“Really?”
“I promise.”
I walked away as fast as I could.
Chapter 13
Shake it off, girl.
If there were any way I could help Sandra—from a distance—it would be by uncovering the sex doll story. Elliott, the man Sandra said she saw after she was assaulted, and the man who brought her to life, was first on my list. Allen Green was second.
Tonight I had my first official assignment, covering a Tech Council meetup. I sought out the organizers: Nikki, an upbeat leader at a biotech firm with a geeky-cool look, and Adam, a skinny engineer in a tight-fitting button-up and equally tight trousers. They walked me through the Innovation Hub, a series of incubator spaces for startups, featuring clean-lined modern offices with exposed ductwork. We looped back to a main presentation room where he said they hosted regular speakers. We finished our interview there, where a few dozen cocktail-toting guests were mingling.
“We also do ‘Morning Brew-Storming,’” Adam said. “We get together every other week for coffee and talk about ways to support each other. You should stop by.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I will try that. Do the folks from PrydeTek attend? Anyone here from that company tonight?”
The transition wasn’t as smooth as I’d like—but I was tired, and still a little rattled.
Adam twitched just a tad at the company name.
“We do get guys from there,” he answered. “Of course, we’re all bummed about Eric Blake. That was a hit. He did a lot to help us get these meetings off the ground. Even Tony McAndrews was a big player in this sector. This is actually the first meetup since…the news.”
“It’s sad all the way around,” I said. “And still no arrest.”
“Yeah, hope that happens soon,” he answered, looking out at the crowd. “We all do.”
“What about Allen Green from PrydeTek, or Elliott, umm…” I snapped my fingers, like Elliott’s last name was on the tip of my tongue.
“I don’t know Allen Green,” Adam said. “There is an Elliott Farr who used to be more active with our meetups. He’s with one of PrydeTek’s subsidiaries. Eric was touting him as one of his best, a Silicon Valley transport, and then put him at the head of a new company. I tried to get him to lead some talks—asked him about it again tonight. He’s brilliant when it comes to tech commercialization.”
“Oh? I’d like to connect with him,” I said, casually. “I’m trying to build up my network as much as I can.”
“Let me see if we can track him down,” Adam said. He glanced around the room and pointed to a group of three: a trim, ponytailed man in an opposite corner, deep in an animated discussion with two younger men, making his point with graphs on a whiteboard wall behind him. “He’s the one with the marker. Anything else you need from me or Nikki?”
“I think I’m in good shape,” I answered, closing my notebook and slipping it into my over-the-shoulder bag. “Thanks a bunch.”
I made my way through clusters of men and women to the other side of the room.
The men around Elliott were snapping cell phone photos of his wall-writings.
“Thanks so mu
ch, man,” one said, and they both walked away.
“Are you Elliott Farr?” I extended my hand.
He waited a second, sizing me up, then shook my hand.
“I’m the one,” he said.
“Well, I’m just getting started covering business in Boston,” I told him. “I’ll be taking over for Ed Wilkin at the Times-Journal.”
“Thank God,” Elliott said. “That guy did a story about the AI being developed at PrydeTek a couple years ago. Mangled it.”
“AI is a complicated topic,” I said, defending the reporter I had yet to meet.
“Not really,” he said. “It’s just sensors and algorithms unless you combine and implement them in a meaningful way. That’s where the magic comes in. And that’s where Ed couldn’t see the vision.”
“Is that your background?”
“Part of it,” he answered. “I’ve got my hands into everything—from the conceptual phase to product design, manufacturing, and go-to-market strategies. I’m a widely recognized expert in ALICE—artificial linguistic internet computer entity—”
A woman stepped up to Elliott, interrupting his CV recital and handing him a steaming Styrofoam cup.
“They had tea in the back,” she said to him. “Now, I can’t make it until nine tomorrow. Don’t forget you’ve got the board in the morning. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can. I’m headed home.”
“Of course I won’t forget,” Elliott said. “But you must have. I need someone to set up the presentation.”
“I asked Paul to help you with that. I have an appointment.”
It took a second for me to place her, until she looked over at me through the same thick glasses I’d seen when I first set foot into PrydeTek’s headquarters. What did Daniel say her name was?
“Marlene, right?” I asked.
She seemed stunned that I’d remembered.
Elliott exhaled a drawn-out sigh and put a hand on Marlene’s shoulder, like he was trying to transfer his passion for the product. Almost prayerful.
“You know how important this is. One misstep with the Corrine model and—” he looked at me and back to Marlene. “We have to get tomorrow right. One glitch and the last six months of work could be squashed.”
The Dolls Page 4
