I take off my O2 shield and wander around the lobby, looking for the right elevator. None of the chatter really registers until I find my way to the private, cordoned-off elevator bank reserved for residents and their guests. I walk into an empty one with a middle-aged couple who appear to be returning from an elegant evening out, given his tuxedo and her burgundy floor-length sequined dress. I press the button for the top floor and stand behind them, waiting for the elevator.
“It’s a shame,” the woman says, continuing her conversation. “They found two more of those unidentified comatose kids in Miami.”
Two more victims?
My fingers tighten ever so slightly around the strap of my bag as my eyes focus blankly on the elevator door.
“And a girl in Detroit, too.”
I blink as a chill runs down my spine. Three more victims.
“Really? Where?”
“Merch Sector, I think. She had the same circular marks on her head.”
I was just in the Merch Sector. Could it have been one of the people who were with me in the café? Did they experience the same thing that happened to Josh and me in Elusion? Did their Escapes erase with them in it? As my stomach free-falls, I keep my eyes glued to the doors, trying not to appear like I’m eavesdropping.
“Do you believe what they’re saying? That Elusion is causing this somehow?”
“I don’t know. Should we stop using our Equips? Until they figure it all out?”
“Definitely. I enjoyed myself, and the kids certainly like it, but it’s not worth the risk.”
The elevator doors finally whisk open, and I walk in behind the couple. Once we’re inside and we’ve inserted our passcards into the slot, the doors slide closed and we begin to make our ascent. The couple isn’t talking about Elusion anymore—now they are on to more pressing matters, like their son’s lackluster grades and their daughter’s first class trip to Istanbul. When they step out on the 180th floor, I lean back against the elevator wall and close my eyes as I absorb what they said, hoping the solitude will help calm my nerves before I confront Patrick.
More kids in comas. Possibly all Elusion users.
A girl found here in Detroit.
My God, Patrick, what the hell is going on?
A second or two later, I’m on his floor. The walls in the hallway are a rich shade of navy blue, and hanging in a row is a collection of abstract animal paintings, creating a bizarre circus of sorts. At each end of the hall there are grand floor-to-ceiling windows, and since we’re up above the Florapetro clouds, the glass reflects a hazy view of the evening stars. As I walk toward the cold, industrial-metal door of Patrick’s apartment, I blow out a deep breath and then another, my resolve not wavering an inch.
I take out my passcard and hold it near the lockpad, which releases the automatic interior bolt on the door. When it slides open, I storm into the apartment, calling out Patrick’s name, my jaw clenched. But when I make eye contact with the person who is sitting on the boomerang-shaped copper couch, I’m so flustered for a minute I think I might have entered the wrong apartment.
“Zoe?” I ask.
She’s pulling on one of her knee-high boots, and her cowl-neck knit top is slipping off her shoulder a little. Her long hair is tousled and loose, and I can’t help but notice her makeup is smudged, especially under her eyes.
Am I interrupting something?
“Regan?” Her eyes widen, not with embarrassment, just surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to intrude,” I say. “I just really need to talk to Patrick, and I couldn’t get ahold of him.”
“Yeah, he turned off his tab and InstaComm after I came over. There have been all these harassing messages and calls; it’s such a mess.”
“Where is he?”
“Bedroom,” she says, pulling on her other boot and tipping her head to the hallway on her left. “He’s getting dressed.”
Getting dressed? Okay, I’m definitely interrupting something. It looks like when I didn’t immediately respond to Patrick’s invite, he got in touch with Zoe instead, and one thing led to another. I cross my arms in front of my chest, suddenly uncomfortable talking to her.
How . . . weird.
Zoe stands up and adjusts her shirt, then grabs her purse off the modular wood-paneled floor. She tucks her hair behind her ears, approaching me with a confident grin that I suppose would belong on any girl who’d just hooked up with one of the most eligible bachelors in the country. She also has this odd sparkle to her eyes, like she’s the proud owner of something and wants me to acknowledge that it’s hers and hers alone.
“You don’t have to leave,” I say.
“I’m just running down to the garage. Forgot my tab in my car.”
Damn. I doubt Patrick is going to be very forthcoming if he knows Zoe is going to be around. I guess I’m going to have to press him for information very hard and very fast.
“Oh. Okay. I guess I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Zoe gives me a playful wink. “Great. Be right back.”
When I slip aside so that she can walk past me, she takes a few steps and then I touch her shoulder. “Wait,” I say.
“What’s wrong?”
“Is it true? Did they find a comatose girl in Detroit?”
Zoe nods her head solemnly. “Yes, satellite radio was broadcasting the news on my drive over here. Kelly Winslow. She’s a senior at some ritzy boarding school in the Heights Sector.”
I find myself sighing with relief—thank God it’s not Nora—but then a snap of guilt pops inside me at the thought of Kelly’s family, and Principal Caldwell, having to go through this heartbreak. I think about my father, all my theories regarding his fate. How can I still not have any answers?
Zoe leaves, and for a moment I stand still. I feel like I’m in a stranger’s house, somewhere I don’t belong. I knew Patrick’s old apartment so well, but nothing here looks familiar. The neutral gray tones. The sparse, modern furniture. The big black marble sculpture shaped like a large drop of Florapetro.
“Patrick?” I call out.
Nothing.
I inhale sharply and pull back my tense shoulders as I make my way down the hall. When I approach the sliding door, it slowly recedes. The bedroom is dim, but I can still make out Patrick’s silhouette. He’s lying on a king-size mattress with his legs planted on the floor, dressed in a pair of soccer shorts and a loose fitting T-shirt. His hands are covering his face, and when I take a few cautious steps forward, his arms fall to his sides and he pushes himself up. As he swipes his hair away from his forehead, I can see his eyes are rimmed with red, like he’s been crying. The only other time I’ve ever seen him like this was at my dad’s funeral.