by Alice Reeds
“You wound me with your cruelty.” I tried to make my words sound as dramatic as possible, but a chuckle escaped toward the end. “Then again, you’re right. You’re the most amazing person in this room.”
“You’re impossible,” she said, rolling her eyes, but still laughed and bumped her shoulder against mine. A refreshing piece of normalcy in a steaming pile of awful.
Across the room, standing against one of the walls, was Leon, his hands folded behind his back, his eyes scanning the dining hall as though he were some kind of chaperone making sure no one was about to start a food fight. His face was completely expressionless, like he was just a machine in idle mode. A few feet away from him stood another guy dressed the same way, the same posture, blank face, and scanning eyes. This was worse than high school; it was juvenile detention or prison, the space guarded by our jailers, and, somehow, we’d all sinned enough to get a life sentence. The fact that all of them had holsters with guns strapped to their belts didn’t help much, either, the memory of that cold metal against my skin sending a shiver down my spine.
Between the guards, I noticed a woman, her face oddly familiar, though it took me a moment to figure out where I’d seen her before.
Gail?
No. It couldn’t be her. Gail was dead—killed by McCarty in an effort to save us back on the yacht after we’d escaped off the island, though really, we hadn’t escaped anything, and neither did she save us. But I’d thought Leon was dead, too, until not that long ago. I turned away, closed my eyes for a moment, and then looked again with dread pooling in my stomach.
And she was gone.
Relieved, I exhaled. Maybe I’d been imagining things, the Villa and all its weirdness just getting under my skin.
In the end, much to our dismay, all the tables were already taken. Some by bigger groups taking up all the space, some only half of it, yet none of them were free nor did anyone look like they were about to get up and leave, either. Maybe this was the cliché moment where, in a teen movie, we’d decide to eat on our own in the bathroom or something, but that just sounded gross.
But, unlike the movies, even those sitting in groups didn’t look like they were having fun among themselves. Instead some just sat there with their eyes looking at nothing in particular, their faces blank, their bodies unmoving as though they were statues. Others picked at their food quietly but flinching like startled animals whenever someone made a slightly louder noise. And even those who talked stayed quiet with their eyes cast onto the table before them or strictly on one another, barely anyone looking around, all of them avoiding pulling attention onto themselves.
Did some kind of punishment wait for you if you did anything for the guards to notice you? Had they ever shot someone for misbehaving? Was that why the floor was marble and not wood, something that could be easily cleaned of blood? I didn’t even want to know.
“They look okay,” Fiona said, and nodded toward a table occupied by two girls. They looked like they were around our age, or maybe a year older, sitting close together while they talked about something.
They looked up at us just as we reached their table, but before I could ask if we could sit with them, one of them spoke, though still keeping her voice down. “Now would you look at what the wind has blown right back into the Villa.”
She…remembered us? Or was this just another part of the scheme? I blinked, unsure of what to say or do. Fiona stayed silent as well, probably thinking the same thing I was.
“Don’t be strangers, sit down,” the other one said and motioned toward the table. “No need to act all shy, it’s not like we don’t know one another or whatever.”
That might’ve been true, or maybe not. I had never seen either of them before in my life. But Oscar might’ve.
“And yet I can’t seem to remember your name,” Fiona said with a chuckle I knew she tried to make sound genuine. Instead it came across forced and stiff. While she spoke, we sat down across from them.
“Playing the forgetful card, are we? If you insist.” She smiled even wider before continuing, “I’m Wakaba Orłowska, a complicated last name to match a first name no one can ever remember, either.”
While I could place her first name as certainly Asian, a fact supported by her monolid eyes, her last name pointed toward a Slavic country, though I attempted to guess at neither. Her skin was tan, though lighter than mine, her eyes a bluish green, and her hair dark brown and straight.
“I’m Ivy Carver,” the other girl said. She sounded like she could be American, her skin a rich brown and her hair curly, half braided and half in a poofy ponytail. “And you’re Kellie and Oscar, we know.”
While Ivy spoke, I noticed Fiona’s expression change, a frown pulling her brows together. Did she recognize Ivy’s name, or Ivy herself somehow?
Wakaba used our silence to look at Fiona and then at me, her expression assessing, evaluating, before she smiled and chuckled, amused. At least someone found this scene funny; I just thought it was bizarre. “Well, it seems like Briola has done quite the number on the two of you, wow.”
“Had to happen eventually, right?” Ivy looked at Wakaba, then at us, and shrugged, her tone far too casual for what she’d said. “Just a question of time, and it seems like you two were the unfortunate ones who ended up a little more messed up than even they intended.”
“What? What do you mean by that?” The words escaped me before I realized I’d spoken them.
“Briola decided to put a ton of hope into the two of you because reasons, who even knows,” Wakaba began to explain. “They thought you would be the key to whatever breakthrough they’re after, but it seems like shit didn’t work out, huh?”
Her words matched what McCarty told us, that we’d been chosen based on specific criteria that fit into their grand plan. Fiona for her titles, a champion across all competitions she’d fought in, and me because of my intelligence coupled with a mental weakness…fantastic.
But why were we special? Why would Briola place all that hope in us specifically and not in Ivy and Wakaba? Were they different from us, here for other reasons, or simply part of different trials? The more I learned, the more questions I had.
“Ivy,” Fiona said as though only now breaking out of some kind of stupor. Ivy’s eyes flicked toward her, her eyebrows raised curiously. “Is your father’s name Joe, or Joseph?”
Ivy nodded with a huff. “Yes, indeed. Would you look at that, maybe you’re not completely fried after all!”
“Maybe we shouldn’t judge them this harshly,” Wakaba argued, her hand on Ivy’s arm but her eyes on us. “Kind of a shame, though, isn’t it, since these two were regarded as the perfectly matched two, the smartest and strongest. Or Kellie was.” She smirked. “Oscar still has his good looks.”
Ivy and Wakaba laughed, and I just wanted to leave. Of course. Their words were like my father’s, a complete disregard of me as a person, and instead I was reduced to nothing but a brain-dead guy with good looks. Because what else even mattered? While looking good might’ve been helpful in Florida, it wouldn’t do anything for us now.
My father thought I was useless, and if I were to believe Wakaba’s words, everyone at the Villa thought just the same.
Once their giggling died down, they went back to their food. Hopefully they’d run out of ways to make us feel more out of place than we already did. I wasn’t hungry anymore. As inconspicuously as I could, I looked around, sought out Leon, but he was gone, the spot where he’d stood now taken by someone else. Gail hadn’t reappeared, either, a reassuring fact.
“If you don’t eat, ideally finish it all, they won’t let you leave,” Wakaba said and pointed her fork at my plate. “Wouldn’t want us to become too weak or, God forbid, sick, because what purpose would we be able to serve then? Ain’t no one wants unhealthy lab rats, right?” She rolled her eyes and shook her head.
Fiona and I exchanged a look,
lost for words. I ate but didn’t taste a single bite, waited for it to be over, hoped I wouldn’t throw it all back up again just thinking about everything around us. Time seemed to crawl, the hall suddenly too loud, cutlery against porcelain plates, someone sneezing, and another person yelping as they almost tripped and let go of their tray, earning them a cold stare from the closest guard.
Staying calm, or at least appearing that way, became harder and harder, figuring out who exactly we should be portraying as we moved through the Villa so much more complicated than I thought it’d be. At school I could rely on the stereotype of who everyone expected me to be, but here? Who was Oscar? Who was I?
A bell rang, reminding me of the one we had back at school that signaled our breaks coming to an end. The volume around us rose as people began to get up and move across the room, groups continuing their quiet conversations as they disposed of their trays and left, others lingering behind to avoid the traffic. Across the table from us, Ivy and Wakaba exchanged a look and then got up as well, their plates empty.
Wakaba walked away with both their trays while Ivy took a different route, one that led her past me. I didn’t really know why until she slowed down, bent forward just enough to be closer to my ear, and then whispered, “Don’t believe anything they tell you.”
Then she was gone, catching up to Wakaba. She took her hand and they moved on without looking back.
Chapter Twelve
The Villa
“This is literally impossible,” Fiona said the second we were back in our room and the door was closed. She ran both her hands across her face and into her hair.
“Which part exactly? There were several crazy and weird things about that breakfast.”
Her voice sounded nearly hollow as she answered. “Your brother isn’t the only one who came back from the dead.”
When would this nightmare stop? Had Fiona seen Gail, too?
“Does this have something to do with Ivy?” I asked, equal parts confused and concerned. “You looked a bit weirded out when she introduced herself.”
“That’s one way to put it.” Fiona groaned and moved her head as though she wanted to relax the muscles in her neck, before looking up at me. “Ivy Carver, right? Like Joe Carver?”
Joe was the one who’d found us, got us off the island, the man who kept an eye on Fiona back in Florida, and who’d died to save my life. But his daughter? We’d found her dead…
“You can’t be saying what I think you are.”
“Ivy is Joe’s daughter. The same Ivy we saw half rotten in the pit on the island, the same one we’d seen Joe cry over. I know it sounds crazy, about as crazy as Leon still being alive, but there’s a resemblance between her and Joe in both her appearance and her name. She was also wearing the I necklace we’d seen on her body on the island.”
Though she always claimed she didn’t care much about most people, it amazed me time and time again how attentive she was to details, noticed the small stuff, things I certainly hadn’t paid any attention to. It was one of the things about her that intrigued me, drew me in, and made it so easy for me to trust her as much as I was brave enough to.
And yet, what she claimed, it sounded barely possible considering what we’d seen on the island.
“Maybe it’s just a coincidence? Or a way to mislead us somehow, though I’m not sure for what purpose, well, other than confusing us,” I offered, but at this point I wasn’t sure if I still believed in the proper meanings of possible and impossible. If Gail were to suddenly walk through the door, actually alive instead of my mind just playing tricks, I doubted that would surprise me the way it should.
If this weren’t happening to me, I wouldn’t believe any of it.
“I’m sure she’s the same girl,” Fiona insisted, “though I have no idea how that’s possible. Then again, how is any of this?”
“The only plausible option that comes to mind is that maybe Joe was in on this all along? What if, since Leon is alive, Ivy is alive…what if Joe is alive, too?”
Fiona shook her head, her mouth a straight line. “No way. Even if I have no idea who I am now, one thing I do know for sure is that Joe was one of the good guys. Fuck, Miles, unlike Leon and Ivy, we actually saw Joe die—he stepped in front of a bullet for you! How about we keep his name out of the dirt?”
I raised my hands in surrender. I certainly hadn’t planned on picking a fight with her, I just wanted to voice all options. And even if I were right, it didn’t necessarily mean that he was in on it willingly. But I knew how much Joe meant to her, the subject obviously touchy, and how much I owed the man. “It was only a theory,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.” She smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes, and then moved closer and intertwined her fingers with mine. “No fighting.”
I shook my head. “No fighting.”
“Tell me, what did Ivy say to you before she and Wakaba left?”
I rolled my shoulders, flinching at the brief shot of pain from my arm, and then nodded toward the carpet. Together we sat down, our backs against the frame of my bed. I’d certainly imagined living together a little differently.
“Ivy said don’t believe anything they tell you.”
“What?” Fiona snapped, surprise and confusion in her voice. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
She thought for a moment. “It sounds similar to the message you left yourself in the notebook, doesn’t it?”
Yes. “Believe nothing, all is not right.”
“Exactly,” she said with a nod, a shade of sadness creeping into her voice. “At this point I have no idea what we can and can’t believe anymore. Part of me still can’t quite grasp that this is real.”
“Same.”
Fiona sighed, closed her eyes briefly, and leaned her head back against the bed. “And yet one thing I can’t believe in particular, even though it’s all so obvious now, is my mo—” She flinched at her own slip of words, a grimace rushing across her face, her nose scrunched, and eyes pressed shut, hard. “Like, how can someone be this good, act so perfectly and seamlessly, for so long? Without even the smallest fissure or fracture in their act? I was so stupid, so blind. How could I just not realize anything in all this time?”
“Maybe something changed along the way?”
“Don’t say that.”
“But…”
“No,” she said firmly, the expression in her eyes hardening and guarded, and she pulled her hand away. Suddenly mine felt too empty, foreign. “If that were the case, wouldn’t she have done something? Anything to stop it, to prevent this?”
“Not if she knew there was nothing she could do even if she wanted to.”
Fiona glared at me. “Bullshit. If she cared enough, she would’ve done something, but she obviously didn’t, since we’re here, I’m here.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. She’d allowed herself to open up like this, and clearly I’d gone too far. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Thank you. But the point is that the entry and Ivy were right. We can’t trust any of this, or anyone. It’s all just some kind of construct meant to confuse us, make us play along the way they want us to like good little puppets.”
“Am I the only one who thought Ivy and Wakaba acted incredibly put on throughout most of breakfast?”
“No, I thought so, too,” Fiona agreed, her expression finally melting back into something more relaxed. Crisis averted? “I’m not quite sure yet what that means—if Ivy approaching you was just part of the act or a genuine gesture to help—but I want to keep an eye on them.”
…
“Have you ever been in Berlin?” Doc Bowie asked later that same day, his eyes wandering from me to Fiona and then back, calculating, watching for anything that would give us away, or give him some kind of cue he was looking for.
“No,” I said, just
like the last time.
“I don’t know,” Fiona said, and my head snapped around to look at her. Her eyes were on Doc Bowie, her forehead creased. Did she know something I didn’t, or remember something? Or did she just want to see his reaction, test him the way he had tested us?
“Could you elaborate on that?” Doc Bowie asked, his tone sounding less bored than before.
Fiona shook her head, her ponytail going swish-swish across her back, and repeated her words again. “I don’t know.”
“Well, that can sometimes happen. Nothing out of the ordinary. Memories can blur with other things in the mind—dreams, fantasies, things seen in movies or read in books—and make it harder to distinguish between what really happened and what didn’t. It should become clearer after a while.”
My gut told me there was more to the story than just that. His words were too sterile and vague. But the more important part was that this was the second time he’d asked about Berlin. There had to be more to it. The notebook entry, the keycard, and now these questions. The trip to Berlin had been our trial; it was the only logical conclusion.
Perhaps he was asking us about Berlin to dig into our minds in ways he couldn’t otherwise? This wasn’t something that’d show up in our bloodwork or on a brain scan. Our memories weren’t something he could forcefully rip from us. Perhaps he could erase them, even replace them, but he couldn’t just take them from our minds.
“Why are you asking this?” I didn’t expect a clear answer. That’d be too easy.
Doc Bowie smiled as though trying to come across as innocent, like he could make all of this appear trivial with just that look. “No particular reason,” he said. “It doesn’t even really matter.”
He’d said that too casually for it to be true. There was definitely more to this than he wanted to tell us, but…maybe we didn’t need him to.
“Before you leave, I have one more question for you,” he continued, his hands folded on the table before him. “Tell me about breakfast. I heard from some others you seemed a bit off, almost spooked.”