“Get to class,” he says through clenched teeth. “Now!”
I look back toward Josh, ready to sell him and Avery out to Mr. Oxbow, but I’m too late.
They have somehow disappeared.
With everything that was important to me.
And perhaps even more.
TabTalk Message
From: Heywood, Joshua
To: Welch, Regan
5:27 p.m.
Don’t be mad. I can explain. Call me when you get this.
TabTalk Message
From: Heywood, Joshua
To: Welch, Regan
6:09 p.m.
Sorry. Know I hurt u. But u have 2 hear my side of the story.
TabTalk Message
From: Welch, Meredith
To: Welch, Regan
6:33 p.m.
Are u ok? Just saw the report on Mr. Caldwell’s son/
Elusion. Can’t believe this is happening. InstaComm me
@ work when u get home.
TabTalk Message
From: Heywood, Joshua
To: Welch, Regan
7:14 p.m.
Why aren’t u answering? Pls write or call back.
TabTalk Message
From: Heywood, Joshua
To: Welch, Regan
7:29 p.m.
Going to yr place. Hope u r there.
TabTalk Message
From: Simmons, Patrick
To: Welch, Regan
7:52 p.m.
Need to c you. V urgent. Meet me @ office around 9?
TabTalk Message
From: Heywood, Joshua
To: Welch, Regan
8:47 p.m.
The Ice Cave, 10 pm. Code 9017. Pls come.
TWELVE
I’M STANDING IN FRONT OF OREXIS HEADquarters during an acid-rain downpour with a brand-new umbrella hovering above me. My socks are beginning to soak through, and the hems of my pants are like wet rags. As a gust of wind blows, I breathe into my O2 shield, clutching the handle of my umbrella with a death grip, my legs glued to the sidewalk.
I’m not the only one outside weathering this flash storm. I’m huddled with a pack of journalists, vloggers, and all sorts of media juggernauts, who are waiting to pounce on any high-ranking Orexis official for a comment on today’s big news, but they’re not having much luck. There’s a wall of stiff-postured security guards looming in front of all the entrances to Orexis, preventing anyone from getting too close.
Even though I’ve been here ten minutes, I haven’t yet made my way to the door. Why?
Betrayal. Disappointment. Loneliness. Fear.
These emotions have been hitting me in rapid-fire succession ever since this morning, and I want all of them gone.
But if that’s really true, why did I bother coming down here when Patrick said he needed me? I’ve been thinking about that question since I arrived, and I still can’t answer it. Maybe I want to confront him about Anthony. Maybe I want him to comfort me about Josh. Maybe I want to confess about the QuTap before Avery can pillage it and sell me out. Those all seem like perfectly good reasons, but I haven’t called to tell Patrick I’m just fifty feet away from his office building.
I can’t bring myself to do it.
Another burst of torrential wind blasts me and two or three other people near the back of the horde. Soon the Inner Sector will turn into a red zone. I think back to the calm conditions from this morning. Every day, something happens to remind me how fragile our world is. It can split open over and over and over again, and nothing can prevent that.
My umbrella kicks back hard, leaving my face exposed to the elements. I wipe at my eyes, which are already burning. Once I’ve gotten the grit out of my lashes, I see a lone figure exiting a secret side door on the far left of the building—sometimes my dad would use it to beat all the foot traffic. I take a few steps away from the cluster of reporters, moving slowly so I won’t arouse suspicion. As I close in, I can see the person is a woman, quite tall and wrapped in some kind of shimmering silver hooded cape, with a rebellious curl of white-blond hair poking out. My gaze shifts down and I recognize a pair of familiar jewel-toned designer shoes. Her steps become more hurried, like she’s trying to escape.
“Cathryn?” I say.
Her pace grinds to a halt when she hears her name, and she looks at me with surprise. “Regan? What are you doing out here?” She quickly glances at the media camp, and when she sees they haven’t detected her, she takes hold of my free hand and places it against her cheek, gasping when she feels how terribly cold my skin is. “Oh my God, you’re going to freeze to death.”
“I was . . . waiting f-for Patrick.” Now my teeth are chattering. She’s right; I just might turn into a human icicle.
“What? I sent him home an hour ago,” Cathryn says, her voice sounding a bit hollowed out through the speaker on her O2. “He was being hounded. Calls, texts, everything.”
I don’t say anything. My mind is kind of anesthetized, and suddenly I’m having trouble reacting.
“Come with me—we’ll get you warmed up.” Cathryn reaches out and hails an extra-stretch maroon luxury sedan that stealthily pulls up to the curb without its lights on. She puts her arm around me and leads me to the car. A pudgy man in a suit and cap darts out of the driver’s-side door and helps us into the back.
I close my umbrella and duck inside, sliding across the leather seat as Cathryn follows close behind me. Once the door is shut, we take off our O2 shields and she pulls her hood down, revealing a beautiful face that has not one fine line or wrinkle or any other imperfection. It’s uncanny how much she and Patrick look alike. Their eyes are these serene pools of aquamarine, and they have the same chins—strong and somewhat narrow, but with this dimple that makes them both look so youthful and innocent.
She pulls off one of her nylon-blend gloves and presses a button on the intercom, which is located on a glass media panel built into a retractable wall adjacent to one of the windows.
“Fiske, could you please take us to the Historic Sector? And call ahead to the patrols so they can make sure the private-access tunnels are open. It’s still going to be bumper-to-bumper out on the main roads.”
A voice crackles back, “Yes, ma’am.”
She’s taking me home, the last place I want to be. Then again, I don’t have anywhere else to go, do I? Unless I ask Cathryn to bring me back with her to the estate. I could stay in the wing with the least amount of activity and lock myself away for a while. Cowardly as that sounds, it seems like the answer to my problems.