Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
“I don’t know,” I say, my voice sounding hollow. “I don’t know who it is or what it wants. I just know it’s getting louder. And it keeps telling me to…”
“To what?”
I weigh the truth in my mind. It’s not lost on me that I’m supposed to be interrogating her and yet she has me confessing.
“To hurt you,” I finally say. “It keeps telling me to hurt you. To…kill you.”
She nods slowly, like this confirms something she already suspected.
“But you haven’t.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Because I love you.
The thought surfaces before I can stop it, and I shove it back down so hard it feels like it’s tearing a hole right through me.
“Because I’m not a monster,” I say instead. “Whatever they made me—whatever I am—I’m still me. I still get to choose.”
She’s quiet for a long moment.
“Yeah,” she says finally. “You do.”
The call comes at four in the afternoon.
Julia’s face appears on my watch screen, and I feel something cold slide down my spine. I haven’t spoken to her since my calibration. Haven’t checked in or done any of the things I’m supposed to do. And for whatever reason, they’ve let me just be.
Until now.
“Nate.” Her voice is cool and controlled, as usual. “You’ve been hard to reach.”
Have I been? Or have they been giving me time to sort myself out after recalibration?
“Been busy.”
“So I’ve heard. There was quite the incident in Red Hook three nights ago. Russian mob, from what the police reports say. Multiple casualties.” A pause. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
I keep my face blank. “Should I?”
“I suppose not.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “Regardless, I need you at headquarters tomorrow morning. Nine sharp. We’re doing a briefing on Paragon’s next phase of deployment.”
My stomach twists uneasily. “What kind of briefing?”
“The kind that requires your presence.” Her smile is thin. “Don’t be late.”
The call ends.
I stand there staring at my watch, thinking about all the things Mia hasn’t told me but I’m starting to piece together on my own.
I need answers. And Mia has them.
I’ve been going at her for three days. Three days of questions and silence and tension thick enough to cut. Nah, she won’t break.
But maybe I’ve been going about this wrong.
Maybe I need to show her what’s at stake.
Maybe I need to make this about me.
That evening, I bring her the laundry.
She looks surprised when I set the folded pile on the dresser—tank top, bra, underwear, socks, tactical pants and jacket. All clean and dry and smelling like fabric softener.
“You did my laundry?” she says incredulously.
“You needed clean clothes,” I explain, leaning against the wall.
“I’ve been wearing yours.”
“And now you have your own.”
She stares at the pile for a long moment. Then she looks at me, and I can’t read her expression at all.
“Why?”
I don’t answer. Because the truth is, I don’t know why. I don’t know why I washed her blood-stained clothes or why I folded them so carefully or why doing something that domestic for her felt like an apology I couldn’t speak out loud.
“Get some sleep,” I say instead. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“And then what?”
“And then,” I say slowly, “we’re going to have a conversation. A real one. And even if you don’t tell me who you really are, you’re going to tell me what you know about Global Dynamix and whatever the fuck they’ve turned me into.”
She stares at me for a moment. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“And I don’t give a fuck what you think. You will tell me. You can even start now, with Marsh,” I say, crossing my arms. “I heard his name at your safehouse. Conrad Marsh, the CEO of Global Dynamix, my employer. Why was he meeting with Russian mobsters in a warehouse in Red Hook?”
She gives me nothing. Not a flicker.
“What was he doing there, Mia? What’s the connection between this Kozlov and Global Dynamix?”
Silence. Her expression doesn’t change. She could be carved from stone.
“Fine.” I push off the wall, frustration boiling over. “Keep your secrets. But whatever you’re protecting, whatever you think is more important than telling me the truth, truth that I deserve to know—I hope it’s worth it.”
“It’s need to know,” she finally says. “That’s how we operate.”
“How you operate!” My voice raises. “Not me! I’m not a fucking spy. I’m your…your…”
I turn to look at her, and I let her see what’s in my eyes. The desperation. The darkness. The thing that’s been growing inside me, feeding on doubt and fear and the voice that won’t stop whispering. “You’re going to tell me everything. One way or another. Because I’m running out of time. And I’m running out of patience and ideas and if you don’t start talking…” I trail off.
“What?” She sits up straighter, her eyes blazing with challenge. “What will you do?”
I think about the rooftop. About the wind and the drop and the darkness waiting at the bottom.