Bryn didn’t fool herself into thinking there was any genuine moral or ethical dilemma involved. Just expedience, risk, and reward.
Word was starting to get out, and Carl wasn’t the first Pharmadene employee to cold-call, looking for answers. Bryn didn’t know how many Revived were out there under the government’s control, and Riley Block wasn’t going to tell her…but this, in a small way, was making a difference.
Though absolutely nobody wanted her to do it. Particularly not Pat McCallister. He thought there were risks—and he was right. She just couldn’t not do it.…She felt responsible, somehow, to all these luckless bastards who had (like her) never asked for this sinister gift of pseudolife, who had to live a lie now.
Her lies, at least, were less personal.
She finished the call and hung up, and turned to find—no surprise—that Pat was standing there silently watching her. She shook her head. “Don’t start.”
“I won’t,” he said, but she could tell by the stillness in him that he wanted to. “Come on. Dinner. Liam won’t be happy if you let his beef Wellington get cold.”
It was so odd that she lived in a house where beef Wellington was what was for dinner. And it wasn’t even that exceptional.
“I need to change,” she said, and kissed him quickly on the way out the door. “Be down in a minute.”
Her room still didn’t feel like hers, exactly, although all her stuff was here, or as much as she’d wanted to bring with her.…She hadn’t wanted the old, cheap pressboard dresser, the secondhand couch or bed, but she’d brought the old armchair she’d always preferred, and her pictures, mementos, books, music, and movies were all neatly ordered on shelves. The room had come with a television, a vast flat-screen thing that probably also made coffee, as high tech as it was, and she was a little scared of it. It had its own curtains to conceal it, so as not to upset the soothing autumnal glory of the furniture and fabrics; they wouldn’t have been out of place a hundred years ago, in this very house.
Her clothes were not great, but they were better than they had been, mainly because she had some grasp now of how to dress for her job. She’d come straight out of the military to her first funeral home job, and wearing a uniform hadn’t prepared her for the challenge of buying suits. She’d gotten some advice from Lucy, the funeral home’s formidable administrator, who’d surely trained with some kind of fashion-related Zen master.
Bryn stripped off her doggy-mudded jeans and shirt and put on what was casual evening dress here in the mansion—a dress, which was a little sexy, like for a first date at an upscale restaurant. She added a necklace that she’d been given by her mom years ago, and then picked up the nice watch that Annie had given her as her “first job” present.
I wish…
Bryn stopped the thought, held the watch in her hand for a moment, and then put it on with sure, quick snaps of her fingers.
I’ll find you, she promised the absent ghost of her sister. I will. I swear.
But she had nowhere to look, and nothing to go on. If her sister was still out there, still alive, still waiting, Bryn was letting her down with every moment she didn’t find her. Worse, she was letting down her whole family, who didn’t even know Annie was in trouble.
After a deep breath, Bryn went downstairs for a dinner for which she had, suddenly, very little appetite.
Chapter 3
Bryn had never liked mornings, but she’d usually been an early riser anyway—life in the army did that to you, accustomed you to being out of bed before dawn whether you wanted to be or not. She woke in the predawn light, comfortable and warm, with Mr. French snuggled against her legs on top of the covers. His chin was on her hip, and he was snoring like a little old man and twitching as he dreamed. The room was cool, dim, and soothing, but for a moment it felt…wrong. Early mornings sometimes brought her doubts out of the depths and up to breach the surface. What am I doing here? I don’t belong here, in this house.
Her apartment—cheap and crappy as it had been—had been her own space, but she’d started worrying about not her own safety there, but that of her neighbors. Innocent people, families, who had no knowledge of the kind of knife’s edge on which she lived. She’d woken up with every noise, every car engine, wondering if the government was coming to make her disappear, or worse, if someone else had decided to grab her, experiment on her.…The paranoia (justified or not) had driven her half nuts.
Patrick McCallister had made the offer to give her a room at his mansion—a protected space, safe, controlled, where she endangered no one who didn’t know the score. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to take that last step with him yet, and they weren’t lovers, but she knew she could trust him. And she knew that she wanted to be with him.
But in the mornings, she still wondered whether she’d sacrificed her independence for security.
Then again, she thought, and yawned, the apartment complex didn’t set out a full breakfast, and have coffee going by the time I got up. Which Liam did, every morning. He was an even earlier riser than she was, and he seemed to feel that it was his sacred duty to be sure she had fuel before starting her day. Screw independence. Who doesn’t get used to that?
She didn’t, apparently. She still felt like a guest here; regardless of what Patrick did, or what Liam would excuse, she didn’t feel that she could roll out of bed in her bathrobe and shuffle down to breakfast. No, she had to get up, shower, fix her hair, do her makeup, dress, and then go down. And she was self-conscious about it. Every day, she had the argument with herself about moving out, finding her own space, but every day, the larger part of her wanted to stay.
And truthfully, it was because of Patrick. They hadn’t slept together, but they’d had some fantastic everything-but-skin sessions; she didn’t feel like either of them was reluctant to take the next step, but she did feel that they were both…cautious. And careful not to push. He was waiting on her, and she was waiting on him, and that made for an interestingly frustrating relationship, because fairly soon, one of them was just going to seize the moment.
She couldn’t help but think about that. A lot. And she imagined that he did, too.
Down, girl. Time to get up and focus. She had a meeting at Pharmadene today, which she dreaded. And she had to meet with Carl, the Returné-addicted Pharmadene employee, and try to give him a little help and perspective. If she liked his vibe, she’d invite him to the evening group meetings they had once a week…a support group, but even though they jokingly called it Dead Persons Anonymous, it was more about reaffirming their humanity than talking about the inevitable. If he was ready for it, it might be a place for him to turn to release that inner stress and panic that had been building up. The others claimed it helped.
Bryn just liked being reassured that she wasn’t the only one facing this weird, uncertain future.
Bryn moved Mr. French off her (he grunted, snuffled, and rolled over without waking up) and turned the lights on. Getting ready was mechanical routine, and she didn’t do a lot of thinking while that was going on…brain on idle until the checklist was done. Makeup slowed her down a little, because she was still relearning the tricks she’d ignored as a teen and never mastered in the military, but she was ready for breakfast in a record thirty-five minutes, even so.
Downstairs, Liam was laying out the chafing dishes in the small dining room. He had all her favorites ready—bacon, low-cholesterol eggs, bagels with cream cheese, orange juice, and, best of all, free-flowing coffee. She didn’t know what Liam made his coffee with, but it had to be magical sparkles and crack beans, because it was the most delicious stuff she’d ever tasted. She was on her third cup when he sat down with his own breakfast.