Laiken

It's strange to be sitting in Dominic's car again.

My stomach has been roiling since I woke up in his bed without him there. I was disoriented, wondering where I was, who owned this ceiling above me. Then everything we'd talked about, all the good and bad, had come flooding back.

I'd slipped off to my room before he returned. In clean clothes but without a clean conscience, I'd spent my morning searching for Kara. She'd done her usual vanishing trick. It drove me crazy that she was acting like we hadn't cried our eyes out together last night.

But then, Dominic had appeared in the kitchen. He'd told me it was time.  We were really leaving. His parents wanted us to go to the Complex, so go we would.

“You all right?” he asks, glancing at me as the engine rumbles.

We pass through the gates. I watch them split, then shut behind us. “I think so. This just feels very strange.”

“Leaving again, or visiting the Complex?”

“Both.” I twist the seatbelt. “Dad never said much about where he was staying. Only that it was nice enough. I pictured it as this big building with bars on the doors and windows.”

He drives us down the road, speeding onto the highway. “You thought of it as a jail. That's fitting.”

Putting my nose to the window, I say, “You told me you worked with my dad for a while. That must mean you spent a lot of time at the Complex too, yeah?” I'm staring at the other cars as we pass, waiting for him to answer. When he doesn't, I turn so I can regard him. “Did you hear me?”

Dominic keeps his attention on the road. He drives faster, the needle on the speedometer inching past sixty-five. “I spent a lot of time there, yes.”

Not sure what to make of his response, I settle back in the seat and play with the radio. I used to play with my dad's on the rare times I was in his car. It takes me back, listening to the static crackle as I roll past snippets of music and chatter.

We drive off an exit, the road barren until we reach a very nice looking parking lot surrounded by trimmed bushes and hedges. There are tons of cars parked here. The building in the middle is white and tan, the multitude of windows shining in the sun. There are patios on some upper levels, sliding doors leading to the tiny sections with their singular round tables and tiny chairs.

On a patch of grass to the right of the structure, I see a few kids playing with a Frisbee. They're laughing. Like this is a normal, happy place to live.

“We're here,” he says, parking his car next to the others. Cutting the engine, he looks at me.  I feel his eyes, but I'm still gawking out at the scene. “Laiken?”

“This is the Complex?” I ask, putting my hands on the dashboard. “There aren't even any bars on the windows. And what's with all these cars?”

“Pretty much everyone who works locally for our company lives here. They don't have to, but the rent is cut steep if they do. Dad owns the building.”

I just keep staring.

“Not what you expected, is it,” he whispers.

I shake myself quickly. “It doesn't look like a prison at all.”

Dominic lets go of the steering wheel, cupping my shoulder. “To be fair, your prison doesn't look like one, either.”

As we approach the building, I notice the front doors have a digital keypad. Dominic types into it quickly; a small light blinks green, then the doors slide open. “No one can get in or out without a code,” he explains.

Maybe this place is more secure than I realized.

There's a very small front room that has large, metal mailboxes. The floor is a soulless oatmeal-yellow, the walls covered in interlocking diamond-shaped panels. The windows provide some natural lighting, but now that I'm inside, the building loses its friendly tone. There are two elevators; Dominic motions me to get inside of one.

I've never been in an elevator. Curious about it, I traipse to stand beside him. In the upper-left corner I notice something shining like the bottom of a glass bottle. “Is that a camera?” I ask.

“The whole place is covered in cameras.” He slips his fingers into his pockets, leaning against the wall of the elevator. He presses a button and the doors slide shut. Instantly I'm hit with a wave of unease.

It feels like I'm being buried in the ground. Sticky heat rolls up my chest and spine. Flattening my hands on the wall, I swallow the lump in my throat but it refuses to go down.

“Are you okay?” Dominic asks, squinting at me closely.

“Just never been in an elevator before,” I say, laughing a little unhinged. My stomach tumbles over and over. Rocking forward, I grab his arm for stability as the floor and walls all seem to rush by at once. My guts fall into my feet and I shut my eyes to stave off a wave of dizziness.

Suddenly the elevator slows, a bell sound coming as the doors split apart. Fluttering my eyes open, I become aware of my surroundings in a sharper fashion. My hands are clinging to Dominic's arm, holding on to him for dear life. He rests his hands on top of mine. I didn't even notice that he'd moved them there. Glancing up, I stare into his concerned eyes.

The devotion in his face is captivating.

When the doors start to slide shut, Dominic puts his hand out, stopping them. His movement ends our moment. I let him go, fixing my hair nervously. “Sorry, I overreacted a bit.”

“Don't worry about it,” he says, but I think he's pleased. Does he like that I seek him out for comfort?

Exiting the elevator, we walk down a long hallway. I expect to see more people, considering all the cars, but there's nothing here but rows of doors. They each have an embossed number on them—twenty, twenty-one, twenty-three. I quit keeping count. I scan the ceiling, frowning. No people, but tons of cameras. They're not even trying to hide them.

We get to the end of the hall and he pulls a key card out of his pocket, tapping it against a small panel. The door beeps like all the others. Gripping the handle, he pushes the door open and steps through.

I follow him, my heart starting to pound faster. I'm about to see the place that my mother and father and baby brother have been living for years. I don't know how I feel about it. It’s so hard to decide. Some of the fear from riding elevator returns to me. My body is heavy, my lungs working harder to draw air.

The apartment is a big open space. It reminds me of a photo I once saw in a magazine the maids had left in the kitchen; a perfectly arranged set of white couches, a glass table and pointless, little woven baskets with silver balls in them for decoration. It's so sterile, nothing like the cabin that I grew up in.

I think Dominic's made a mistake, taken me to the wrong place, until I look at the walls. There are multiple photos, all of them full of familiar smiles. Mom and Dad hug my little brother in one of them. Dean's no longer the little pink baby that I knew. On my fifteenth birthday, I'd begged my father to bring me a picture of Dean. I just wanted to see what he looked like now, because I couldn't imagine him as anything other than a baby.

He'd done it, brought me a little Polaroid print out of a chubby blue-eyed toddler with cake all over his face. I'd laughed until I'd cried, and then asked him to take it away. Seeing proof that my family was growing without me was too painful.

When I look at the pictures now, seeing six-year-old Dean with his gap-tooth, his hair the same color as my mother's, I bite back my tears. Dominic is watching me from across the room. I inhale, straighten up, and begin to move around. I can't look at the photos anymore. I don't let myself.

Other than some books on a rack, plants by a window, and a flat screen TV only slightly less nice than the one in the lounge at the estate, the room is empty. I turn towards Dominic and shrug. “What am I supposed to be looking for, exactly?”

“Anything, just something your father might have left behind that you would see. A clue to figure out where he's gone.”

I scan the bright white room again. “I don't think I can find something if you guys didn't.”

“Keep trying, Laiken. There are two bedrooms to search through, lots of little nooks and hiding spots. Don't give up already.”

I bristle at his words. “I'm not giving up. It's just . . . this doesn't feel right, I guess.” I flip my hands, working to explain. “I mean this is where my Dad lived, right? It feels empty to me. There's not even a computer, shouldn't there be one?”

Dominic crinkles the bridge of his nose. He looks towards the door, his expression still tense. “He didn't do his work in here. But it's down the hall. We can check there, if you like.”

I follow him through the door, back into the stifling hall. He leads us to a room that's only a few doors away. “In here?” I ask, watching as he taps a different card on the door.

When he turns the handle, he exposes a small, square room with no windows. On one side is a desk with a computer on top; mirrored on the other end of the room is another computer and desk.

I walk in a circle, noting how plain the walls and floor are, and that it takes me only six steps to cross from one side to the next. This is a grim place I wouldn't want to spend much time in. And my dad worked in here?

Spinning on a heel, I look between the desks. “Two computers?” I ask.

Dominic hesitates then he nods at the one to my left with his head. “That's mine.”

“Really?” I head towards it, and he walks around the desk, cutting me off.

“There are no clues on my computer,” he says flatly. “I know that much for sure. Let's check out your father's.”

I eyeball his computer with interest, but I follow him over to the other one. The screen is black, I watch as Dominic bends over towards the screen, pushing a button. It comes to life, showing a beautiful image of green pine trees. It sends a flash of painful nostalgia through me.

“I already searched this,” he says, grabbing the mouse. He moves the arrow around, clicking on some folders, going through things so quickly that I can't make sense of them. While I understand the basics about what my father did, and what a computer is, I've spent almost no time using one myself.

I watch him, starting to wonder if this trip was a waste. “I don't think my dad would've left clues on this for me,” I say slowly. “It doesn't feel right.”

“What does feel right?” he asks, his tone scalding me. He doesn't look at me, but he stops moving the mouse around. “If it's not where he lived, or where he worked, what's left?”

“I don't know,” I answer softly.

Dominic pulls in a deep breath then releases it. “Sorry. I don't mean to get so frustrated. I've been trying to figure out where Joseph went since he fled, going through the motions is bringing back a lot of anger.” He moves out of the way, patting the chair. “Sit down and see what you come across. It won't hurt to try.”

“I can give it a shot,” I say, sinking into the chair. It rolls a bit and I inch close to the screen, fumbling with the mouse.  Trying to emulate Dominic, I click on a folder. A little box pops up, asking me if I want to open or close or save something.

“Not that button,” he says. “The other one on the mouse.”

“I'm hitting the button.”

“Right, but not—here, just let me do it.” He puts his hand on top of mine, our fingers overlapping. I tense up in the chair, feeling his breath on my cheek. Dominic slides my hand around on the mouse pad, guiding me with his strong pressure. He makes me click the correct button. “There,” he chuckles. “See?”

I open my mouth, clearing my throat. “Yup, I get it now.”

He pulls his fingers away, but he does it in a reluctant fashion. As if he wants to keep holding me. He fluffs his hair and backs up. “You do this, I'll go check out the other room again.”

“But you said you already searched it,” I start to reply, but he slips out the door, leaving me alone. For a minute I stare after him, frowning in thought. This is hard for him in a different way than it is for me, I realize. It's not a fun memory, the way he interrogated me the night my father escaped. Dominic blames himself for my Dad escaping. He seems to blame himself for a lot of things, honestly.

I click around on the computer, not really knowing what I'm doing. Dominic can tell me that I'm giving up, but the reality is I just don't even know where to begin. He doesn't return for a few minutes, and in that time all I managed to do is duplicate a blank folder, and probably delete some stuff I shouldn't have.

Sighing, I roll the chair backwards, spinning it. When it comes full circle, I'm facing across the room, staring directly at Dominic's computer.

He didn't want me to look at it—that is what makes me want to see what's on it even more. Half standing, I lean forward to try and see out the doorway. I don't hear him, and for all I know, he won't be back for another several minutes.

Standing, I rush across the small room to sit in the other chair. This computer screen is black, like my dad's was. I start to look for the on button, but then I bump the mouse and the screen lights up. I stare at a desktop free of any decorations. It's solid white, only three folders in view: Files, Data Dump, and the Faith Project.

Intrigued, I move the mouse the way that he taught me. Clicking the Faith folder, I reveal hundreds of files that are named things like “Vid.1” and “Test 4.a.” I'm disappointed, unable to grasp any of this. What did I expect to find, though?

Answers, I tell myself. I'm always looking for answers.

“I told you there aren't any clues on that,” Dominic says from the doorway. I gasp, spinning the chair to stare at him.

As stunned as I am, I recover quickly. “What's the Faith Project?”

He crosses his arms, not moving from where he is. “It was what I worked on with your father.”

I perk up at that. “What kind of project was it? You never told me.”

If possible, Dominic crosses his arms more tightly. Pushing off the door, he comes my way, crouching beside me. His fingers are a blur on the keyboard. I knew he could program, but I've never seen him in his element. His hands flex perfectly, precise in touching every key as he squints at the screen. I don't have much of a reference point for computer skills, but I know how clumsy I am on a keyboard. This is something to be impressed by.

He slams the enter key. A small box comes up, asking for a username and password. He taps a few more times and suddenly I'm looking at twenty different screens, all in bright, detailed color with little timers beneath them.

I don't know that they're camera screens until I recognize the back of my own head. I turn towards the corner, but I can't see any camera. How is that possible when the ones in the hallway and elevator were so obvious? “What is it,” I ask, baffled. “A video surveillance system?”

“It was much more than that. It was supposed to be our new security system, designed to officially recognize people with a facial program we built from scratch. It could perform actions based on that, and all from a camera smaller than a pinhead. No security system can do that. I was hoping that Joseph and I would create the first together.” He's still fixated on the screen, the light reflecting in his eyeballs. “My father was supposed to be astounded at my abilities.” His smile goes sideways. “Instead, Joseph used it against me. He acted like he was helping me, told me my work was amazing, but in the end he was just hijacking the program to make it do what he needed to.”

I glance at the camera again, then at my father's desk. “He was able to do that without you noticing?”

“Yes. He was very talented. He sent a false message through the same system, tricking our drivers into believing he was leaving with me that night, that I was escorting him to the estate.” Clenching a fist, he turns away from the screen. “Then he took control of the program right under my nose, and created a diversion that he leaked to the regular security footage. Every single person fled the building, thinking it was on fire. In the chaos he escaped with your mother and brother.”

I'm torn between being impressed, and feeling awful for Dominic. The frustration is plain on his face. He worked his ass off to try and prove himself to his father, and then my dad threw him under the bus.

“You know,” I say gently, touching his forearm. He doesn't pull away. “It's amazing that you were able to design this. I knew you had learned programming, but honestly, I didn't have a clue what that meant in the real world.”

He lets some tension out of his body, his shoulders inching lower. “Thank you.”

I smile then glance at the screen. All the videos remind me of something. “Dominic, do you know if your parents have cameras all over your house?”

Frowning mildly, he shrugs. “I doubt it. The last thing they'd want is incriminating evidence. What made you think-?”

“Just something Kara said,” I whisper.

Dominic's frown shifts ever deeper. He closes the program, showing off the white desktop again. I rub my eyes, the brightness giving me a headache. It would have been nice if he had a screen as pretty as my father's. The green leaves of the trees were comforting on both my eyesight and my mood.

I freeze with my arm over my face. It drops into my lap. “Of course,” I say, almost talking to myself. “That's why this feels all wrong. Dominic!” I say his name louder than I have to, he's right beside me, but I'm burning with excitement. “We aren't going to find any clues here. My father wouldn't waste his time with that, he wouldn't ever expect me to come here.”

Dominic recoils, ready to argue. “But there's still—”

“No, listen.” Gripping the desk, I jump to my feet. “He wouldn't leave anything here because this place was never meant for me.” It wasn't meant for my family at all. “If there's a trail to follow, it'll be in one place and one place only.”

His eyebrows furrow together. They relax as he understands.

“That's right,” I whisper, smiling wide. “At the cabin.”

At my home.

****

DOMINIC IS ON THE PHONE with his parents. I can see him every time he passes by the doorway, pacing the hall. While he does that I sit on my parent's couch, unable to relax. Eventually I get up and begin to wander around. I run my fingers over a bookshelf, then across the wall as I make my way to the first bedroom.

It's my brother's. I see lots of toys and the bed sheets are covered in racecars. He has a small TV and on his desk. There's also an open notebook covered in math problems. Schoolwork? Was Dean allowed to attend school while my sister and I were kept trapped?

It seems impossible. But after some more exploring, I get an uncomfortably ominous impression that Dean didn't realize he was being held here against my family's will.

The thing that kicks me in the gut the hardest, though, is when I realize what's missing from this entire apartment.

I can't find any photos of Kara or me.

My parents had tons of them, my mother loved to snap Polaroid pictures of us. Even if there aren't any new photos, surely they are old ones. I search, growing desperate. I've emptied the drawers, gone back out to the main room and checked the fridge, the bookshelf.

The reality sinks in like an iceberg in my veins.

I've been erased from my brother’s life.

This is why he was allowed to go to school and have a somewhat normal life, while I wasn't. He didn't know about Kara or me, so he wouldn't make some off comment about his sisters being kept captive somewhere. He was only six. He probably didn't know his family wasn't allowed to leave the Complex without an escort.

I sit on his bed and run my fingers over the furry ears of a stuffed dog. I walked back into a life that I don't belong in anymore.

I stand up quickly, leaving the room because I can't handle being in there. I'm about to go back to the couch when I glance at my parents’ bedroom to my right. It's dark in there. After what I just went through in Dean's room, the idea of repeating it is discouraging. But I'm too curious to walk away.

I press the door open and walk inside. There's a large window covered in vertical blinds, the sunlight flickering through the gaps, keeping the room easy to navigate. The bed is made. Everything looks clean and perfect and precise, like the rest of the apartment.

On the nightstand are a novel and a blinking alarm clock. I scoop up the novel and read the title. Dracula? It's heavy in my hand. I pass it back and forth in my palms. Which one of them was reading this in the middle of the night? Did they think about escaping, or was diving into fiction good enough?

I fan the pages and as I do, I see something stuck between them. I open the book wide; there's a square slip of thick paper. My fingers shake as I pick it up, squinting at the photograph.

It's a picture of Kara and me.

We're holding each other, laughing in the sun. I'm probably no older than five in it. Kara is standing over me as I try to knock her down in the grass. It's a moment from the past.  The two of us filled with joy, unaware of what's to come in our future.

Gently I close the book, yet I slip the photograph into my back pocket. I'm not a fan of stealing, but this photo belongs more to me than the people who will never return to this apartment.

Walking back into the living room, I sit down just as Dominic walks through the door. “All right,” he says, sticking his phone in his pocket. “It took a little bit of convincing, but my father has said we're free to make the trip to your old home.”

“He was really okay with me and you going so far away?” I ask dubiously.

Dominic looks me in the eye, his tone blunt. “He knows you won't attempt to escape as long as Kara is in their grasp.”

He's right. I could never run away and leave her behind. I still don't know how my father could muster the selfishness to do it. “Do we need to bring anything with us? How long of a drive is it?” It's been years. My memory of the distance is blurred by the helicopter trip. Sometimes I remember it taking only a few minutes, other times, when I think back, it's like I was in the helicopter for days.

“It's possible for us to make it there in one go, but I'm not sure I'm willing to push myself driving eight hours straight. We'll leave now, spend the night in a hotel that's about halfway between.”

I have so many things running around in my head and it's hard to focus on any one of them. I'm nervous, especially considering the idea of sleeping in a hotel with Dominic. I've never done anything like that, and I know that hotel rooms are small and intimate.

I'm also glowing with anticipation because it's really happening.

I'm finally going home.