Twisting Minds

by Tessonja Odette

  “You’re coming with me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I’ve never been arrested before, but all I can think about is Darren. Not even the cost to my credits or the possible extension to my probationary sentence clears him from my mind.

  I saw him tonight. He really is in trouble.

  I was right all along.

  But being right doesn’t help when I’m stuck in a jail cell. I’m the only one in it, which I could be grateful for, but the amenities in a Public cell make my apartment feel Elite. There’s nothing but a narrow bench affixed to the wall and a filthy toilet. No bed. No blankets. The cell is barred by a metal door with a thick glass window. My eyes are affixed on this window as I sit on the bench, waiting to hear what they will do with me next. I’m sure I’ll have to spend the night. But after that?

  I see movement through the window and I stand. As the door opens, I am shocked to see Dr. Shelia enter. An enforcer trails behind her, carrying an old folding chair. I’m too stunned to move or speak as the enforcer places the chair in the middle of the room then leaves, closing the door behind him.

  She sits on the folding chair, then motions toward the bench behind me. “Have a seat.”

  Didn’t we just do this a few hours ago? But I don’t argue. I return to the bench and cross my arms over my chest. “What are you doing here?” My voice comes out toneless.

  She eyes me with her cool stare. “It seems again I have to rescue you from your lack of self-care. Last time this happened, I thought we moved beyond it.”

  I lean forward. “My lack of self-care? Are you kidding me? I was right about Darren. I saw him tonight.”

  “Like when you saw your mother? On the same street, was it?”

  I’m so shocked, all I can do is stare at her. “This isn’t anything like when I saw my mom. He was actually there. He said my name, he told me to run.”

  “Your mother said your name.”

  “This was real, and I don’t know how else to prove—” An idea comes to mind. I’d be giddy if the circumstances weren’t so dire. “Watch my footage.”

  “Your footage?”

  I nod. “As my psychiatrist, you must have access to my Reality footage.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You’re an Elite, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but considering our professional relationship, I am not permitted to watch your Reality lifestream. It goes against the ethics of my job.”

  “I don’t care about the ethics! Someone’s life is in danger. If you watch, you’ll know I was right. You can report the incident to the Elite enforcement. Someone would listen to you!”

  “Not even an Elite has access to replay footage. Not unless your lifestream is picked up for a show.”

  My heart sinks. “There has to be a way. You could speak to my agent, Kori Wan. If she knew what was happening, she’d give you replay access.”

  “Do you want a show, Claire?”

  I blink a few times to clear my mind. Why did she change the subject? “A show? No. That’s the last thing I want.”

  “If you had a show that went viral, you’d be able to pay off your debts far faster than working. You’d be able to make your mother’s last words a reality. You’d be able to rise faster than ever before.”

  I shrug. “So?”

  “I could see the potential for all these mishaps to benefit your lifestream. There are few things more interesting than watching someone lose their mind on Reality viewing.”

  Heat rises to my face when I realize what she’s insinuating. “You think I’m making all of this up on purpose.”

  “Are you making it up on accident?”

  “I’m not making it up at all! I’m not making any of this up! A man I love is missing. He’s being tortured. And no one believes me.” I rise to my feet, turning my back toward her. “You know what? Maybe I do want a show. Because if a viral lifestream brings attention to the truth, the truth about Darren, then maybe someone will help him. Unlike you. You only pretend to help me, but all you want is for me to take your pills and become a graph of orderly rows making orderly progress, so you can feel like you’re good at your job. Never mind the reality of the situation, so long as the numbers look how you want them to.”

  “I’m trying to help you.” There’s hurt in her tone, but it doesn’t make me feel bad for what I said. “I have always been your advocate and continue to be now.”

  I whirl around and take a step toward her. “Then why are you trying to convince me I’m crazy? Why aren’t you doing everything you can to help Darren? If you want to help me, that’s what will.”

  Dr. Shelia’s face falls, but she doesn’t say anything. We eye each other for countless minutes, my chest heaving as I try not to consider the possible ramification for speaking to an Elite like I just did.

  Footsteps sound outside the cell, and an enforcer’s face appears in the window. He opens the door, breaking the tension. “Time’s up. Either she goes with you or she stays overnight.”

  My eyes go wide. After what I said, there’s no way she’ll do anything but leave me here.

  Dr. Shelia nods. “Sign her into my care. I’ll take her to her apartment.”

  I’m almost too shocked to follow Dr. Shelia out of the cell. When I finally get my legs moving, I trail behind her to the front desk where she signs a few documents, then outside where a sleek black car awaits. It must be hers. You never see cars in the Public District.

  A driver gets out and opens the door to the backseat where Dr. Shelia scoots in. “Come,” she says to me. I can hardly contain my trembling as I take the seat next to her. Never before has Dr. Shelia’s status come to my attention so strongly as it is now. She’s an Elite. She has a car. And a driver. A human driver. Only the wealthiest Elites splurge on hiring human drivers, as automated driving systems are far more affordable. That’s all that exists in the Select District.

  Yet despite her status, she works in the Select District with people like me. She’s come to my aid twice now outside of business hours. And I yelled at her.

  Shame heats my cheeks as the car rolls into motion. “Will there be any repercussions?”

  Dr. Shelia is looking out the window at the black streets. “No. I told them you are mentally unwell and are not responsible for certain actions in your current state. I have, however, promised them you are in recovery and are capable of being on your own without causing any more trouble for the precinct. I hope I’m right.” She turns her head toward mine and fixes me with her glare.

  I swallow hard. “I’m sorry for what I said back there. I didn’t mean it. But I am being honest about what I saw. Darren was there.”

  “I know you believe that’s the truth.”

  My chest feels tight and tears sting my eyes. She won’t believe me. What’s the use? I turn toward the window, staring at nothing until the car comes to a stop outside my building. I reach for the door but Dr. Shelia grabs my wrist.

  “Everything I do is in your best interest. You know that right?”

  I nod but don’t meet her eyes.

  “I want you to go inside, take your medication, and get some sleep. I promise you, if you do, you will feel so much better about everything.”

  I mutter my thanks as the driver opens my door. I hurry into the courtyard and up the stairs, passing my floor and racing all the way to the roof. There, I fall to my knees beneath the stars, the black sky, the crescent moon, and let it all out with silent tears. The tension between me and Dr. Shelia. The pain of seeing Darren again only to lose him seconds later. The humiliation of no one believing me.

  As I stand, I feel empty again and begin to slip back into numb. I take a step toward the staircase but feel something beneath my shoe. Nearly tripping, I shuffle aside, revealing a plastic cylinder, broken in two. I reach for it and hold it up to the moonlight.

  A wine cork.

  I pocket it as if it’s a piece of Darren. In a way, it is. It reminds me of the night we spent together, of the words he sa
id to me. It reminds me what I’m fighting for, no matter who believes me.

  I go to my room and throw my backpack on the floor, then take out my reader to give me some light. My eyes fall on the bottles of pills on my desk. I grimace at them, then sweep them into my wastebasket. I stare into the darkness of my room. And I come up with a plan.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The next day is my day off, but I head to the Select District. As far as I know, my city clearance remains in effect every day of the week. When I get off the rail, I head to the Salish. I take a deep breath then enter the back room, the locker room, then the kitchen. A dishwasher stands at the sink, but it isn’t Molly. It’s too early for her shift to start, and she’s not who I came here to see, anyway.

  I wait until Mr. Evans is finished delivering orders to the cooks before I approach him. He looks surprised when he sees me, then irritation flashes over his face. “Here to beg for your job back? You’ve already been replaced.”

  I try to keep my shoulders from sinking beneath his gaze. Confidence. I need to show confidence. “That’s not why I’m here. It’s more of a personal matter. Well, a bit of a legal matter too.”

  He furrows his brow; clearly, he wasn’t expecting that. “What does that mean?”

  “Do you have time to talk? It won’t take long, but it’s really important.” I lower my voice. “The information is of a sensitive nature, so I’m not supposed to talk about it in front of others.”

  His jaw shifts back and forth, then his eyes flick to the clock on the wall. “Fine. After the lunch rush. I’ll talk to you in the locker room. Wait there.”

  I try to hide my disappointment. That’s at least two hours from now. But what else am I going to do? I nod, then go back to the locker room, taking a seat in one of the chairs. While I wait, I go over my story in my head. Confidence. That’s all it takes.

  My fingertips are sore from gnawing on them for two hours by the time I hear someone on the other side of the locker room door. I straighten as Mr. Evans enters and try to smile graciously. “Thank you for agreeing to talk. This means a lot to me. And to the investigation.”

  Mr. Evans pauses, frowning, before sitting on the bench in front of the row of lockers. “Investigation?”

  I make my expression grave. “An upper Select who works at one of the other restaurants has gone missing.”

  “What other restaurant?”

  I shake my head. “I’m not allowed to say. Not until the situation is made public. First, they need more information.”

  He eyes me, looking skeptical. “How is it you are involved in a legal investigation over a missing Select?”

  “It’s a long story, and I can’t share the details. All I can say is that I know the identity of the last person who saw her alive.”

  “Alive? So this person is dead? Was she murdered?”

  Good. He’s alarmed. “I can’t say, and I’ve probably already said too much. Since I know who saw her last alive, I’m considered a partial witness. I need to tell them everything I know about the suspect—I mean witness. I shouldn’t call him a suspect. But he might have vital information about the victim’s last whereabouts.”

  Mr. Evans’ eyes widen. I hope I sound convincing. I can only thank my youthful fascination with precinct Reality shows if even a fraction of what I’m saying sounds right. “If this is a proper investigation,” Mr. Evans says, “then why are you the one gathering information, rather than the investigators?”

  I sigh. “Since I’m a probationary, I only get one chance to make my statement and I’m responsible for gathering all the information that supports it. If I’m missing anything vital, I could be penalized.”

  “Why come to me?”

  “You’re an important person in the restaurant community, I’m sure. You must know a lot of people at the other restaurants.”

  He shrugs, but I can tell his ego has been stroked.

  “Do you know who supervises the cooks at the Golden Tempest?”

  He squints, as if thinking, then nods. “Yeah. Aron Dwight.”

  “Who would his boss be?”

  “The general manager is Chris Messinger.”

  I hide my grin. Names are good. “Do you happen to have contact information for either of them?”

  He scratches the side of his head. “I think so. Are either of them a suspect?”

  “I told you, I can’t say. But I can promise you that getting their information may be instrumental in convincing the witness to talk.”

  He sighs, then reaches in his pocket for his reader. It’s an older hologram model, nothing like my blocky reader, but not quite as fancy as something an Elite or upper Select would have. He taps the hologram, scrolling through blocks of illuminated text and icons until he stops at one. He gives me the contact code for the supervisor, then for the general manager.

  I’m nearly bouncing with glee that my ruse has been successful and have to try with all my might to keep my face composed as I thank him for his time. I leave the locker room and exit the building, making my way to the Golden Tempest. Again, I lurk in the alleyway, ready to confront the first person who opens the back door of the restaurant.

  This time, it’s a young woman hauling empty boxes. I wait until she finishes stacking them against the wall before I make my presence known.

  “Hi. Is Mitchell working today?”

  Her eyes widen, her skin going a shade paler as she sees me. “You don’t work here. What are you doing?”

  I keep my tone nonchalant. “I’m waiting for Mitchell.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “He’s off today. He won’t be back until Saturday.”

  I let my face fall. “Oh. I was hoping he was working today.” I grasp my stomach, let my eyelids flutter. “I’m so hungry.”

  Understanding softens her face, followed by a heavy sigh. “He gives you food too? He’s going to get us all in trouble if he keeps doing that.”

  “Does he do it a lot?”

  “More than he should,” she says under her breath. She eyes me a few seconds before taking a step closer. “Look, I really shouldn’t get involved, but if you’re hungry I can probably snag you a bread roll.”

  I shake my head. “No, please. I don’t want to impose. Mitchell owes me, so I don’t feel bad when he gives me leftovers. But I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. Mitchell will be here Saturday, though?”

  “Yeah, he works the breakfast and lunch shift that day, I think.”

  Damn. I work until seven that day. “What about Sunday?”

  “He’s here all day Sunday. And it’s our supervisor’s day off.” She winks at me, then returns through the door.

  Three more days. I have to wait three more days to enact the rest of my plan, but I can do it. It’s all I can do.

  The alternative is wondering if Darren is still alive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I return to numb so I can survive the next two days without losing my mind. On Sunday morning, I banish the numbness and find my determination instead. I get ready, then return to the city and the Golden Tempest. I find my spot in the alley. And I wait. I jolt upright each time the door opens, watching unfamiliar faces appear from behind it, taking out garbage, piling boxes. I won’t approach anyone who isn’t Mitchell or the girl from the other day. I don’t want him to expect me.

  The lunch rush comes and goes, and there’s still no sign of him. I might have to request his presence after all. Another hour passes before the door opens again.

  My breath catches in my throat when I recognize Mitchell. I approach him as he tosses a bag of garbage into the bin. “I need to talk to you.”

  He turns around, irritation flashing on his face. “You again? Tarla told me some girl was looking for me on my day off. What, are you stalking me or something?”

  “Yeah. Now tell me about Darren.”

  He throws his hands in the air. “I already told you. I don’t know—”<
br />
  I take a step forward, turn the screen of my reader toward him. “Your supervisor, Mr. Dwight, that’s his contact code, isn’t it?” I pull my reader away, but not before he’s able to glean a hint of what I’ve written in the text box. “He wouldn’t like to learn about you stealing from the restaurant, would he?”

  Mitchell presses his lips together, cheeks blazing. “I don’t steal from the restaurant.”

  “You do,” I say. “You give leftovers to Publics and probationaries. If that isn’t stealing, I don’t know what is.”

  He puts his hands on his hips. “Send the message. He doesn’t know you. Without proof, it’ll be nothing but a nuisance to him.”

  I pull my lips into an innocent smile. “I have proof. Darren told me about you and what you do for him. Your coworker also admitted to you giving food away.”

  “That isn’t proof.”

  “It is when you’re being followed 24/7 by invisible cameras.”

  His eyes go wide.

  I take another step toward him. “You see, I’m a Reality candidate. I’m being monitored at all times, which means there is video footage of everything anyone has ever said in my presence. That includes Darren and your coworker. My lifestream may be inaccessible to any of us, but if a legal matter were involved, you can bet my footage will be under review. And if all that goes down, what will happen to you?”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  Another smile. “I’m not. I’m sure you’re a nice guy, but I’m willing to do whatever it takes to figure out what has happened to Darren, even if that means taking you down with me.”

  Mitchell fixes me with a hateful gaze but says nothing.

  I click the screen of my reader, pull up another contact. “I have Mr. Messinger’s contact as well. Do I need to get the manager of the restaurant involved too?”

  “What do you want?” he barks.

  I lower my voice. “I want you to tell me what you know about Darren.”

  “I already told you—”

  I raise my reader. “I already have the message drafted out. Do I hit send?” Slowly, inch by inch, I creep my fingertip to the screen of my reader.