Chapter Eight

 

 

Lola gave me a nudge as she whined and glanced at the door again. She didn't hate being at Marguerite and Stanley’s house the way I did. They had kids and a backyard. They had the sort of life dogs needed. The sort of life I think I once whispered to her that we might have.

I hadn’t been certain about kids until we bought the old house. Jonathan had always wanted them, but I wasn't sure. Then we got the old fixer-upper and something shifted. I found myself staring at the bedroom next to ours, planning on fixing it up but not to be the guest bedroom it was intended for. No. I saw yellow paint and animals lining the walls and a blue ceiling with clouds and a sun. And maybe a son. Or a daughter. Or maybe both.

I saw things, promises I had made to myself and to Lola and to Jonathan. Promises I would never keep.

Stanley and Marguerite’s kids were the closest thing Lola would ever have.

I got up and let her outside to run about. She adored the huge yard and different smells and the cracks in the fence where she could bark at the neighbors for even daring to step a foot into their yard. Technically, they didn't have a yard. Their yard was an extension of Stan’s, an extension of Lola’s.

She was a bossy little thing.

It was one of my favorite things about her, the savage beast in tiny packaging. She feared nothing and everything and overcompensated for it all.

I stayed a week, taking up space and time and needing more than I helped. I hated being in a guestroom and being a guest. Maybe because I hated guests. I assumed everyone did as well.

On the eighth day, I packed my bags and called a cab, needing my own space and time.

“Leave the dog,” Marguerite offered, not asking me to stay longer. “Don't go back into the city with the dog. She likes it here and we don't mind having her, to play with the kids. She’s so good.”

My dog was easier than I was. She didn’t sit and stew on the predicaments in her life. She didn't stare at paintings and get lost. She didn't scratch itches that weren’t real or long to be somewhere else.

“You sure you don't mind?” I did the obligatory thing. Leaving Lola would be easier, since I was going back to my apartment and wasn't sure what I would find there. I imagined the mayor would be sitting outside in his limo with his guards, his henchmen. They would grab me and place a black bag over my head. I would be carted away like in the old movies.

“No. God. The kids love having her here. And honestly, she spends too much time alone in the apartment. You’re always having to hire someone to take care of her or put her in dog daycare. This is better.” She hugged me as though she was ending the conversation, deciding for us both.

“Thanks. I appreciate everything. I’ll come back for her once I have the apartment settled. I need to get it on the market and make some serious decisions.” I squeezed her back, almost scared to be leaving. Her house had become a bit of a haven, even if I hated being a guest.

“We love you, Em. You know that.”

“I know.” I waved as the car arrived and carried my small bag out of the house. I hadn’t packed much to leave with, wanting my apartment and office to look the same, as if I hadn’t run off. I had even planted fake computers that were never used by me for anything. They were laptops of Jonathan’s. I’d wiped them to sell but hadn’t gotten around to it. They ended up being the perfect decoys.

Anything of value, anything that carried my work, was hidden with Miss Havisham’s ghost at the old mansion.

The ride into the city was dreary, as always. Late fall was cold and wet and gray. It was my favorite season. Watching things die off had become a bit of a delight, like I wasn't so alone in that respect.

I got the cab to drop me off three blocks from my apartment, certain I would need to survey the area before committing to going up.

As I made my way to the apartment, I switched my phone back on, noting Dr. Brielle never messaged me back. In fact, I had no missed messages, not even from clients.

The shop had been closed long enough that people weren’t calling anymore.

That saddened me.

Their joy had been my food, and I was malnourished and suffering from this famine.

The cars driving up and down the boulevard appeared to be regular traffic. Nothing stood out as parked with people inside watching the building. No vans or anyone lurking around corners. It appeared to be a normal Wednesday.

I went in the side door, one I never usually entered through, and took the stairs to my floor. I was winded by the time I made my way onto my floor.

The hallway looked and smelled the same as always, a mixture of the people living here.

My heart raced, my palms sweat, and my stomach ached, but I walked as if I’d done nothing wrong, head high and shoulders back. I took a deep breath as I slid the microchip key, listening as the lock opened itself as if I’d said the password.

When I opened the door and stepped in, I flinched, waiting for it.

But nothing jumped out.

The house had been gone through, there was no denying that. Everything had been opened and searched, but it wasn't in ruin. There was no real mess or chaos to it. I would close the cupboards and drawers and pretend none of this had happened, apart from the violated feeling, of course.

I closed the door and leaned against it, hand on the handle, ready to open it back up and flee. Holding my breath, I listened.

But no one moved.

Just as I sighed, relaxed and safe, a woman with messy dark hair and a dead look in her eyes strolled from the back hall. “About time you got back.” Her voice and face were so altered I might not have recognized her. But there was no mistaking the huge ring on her finger.

“Lana?” I gasped. She had bandages on her wrists and needle marks on her thin, pale arms. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.” Her words were soft, not angry—heartbroken or exhausted maybe.

“If your husband knew—”

“I left him. I filed for separation and hired a lawyer.” She nodded, wiping away a tear from one of her eyes. “He’s going to ruin my parents’ bakery but they don't care anymore. They just want me away from him.” She held up her wrists. “He faked my suicide.” She started to laugh like bits of madness were slipping out. “Like I would be so averse to dying.”

“Oh my God.” My words were barely audible.

Her vacant, cold eyes darted around the room, making me wonder if she was on drugs or had actually escaped the mental ward. She itched her arm, scratching a scab, answering the question of drugs. “He’s a monster.”

“I know.”

Her dodgy eyes met mine and we shared a moment before she spoke, “You’re the only person I trust.”

“Why? What about your parents?”

“You were the first one to see him, to know what I’ve gone through. You know me better than anyone.”

“And I have the machine you’re addicted to.” I said it boldly, calling the spade in her pocket what it was. Because I was bold, even if I was tired.

The dead look in her eyes didn't change as the smile crept across her lips. “There’s that.”

“Was it you who rifled my apartment?” I scanned the area, careful not to leave her gaze for too long.

“No. I came after his men. They were here a week ago. I knew you wouldn't hide it here. You’re a genius. He underestimates you.” Her creepy grin remained. “Cocky arrogant men do that.”

“I can’t help you. The machine is ruining you.”

“The machine is saving me.” Her eyes lightened faintly. “It wasn't so hard for Marshall to convince the doctors I might have cut myself. Or that I might have wanted to kill myself.” She scoffed. “I would never cut myself—I hate blood, but the doctors don't know that. I did take something a few times, before.”

“You’ve tried to kill yourself before?” Jesus, did she lie through the entire questionnaire?

“Before I met you, I would check into a wellness center in Palm Springs every single spring. I hated watching everything coming back to life. All the things that had been dead with me all fall and winter, were reborn, leaving me behind. After the third time trying to die, I realized I couldn't spend spring with him. I needed something else. I went to the center in Palm Springs and stayed there, sitting in the rain room and taking antidepressants. I did that for years before I met you.”

“I had no idea.” Her depression rang true for me. In my own ways, I understood her sickness and hatred of spring.

“Of course you didn't. I made sure you didn't. The first time I went into your machine, I was looking for a miracle and I found it. I was cured; I felt alive for the first time again. At first it was me and Rhett and Ashley. We danced and had fun. Then one day, I saw Danny. He was watching me. We danced and laughed and he took me to his house, and we made love. I came out of there knowing that if I could get a small dose of it, I could get through whatever being married to my oaf of a husband could throw at me. I never took drugs again. I never took anything to hurt myself. I never went back to the center.”

“You made love?” I cringed outwardly. “How is that possible?” I hadn’t mentioned the no-penetration rule I had for the system. I didn't need to see people getting off more than they already did in the machine. Women weren’t necessarily the problem, but I still had a no-sex rule.

“I don’t know, we just did. It was magical.”

“What changed? What made you sad again? Every time you left in the last few months you looked sad.”

“The baby.” Her eyes sparkled, coming back to life. She smiled and was herself again, like the old her but dirty and filmy and still slightly tweaked out. “In there, in the machine . . .” She paused and tapped her head. “I was pregnant, but I would come out and it wasn't there.” She touched her belly. “I was just me again and the baby was gone.”

“Baby? Impossible.” I said that word too much around her. “You can’t change the storyline that much.”

“I did.” When her eyes met mine again they were clear. “I had a baby in me and a husband who loved me and a life. Yes, it was hard to leave every day, but I always went back.” She blinked and tears rained down her cheeks. “I told myself coming out of the machine was like going to work.”

She had found a way to manipulate the nanobots?

My brain did laps, trying to figure out how the story could change so drastically and how I could have missed such a large problem.

“Take me with you. Please.” She pled with her gaze.

I didn't know if it was the baby, or the fact I wanted to see how she did it, but I nodded. “Let me get some more things and money. There’s a place we can go.”

I should have told her no.

I should have regarded the insanity in her eyes.

I should have called the mental ward and reported her.

I never did do the things I should.