by Alice Reeds
As nice as all of it looked, small rural areas with cottages and villas, farmhouses and somewhat newer-looking apartment buildings, it still didn’t explain why we were there, what was happening, what any of it meant.
First, we were told we were going to L.A., then that we were going home. But California didn’t look like this, and neither did Florida.
“Where the fuck are we?” Fiona asked next to me, her voice wavering. In classic Fiona style, she was trying to put up a tough front, but I knew better. She was scared. And slowly but surely, so was I.
“I don’t know,” I said again, just as unhelpful this time as before. How could I know anything more than she did—and yet my cluelessness still felt like another of my shortcomings, another sign of failure.
Hating this feeling of helplessness, this complete loss of control, I tried to focus on sorting out where we might be. The letters PL were on all the license plates, I’d noticed. Did that stand for a country, and if so, which one?
Winding streets led us through an even denser forest and up some kind of mountain or hill, the turns getting sharper, more precarious, until we took a right onto a smaller, private-looking road. Asphalt gave way to gravel, and then a big dark metal fence rose before us with a giant gate decorated with spikes and iron vines and roses. Just to the left of it was a security booth, the door opening as we drew closer. In a way it reminded me of home, the gated community that was my home. But the similarities stopped there.
A middle-aged man with thinning hair, wearing an impeccably clean uniform—white dress shirt, navy tie, and black pants, with polished shoes—stepped out of the booth and walked toward our car. We came to a halt before the gate, the driver lowering his window and greeting the security man in a language I couldn’t understand. It sounded Russian, or something similar, like a slightly whispered rustling, words full of sh and ch sounds with a rough edge to them.
“Welcome back home, Oscar and Kellie,” the security guard said with a smile toward us, in flawless English. Why is he using our new names? “It’s good to see you two again; you were gone a bit longer than expected, weren’t you? Well I’m glad you’re okay and made it back, so I won’t hold you up too long. Surely you’re tired and want to go inside and relax.”
Fiona and I just stared at him, which didn’t seem to bother him. He walked back to his booth casually, as if all of this was normal. But nothing he’d said made sense.
Soundlessly the metal gate began to swing inward, the driver closing his window before setting the car back in motion.
“Miles…” Fiona said, gripping my hand. She didn’t finish, and I didn’t need her to.
“I’m here,” I told her. Because this much I knew: “Whatever this is, we’re facing it together.”
Chapter Three
The Villa
The building we came to looked old, worn, and lived in, but also clean and maintained, the windows new and their frames a stark white against the gray walls.
We exited the car, unsure of what to do. Even if I couldn’t see any immediate danger, no wild animals or guns or other weapons, the wrongness of the whole situation made the hairs on my neck stand up.
“This is bullshit,” Fiona said, her tone sharp even at a whisper. I couldn’t agree more.
“Follow me,” McCarty announced, authoritative and commanding, her smile and caring nature from before gone. Had it all been merely an act until now? But she was FBI. It was her job to help. Maybe she was tired from traveling and everything would be explained to us later. I desperately tried to hold on to that version of the truth, unwilling to consider the less pleasant alternatives.
Just as we reached the top, the entrance door opened before us, revealing a woman in her mid-forties, maybe. She was tall and chubby, her rich brown hair gathered in a neat bun, her dress a light shade of blue, and her smile was open and welcoming.
“This is Pamela,” McCarty said, the way she did, though, making it seem like this was something we should know already. “She’s your assigned caretaker.”
Caretaker?
“Welcome back, my darlings,” Pamela said, and smiled widely and sweetly. With spread arms she walked over to us, then pulled Fiona into a hug. Fiona immediately froze and turned her head as much as she could to look at me, eyes wide, as if silently screaming for the moment to end. Pamela loosened her grip, but her hands remained on Fiona’s shoulders as she looked her up and down. “Kellie, dear, that fading dye job really doesn’t look nice anymore. Then again, I’m glad you’ll be able to go back to blond now. The blue never really suited you.”
“I’d disagree with you on that,” I said, pulling Pamela’s attention to me while Fiona’s hands balled into fists.
“Of course you would, dear, we all know how you feel about her. Rose-colored glasses and all, so precious,” she said cheerfully, but also a little condescending and judgmental.
What was her deal?
She let go of Fiona’s shoulders and moved toward me, but I raised my hands to keep her from hugging me. Instead she gripped my shoulders and analyzed my appearance like she had Fiona’s. “Dr. Bowie said weight loss was a possibility, but Oscar, dear, you look far too thin.” She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “We’ll fix that in no time.”
So many things were wrong about this moment I barely knew which to focus on first. The way she acted like some sort of parental figure, welcoming us back home after summer camp and trying to assess the damage to our appearances, thinking she had a say in any of it, the way she used our fake names like they were our real ones—maybe it was part of the protection program, so she actually thought those were our names because they were the only ones the FBI told her—or the sole fact that we were there in the first place and McCarty acted like we were supposed to know this woman. When she told us agents would be playing our parents, I had thought it would be something a little different.
“Enough of that for now, come on in.” She waved off her previous statement. “You must be tired after your flight.” Pamela ushered us into the villa, McCarty and the other agents filing inside behind us, then splitting off in different directions.
The entrance hall was just as grand as the villa itself, the ceiling at least three or four floors high, a silver chandelier hanging in the middle, simple yet obscenely oversized, the floor some kind of light polished parquet, and two sets of stairs sat on either side of the hall. In a few spots small CCTV cameras were fixed to the walls.
We took the stairs and then went down a hallway on the second floor. It looked just as luxurious as the entrance hall, the floor a darker parquet, though just as polished and shiny, the walls flawless white with simple stucco running neatly just beneath the ceiling, paintings of flowers and landscapes decorating some of the walls.
None of it rang any bells in my memory.
No one said a word the entire time; the only sounds were our shoes against the floor, some agent behind us coughing quietly, and McCarty’s nails clicking against the screen of her phone. Pamela continued to smile while Fiona seemed more and more annoyed by the minute, her body tense, her jaw tight, and her eyes ready to kill someone with just a look.
Suddenly she planted her feet. “What the fuck is this about? I’m not going one more step until we get some answers.”
Everyone stopped walking, and McCarty finally tore her eyes from her phone. I looked at the adults around us and then at Fiona, wondering how far she might go if they continued to ignore our questions.
“We’ve talked about such language before.” Pamela shook her head in equal parts disappointment and disapproval.
“We certainly have fucking not.”
She sighed. “You were doing better before you left, but it seems you’re back to old habits now.”
Fiona took a step toward Pamela. “Listen, lady, I don’t know what—”
“Stop.” She raised a palm toward her. “All I’m doin
g right now is leading you to your room so you can rest. There’s no reason to get angry with me.” Pamela was so calm, rational, almost unaffected by Fiona. Or maybe she simply knew that this approach was the only one that would keep the situation from getting out of hand. I’d seen what can happen when Fiona got worked up—it’s almost like this woman really did know her and knew exactly what to do. But how…
Pamela continued, “I’m sure once you’ve settled into your room and changed into your own clothes, relaxed a bit, you’ll feel much better, normal. Like yourself again. It’s clear you aren’t quite there yet.”
The silence that followed crackled with tension, my mind racing as I tried to wrap my head around all this.
“Fiona,” I said quietly, and gently squeezed her arm. “It’s not worth it. Let’s just…” I didn’t know how to finish that sentence, so it hung there between us like a noose.
She blinked, her muscles relaxing beneath my touch, and she huffed out a breath before shaking her head. “Whatever,” she said dismissively. Toward Pamela or me, though, I wasn’t sure.
We continued down the hallway until we finally stopped at a door on our right. It wasn’t special in any way—light-colored wood with a silver handle—it looked just like all the other doors, but what caught my attention were the names written across it.
Kellie & Oscar.
“Where’s Leon?” I asked, looking first at Pamela and then McCarty while mentally reprimanding myself for not having asked that question sooner. What a great brother I was.
“He’ll come by soon to talk to you,” Pamela said. “But for now, go on and make yourselves at home.” She was back to her overly cheerful self.
Quickly I exchanged a look with Fiona. She nodded for me to go in first.
The room wasn’t wide, rather long, stretching out around two dozen feet, with another room to our left splitting the back part of the room in half. Two beds stood to the right and left, each decorated with different bedding, a light beige carpet covering half the floor with some brown pattern across it.
I expected the room to feel cold and foreign, maybe even clinical in a way, like a hospital room, but instead it was cozy, inviting, and warm. Turning around, I realized that Pamela, as well as McCarty and the two agents who accompanied her, had disappeared, leaving us to whatever it was they thought we’d do now. Get familiar with a space we were supposed to be familiar with already?
“This isn’t possible,” Fiona said, walking to the bed on the left. She picked up the teddy bear that had been sitting there, and the way she held it, softly, carefully, made it seem as though it belonged to her. Her brows pulled together, creasing her forehead, her eyes narrowing a bit.
“What is it?” I asked.
“This is my teddy,” she said, her frown deepening. “I’ve had it as long as I can remember.”
“How do you know it’s yours and not just a similar one?”
“Here.” She held the teddy out toward me, so I took it. “Look at the back. It should have a set of purple stitches. My mo—I mean Carla. She had to sew up a hole here after our neighbor’s dog made a chew toy out of it.”
I found purple stitching, messy and in a crooked line, right where she said it would be.
“And the eyes,” she went on, her words coming out rushed and breathless now, “one blue and the other green. I don’t remember how it happened, but one of the eyes just fell off one day, so Carla replaced it.”
Mismatched eyes? Check. “Definitely yours, but… How did it get here?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Fiona took the teddy from me.
Trying to find some other clues, I went to the other bed. The bedding—light and dark gray, silky, almost metallic looking—was identical to what I had at home, but that could be a coincidence. Right? Whoever decorated the room might’ve chosen this because it was the most likely type of bedding a seventeen-year-old guy would have.
Before I could look around further, the door behind us opened. When I turned to see who it was, my breath caught in my throat.
Just yesterday, Leon had tried to kill me and was led into our jet by two agents. But he hadn’t been in control of his actions. He’d been given injections of something that controlled his mind, while we were on the yacht that took us from the island we’d been dumped on. Chances were, I would never forget the image of him fighting against himself, trying to help us and make us understand he was on our side somehow, though it was a battle he ultimately lost. His face had been pale and his eyes circled by shadows, yet now he looked closer to the brother I once knew, although more mature than I remembered him.
He resembled our father more than I did, his jaw sharper and more square, while mine was a bit softer, more like a balanced mix of our parents’ features. He had a faint, easy smile and big eyes, seeing and understanding, friendly and kind, his hair black like mine, though almost reaching his shoulders in the same messy, lightly wavy way, his clothes flawless and wrinkle-free—a pristine white button-down shirt, pressed charcoal pants, and polished black shoes.
My thoughts wandered left and right, frantically torn in different directions, shock and confusion, relief and anger. My vision warped and blurred out of focus, my heart barely beating. I’d waited so long for this, an impossible dream coming true.
Fiona laid her hand on my arm, her touch bringing me back to reality, breaking me out of this stupor-like state. Absentmindedly I raised my left hand and touched hers, a gesture as though I was reaching for a lifeline, something to hold on to so I wouldn’t drown. She was a life jacket I didn’t deserve.
“Leon,” I croaked, my throat, mouth, and tongue too dry to say anything more.
He just shook his head and sighed. “It’s Brandon.”
Wait, what? He got a fake name, too? But he said it like I was supposed to already know that, like it’s his real name. Before the murder attempt on the yacht, I hadn’t seen him in years. How was I supposed to know about anything that happened since? Let alone this…whatever this was.
“Anyway,” he said, “most of your belongings should be in the right places and nothing lost, though we had the staff clean and organize your room, since you’d left it in your all-too-typical chaos.” Leon’s eyes wandered to Fiona as he spoke about the supposed state of the room as if she were the one responsible for it. “Pamela should be back soon. It’s almost time for you to meet with Dr. Bowie.”
A doctor now, too? For what? The room spun a little. “Leon—Brandon. Can you tell me what’s going on? What is this place? Why are we here?”
Leon waved me off, something he never used to do when we were kids. Maybe it was only his outer appearance that was still the same.
“It’ll all make sense in due time, Oscar.” He turned and walked out. I was glad to see him looking healthier now, but the rest of that encounter? It just made me question whether my brother was as okay on the inside as he appeared on the outside. Or whether I really ever knew him at all.
Chapter Four
Freighter
It was like a déjà vu, standing there looking out on the horizon and this seemingly endless expanse of water around us. The sky so cloudless, a perfect light blue. The entire scene would be pretty under normal circumstances, but ours stopped being normal a long time ago.
“What should we do?” Fiona asked, her hands on the railing and her eyes fixed on the horizon, squinting.
“Explore?” I offered. “If we want to figure out how to get off this thing, maybe we should first make sure that there aren’t any obvious ways, no? Or that there really aren’t other people somewhere?”
She shrugged. “Better than just standing around in the blistering sun.”
A loud noise ripped through the air, like metal crashing against metal. Instinctively, my head whipped around toward the sound, my heart sinking in my chest. Well, I wanted some kind of sign that we weren’t alone, didn’t I?
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Maybe I was getting worked up over nothing. Maybe all of this was just an elaborate prank and the pranksters had just given themselves away?
“I guess we could start by checking out what that was and where it came from,” I said, and Fiona nodded.
We went back inside the ship, moving toward the back and looking around as we walked. I didn’t see anything that might’ve made that noise, no stray pieces of metal, no voices, nothing at all.
Hand in hand, we continued, past doors spaced out in equal intervals, some closed and others ajar, their portholes intact, though some were cracked. There was no writing on the doors, no indication of what hid behind them or where they might lead.
Another crash, louder this time, came from somewhere behind a door up ahead. Fiona and I flinched, then looked at each other. That didn’t sound good.
Hesitantly, we approached the door. “Should we go in?” I asked.
“Whoever is causing those noises, maybe they can give us some answers.”
“Okay.” I pushed the door open, and it let out a screeching protest with rusty hinges, so loud I could feel it in my teeth. Inside, the air was just as stale and stuffy as in the corridor, the floor dirty and oddly scratched, deep ridges running across it in a couple of places. Part of me hoped we’d hear something, anything that would indicate some kind of human activity, but there was nothing at all. Was this the wrong room? Slowly we moved farther inside. The only sound was the echo of our footsteps, eerie and haunting.
Wait—what was that? A flash of something. A figure. There and suddenly gone again.
“Did you see that?” Fiona asked.
“You saw it, too?” It was dark, more solid than a shadow but different from a person in black clothes, like it was low quality CGI or two-dimensional somehow, the edges fuzzy.
“I don’t like this,” I said quietly, more to myself than her, the hairs on my neck standing up.
“Come on.” Fiona tugged me along with her toward where the figure had disappeared. There was only one door there, the one it must’ve gone through. My heartbeat picked up speed as we exchanged a wide-eyed look, then pushed the door open.