Summer whispered back. “Connor’s my fiancé, Dad. I love him.”
“I’m sorry. If you love him, and he makes you happy, I’m happy.”
“He does.”
“Great.” Patrick took a breath and said, “I love you very much, Summer. You’re the most important person in the world to me. I want you to know that.”
She reached out and hugged her dad. “I love you too, Dad.”
They disengaged after an abnormally long hug, Patrick holding extra tight.
“Are you okay?” Summer asked.
“I’m great.”
Summer thought about telling Patrick about the baby, but she was still raw from telling Connor and not getting the reaction she’d hoped, thereby possibly confirming Patrick’s criticisms. The last thing she needed was more doubt.
“I should get going,” Patrick said.
Summer smiled at her dad. “Thank you for stopping by.”
Patrick kissed her on the cheek and left the apartment, saying goodbye to Connor on the way.
Summer readied her dinner, pouring herself some water and making a small salad to go with the pizza. That makes it healthy, right? A few minutes later, Summer joined Connor in the living room. He sat on the couch waiting for her, the movie on Pause, the opening credits on the screen. She set her plate and glass on the coffee table. A plain white envelope sat on the table.
“I restarted the movie,” Connor said.
Summer kissed him on the cheek and sat next to him. “That was sweet of you.” She gestured to the envelope. “What’s that?”
“Your dad gave it to me on his way out, told me it was for you. By the way, did you tell him?”
Summer grabbed the envelope and opened it. “It’s too early. Most people at least wait until the second trimester.” She read the handwritten letter.
Summer,
I’m going away for a while. I’ve done some things that I don’t regret, things that are good for humanity, but these things have gotten me in a bit of trouble with the government. If I stayed in the States, I could be in serious danger.
Please don’t try to find me. When it’s safe, I’ll find you. I don’t know when or where that’ll be. Don’t worry about me. I have a plan.
I love you so much. You’ll always be in my thoughts.
Dad
40
Naomi on CNN
The CNN tech helped Naomi with her earpiece. She sat behind her desk, a camera pointed at her. Vernon and Katherine stood off to the side, out of the shot.
Another tech said, “You’re on in five, four, three, two, one.” He pointed to Naomi.
The CNN anchor spoke into her ear. “I’m your host, Brooke Bixler, and this is CNN News Tonight. We have Democratic congresswoman Naomi Sutton with us, live from Capitol Hill. Welcome, Mrs. Sutton.”
“Thank you for having me, Brooke,” Naomi replied, her tone and expression solemn.
“Earlier today, 448 people died in a series of fires across the mid-Atlantic, mostly related to poorly maintained heating equipment. Who’s to blame for these tragedies, and how do we prevent them in the future?”
“This was a tragedy of epic proportions. My heart and prayers go out to each and every victim and their families. These Americans were failed by multiple egregious acts of incompetence, corruption, and greed. First, there’s a shortage of firefighters and equipment in poor areas of this country. In the case of Luray, Virginia, it took the firefighters nearly ninety minutes to arrive on scene. These firefighters fought valiantly, but they’re expected to cover too much area with only one truck, and, when multiple fires broke out this morning, they did the best they could, but they can’t be in three places at the same time. It’s a travesty that we still spend over one trillion Fed Coins a year on the military, even though the world’s been at peace for over a decade, but we can’t fund adequate firefighters to protect our citizens.”
Naomi stared into the camera as she spoke. “Second, most of the casualties came from Housing Trust–owned and Housing Trust–maintained low-income housing. This is a perfect example of corporate greed in action. Housing Trust is paid by the US government to construct and maintain these homes. They save money by neglecting the maintenance and providing the worst living conditions they can get away with. Then, when there’s a disaster or a series of lawsuits, they go to the Federal government for a bailout. They’re privatizing the profits and socializing the losses.”
“Do you think Housing Trust should be nationalized?” Brooke Bixler asked.
“Housing Trust is already a Government Sponsored Enterprise, but technically the federal government is forbidden from an outright nationalization. But we can buy the company with Fed Coins and assume control. Taking care of people isn’t meant to be a for-profit business. Comfortable and safe housing for Americans should be an inalienable right.”
“What would you say to those who believe we can’t afford to provide and to maintain suitable housing for everyone?”
Naomi frowned at the camera. “That’s nonsense. We have more than enough empty houses to house every homeless person in America. And, with a fraction of the military budget, we could assume control of Housing Trust and then repair and upgrade every building to a standard befitting the dignity of the American people.”
41
Derek Almost Eight Months Later
Since the fire, Derek’s farm had been foreclosed by the Bank of China. With the destruction of the Hillside Grove Apartments in Luray, he’d had to move elsewhere to take advantage of low-income housing, which, for him, was really no-income housing, if you didn’t count UBI. Low-income housing wasn’t free, just affordable, with most of the residents paying with their UBI. He had found an apartment in Washington, DC, to be closer to the police station investigating April’s disappearance. Even with the government subsidies, the apartment still consumed over half of Derek’s monthly UBI.
Derek flushed the toilet and washed his hands. Even at just after seven in the morning, the air was stale, humid, and suffocating. On the hottest days, the building’s air-conditioning often ceased to function or simply spewed warm air from the vents. Derek was equipped for this hardship. He’d spent most of his life working in the heat.
The apartment had one tiny bathroom with a shower stall. He ran his hand through his beard. He was swarthy and unkempt, his wavy hair touching his collar and his beard covering his face and neck. Men on the street occasionally spoke to him in Arabic, even though he didn’t speak a word. Derek padded to the kitchen.
Apart from the bathroom, the apartment was one room, roughly twenty-by-twenty. A single bed sat along the wall opposite the window. His clothes were kept in two old suitcases under the bed. A table for two sat near the kitchen, his old laptop on the tabletop.
He cooked eggs and toast for breakfast, with a banana and a large glass of questionable water from the tap. His UBI payment was barely enough to survive. If he wasn’t careful, he might not be able to eat toward the end of the month. He bought the healthiest but cheapest food he could afford. Sometimes he had to go for cheap calories at the expense of his health. He ate a lot of bread, peanut butter, eggs, milk, bananas, and whatever veggies and meat were on sale at the time. He was actually broke at this moment, but he’d gone shopping yesterday and was expecting his UBI payment to post today.
While eating his breakfast, his phone dinged with a text. There it is. Derek checked the text.
SSA:
Social Security Administration
Date: 7-22-2051
UBI Number: 432-05-272
Derek Reeves
2200 E St. SE
Apartment 30
Washington, DC 20020
Your UBI benefit has been deposited into your account and is available for use.
Information About Current Universal Basic Income Benefits
Your current UBI benefit is 1,046.00 (We must round down to the whole Fed Coin).
Current Applied Additions and Deductions
UBI Sta
rting Benefit: 2400
Dependents: None +0
Gender: Male -500
Ethnicity: Caucasian -500
Microchip Implantation: No -200
Criminal Record: None +600
Social Credit Score: 43 -428.22
Monetary Credit Score: 257 -325.32
While he ate, Derek summoned an AutoLyft with his phone. He finished his breakfast, washed the dishes, and left the apartment. He took the stairs. The elevator had been broken since he arrived, but the old brick building was only four stories anyway.
Outside, the temperature was already in the eighties, barely a cloud in the sky. Derek checked the time on his phone—8:05 a.m. The AutoLyft economy car parked along the curb, the exact time the app had stated. A beautiful young woman exited the vehicle, bleary-eyed, but dressed to the nines.
“Good morning, Derek,” said the dark-skinned woman.
“Morning, Destiny,” Derek replied, passing his neighbor on the way to the same AutoLyft, the AI smart enough to limit empty trips. Derek waved his chip card at the rear passenger door. It unlocked, and Derek entered the vehicle. He’d already set his destination, so the car drove toward Georgetown, eventually parking at the police station.
Derek went inside the precinct. Facial recognition cameras and a heavy-duty tablet built into the reception desk greeted him. A few officers milled around behind the bulletproof glass. The tablet was scratched, no doubt the object of frustration. Derek waved his chip card over the tablet, letting the department know he was here for his appointment.
Despite Detective Barrett’s annoyance, Derek kept a standing appointment with the detective every Monday at 8:30 a.m. for the past eight months, each meeting lasting approximately two seconds, just long enough to say, “Nothing new.”
Derek sat in the empty waiting area, which was nothing more than a line of plastic chairs. Despite their agreed-upon time, Barrett often made Derek wait up to an hour before delivering those same two words. A tall woman in a pantsuit approached the waiting area, making a beeline for Derek. He stood, his heart rate increasing, wondering if they had found April.
“Mr. Reeves?” she asked.
“Yes?”
“I’m Detective Osgood.”
They shook hands.
“Where’s Detective Barrett?” Derek asked.
“He retired,” she replied.
Derek cocked his head in confusion. “Why didn’t he tell me that last week?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have any news about April Murphy?”
She nodded. “I’ve moved her case from active to cold.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, we won’t work on the case unless we find new evidence.”
“How are you gonna find new evidence if you’re not lookin’ for it?”
She placed her hands on her hips. “We probably won’t.”
“So, that’s it?”
The detective spoke faster, obviously eager to end the conversation. “I appreciate your interest in this case, but I won’t have these weekly meetings like Detective Barrett. It’s a waste of my time and yours.”
“What if I only came by once a month?”
She shook her head. “No, Mr. Reeves.”
“Please, Detective.”
“Have a nice day.” She turned and went back into the restricted area of the police station.
Derek went back outside and sat in his appointed AutoLyft, thinking about April. He’d been fixated on finding her. He knew that. But what else did he have? The farm was gone. So were Ricky and Carlos. His parents were dead. He had no wife. His only child, Lindsey, was a Roth now. He tapped on his phone, searching for Rex Barrett, Washington, DC. Maybe Barrett can talk more about the case now that he’s retired.
Derek found three listings on a People Finder site. Two were too young, but one was fifty-four, which seemed about right. He spent ten Fed Coins to purchase the report that promised Barrett’s address and familial information. Apparently, Detective Barrett lived in Northeast on Trinidad Avenue and was married with two college-age kids. Derek sent the AutoLyft toward Northeast.
The AutoLyft stopped in front of the four-unit brick building on Trinidad Avenue. Derek walked to the front door and pulled. It was locked. He pressed the buzzer for unit three. No answer. He tried several more times. Still no answer. Derek sat on the stoop and waited. Nearly an hour later, an old woman exited the front door.
Derek stood and said, “Hi—”
“Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it,” the woman said.
“I was lookin’ for Detective Barrett. I’m an old friend. I thought he lived here?”
“Used to. Whole family up and moved out a few days ago. They kept me up all night.”
Derek furrowed his brows. “They moved at night?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Any idea where they went?”
“I asked his wife that. She wasn’t real specific. Just said Central America. It was obvious she didn’t wanna talk about it. Can you believe that? We’ve been neighbors for twenty-two years, and she won’t even tell me where they’re going. You think you know people.”
42
Jacob’s Swiss Family Reunion
Jacob stood by himself, the sun warming his face, the manicured lawn soft under his feet. His hands rested on the wrought-iron railing as he gazed at the sparkling blue lake below and the Swiss Alps in the background. His extended family laughed and talked and plotted and schemed. It was in the mid-eighties, hot enough for most of his relatives to retreat under the outdoor gazebo, but he welcomed the sun and the soothing effect of her rays.
Lindsey walked away from the lake, a towel around her body, her hair wet. She walked on the forest path alone, hugging herself. The family reunion hadn’t been easy on her. She had received a few snide comments and thinly veiled insults. She’d overheard one cousin tell another that she was a gold digger, just like her mother. Another said she’d never be a Roth because it wasn’t in her blood.
Jacob walked away from the mansion, toward Lindsey, hoping to intercept her before she disappeared into the guest house. They called it the guest house, but it was every bit as large as Jacob’s Virginia estate, yet tiny in comparison to the Roth mansion.
“You okay?” Jacob asked as he approached.
Lindsey stood on the front stoop of the guest house. She turned toward her father with red, puffy eyes. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I’m the only one who’s stock.” A tear snaked down the side of her nose.
“That’s not true. Your mother and I are natural born too—and all the adults for that matter.”
“I’m the only kid though. Everyone’s smarter than me. And prettier. And just … better. I don’t belong.”
Jacob moved closer, now within touching distance. “Can I tell you a secret?”
Lindsey wiped her eyes.
“You can’t tell anyone this, okay?”
Lindsey nodded.
“I don’t belong either. I’m the black sheep of the family. My parents nearly disowned me for marrying your mother. They wanted me to marry somebody else.”
Lindsey arched her eyebrows. “Who?”
“A woman from a wealthy family.”
“My mom was poor. My dad—I mean, Derek too.”
“I don’t care about that. I love your mother, and I love you. That’s what matters.”
Lindsey forced a smile. “Thanks, Dad.” She opened the door to the guest house.
“Don’t hide in there too long,” Jacob said, not unkind. “The more they know you, the more they’ll like you.”
Lindsey nodded and went inside.
Jacob walked back to the family reunion. Most of the family sat at tables under the gazebo, finishing their desserts—vanilla crème brûlée topped with raspberries from the gardens. Uniformed servers cleared plates and distributed coffee and adult beverages. They were human, but they used a rob
otic busboy, which was basically a box on wheels with a deep tray for dirty dishes. Rebecca sat at a table with the wives, doing her best to fit in and not doing too bad.
Eric spotted Jacob, stood from his table, and ambled over, a scotch in hand. Eric held up his glass as he approached. “Hey, big brother.”
Jacob stopped in his tracks and forced a smile. “Eric.”
“Where’d you disappear to?”
“Nowhere. Just enjoying the view.” Jacob glanced at the lake.
“You’ve been quiet.”
Jacob shrugged. “I don’t have much to say.”
“It seems like the bad press is finally dying down.”
Jacob frowned. “Thanks for reminding me.
Eric wore khaki shorts with a short-sleeve button-down shirt. His legs were pale yet covered in dark hair. He removed a Nicaraguan cigar from his shirt pocket and a cigar cutter. “You want one? Best cigar in the world.”
“No thanks.”
Eric cut the end of the cigar like a mini-guillotine, placed the cutter back in his pocket, and removed a platinum lighter. “I suppose that’s for the best.” He lit the end and puffed the cigar, the smoke smelling like coffee and cocoa and earth.
“What’s for the best?”
Eric grinned, his dark mustache stretching across his lip. “It’s probably best you stay away from anything on fire.”
Jacob glared at his younger brother. “You think this is a joke? I’ve had death threats.”
Eric’s grin receded. He put his arm around Jacob. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”
The heat of the sun, coupled with the cigar smoke and Eric’s sweaty arm, was too much. Jacob removed Eric’s arm and moved closer to the backside of the mansion, the height of the structure and the overhangs offering shade. Jacob glanced up, taking in the gargantuan stone structure. The ornate peaks and molding and slate roof gave it a castle-like appearance.
2050: Psycho Island Page 16