A Woman Alone

by Nina Laurin

  “Please present identity chip,” the voice repeats. It’s the same phrase, played back, and yet I can’t help but discern a slight threatening note. “I will activate security measures in fifteen seconds.”

  “Goddammit,” I mutter, and tug and tug on the door handle, all in vain. “Saya! Stop this! I live here. You know I live here! Open the damn door!”

  “In ten seconds,” the voice informs me.

  “Fuck!” I slam my fists into the door and then step away and make a lame attempt to throw myself against it. I bounce right off its surface like a rubber ball. Furious, I look around, and my gaze lands on a marble vase that holds a pot of pale yellow gardenias. I grab for it in desperation, throwing the pot to the side. It lands upside down, scattering earth all around it. The vase is so heavy that I can barely lift it off the ground. I feel the strain in my arms and my back, as if my spine is about to snap under its weight. While the momentum still lasts, I smash the vase into the glass insert of the door.

  It shatters inwardly. First there’s a web of cracks, and a millisecond later, it all falls in with a sound that’s almost delicate, like shattering crystal glasses. It’s like something out of a video game.

  “I am activating security measures,” the voice informs me smugly.

  Shit. I reach through the now-empty frame and feel around, careful to avoid the pointy little shards of glass that still stick out all along the frame like a row of tiny, sharp teeth. The lock won’t budge. One of the shards snags on my sleeve, slicing clean through, and I hiss with pain when it cuts my skin.

  Gingerly, I step over the frame, practically folding myself in half to fit through. I wobble, my balance precarious, and more glass shards snag my jeans and my other sleeve. I yelp with the sudden pain, finally lose my footing, and fall in, landing on the floor with a thud that momentarily knocks the breath out of me. Pain sizzles along my calf, and I feel the warm, sticky blood soaking the fabric of my jeans.

  Shivering, I get up and shake the glass bits out of my clothes. My cheek is stinging too, as are my chin and my forehead above my eyebrow.

  I look around the hall and then race to the living room, and my knees nearly buckle with relief when I see my purse sitting there, on the couch right where I left it. I stumble toward it, pawing along the walls, leaving bloody handprints on the cream-colored paint and on the back of the couch. What a mess.

  My hands are shaking and my fingertips are slick with blood so it takes forever to slide open the zipper. The dirty yellow of the cassette player glints back at me, the tape still safely inside.

  “Police are on their way,” the house informs me. “Your HD photo and DNA signature have been forwarded to law enforcement.”

  Go to hell, Saya.

  I run back to the car. As I reach for the seat belt, I catch Taryn’s empty stare in the mirror. I glance up at my own reflection. I’m a sight. Blood runs in thin rivulets from the cut on my forehead, and more is smeared across my cheek. I gut my purse searching for tissues, which I use to clean up as much of the gore as I can.

  “I want to go home, Mommy,” Taryn says in a strange, flat voice.

  “I’m so sorry,” I exhale. “But we can’t go home right now, okay? We’ll come back, I promise, but right now we have to go someplace else.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s like that. I’ll explain later.”

  “I don’t want to go. I want to stay home.” Her tone becomes more intent, and I can practically feel with my skin that another tantrum is brewing.

  “It won’t be for long, Taryn,” I say. “And we can stop to get ice cream on the way. Would you like that?”

  She stares at me, wide-eyed, without saying a word.

  Finally clasping the seat belt, I press the button to start the car. Nothing happens.

  I gulp down the lump that forms in my throat and press again, mashing the button, already knowing there’s no point. I’m ready to burst into tears.

  “I want to stay here,” Taryn says.

  In that same moment, the house alarm goes off. Its wailing seems to be coming from every direction at once, filling my head until I can’t hear my own thoughts. Taryn presses her hands over her ears and shrieks.

  My purse slung over my shoulder, I stumble out of the car and circle around it to get her out of her seat. She yelps and struggles, and I worry that she’ll break into a run when I set her down on the ground. But she stands still, bewildered, her tiny hand grasping my pant leg. “Mommy?” she whines through the piercing sound of the alarm.

  “Come on, Taryn,” I yell. She can’t keep up so I have no choice but to pick her up again, practically slinging her over my shoulder. She’s heavy, so much heavier than she looks. It feels as though my legs might break like matchsticks under the weight as I finally break into a run.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I glimpse lights in the distance, police lights. Just as I turn the corner of the U-shaped street, they appear at the other end. For the first time, I realize that I don’t know where I’m going. I have nowhere to go.

  I turn the corner just as police sirens join the wailing of the alarm. My desperate gaze darts back and forth like a trapped little animal, across the windows of the houses, all blank, opaque like a theater backdrop. I’m seized by a feeling of total, disorienting unreality and wonder whether all this is just some strange, surreal dream, a simulation. It has to be. Where is everyone? How can we be here, in this techy paradise, everything at our fingertips because we’re so connected twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week—and yet so completely alone just when it matters most?

  “Help!” I scream at the top of my lungs, at all these blank windows and picture-perfect houses and manicured plastic-green lawns. “Somebody! Please help!”

  “Cecelia,” comes a voice behind me, gruff yet somehow familiar. I spin around.

  And see that the door of the big house made of dark glass is wide open.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The door shuts behind us without a sound, and I find myself inside Boo Radley’s house.

  Funny enough, that’s the first time it occurs to me to wonder what his actual name is.

  “Well, Cecelia?” he asks. “You went out of your way to find out all about me. Here I am.”

  My face flushes. Taryn, whom I set down onto the floor, has forgotten that she was in the process of throwing a tantrum—she’s just looking around her with those saucer-sized eyes. She stares unabashedly at our host in the unselfconscious way only a child can. As for myself, I don’t know quite where to look because it’s nearly impossible to look at him without my gaze lingering on the scarring that covers more than half his face.

  “I may have gone out of my way but I didn’t get far,” I say. “I don’t even know your name.”

  If that was meant to be his cue, he ignores it. When I do dare a glance at his face, I realize that he’s examining us with intent curiosity. His gaze travels from me to Taryn, then back, and to Taryn again. A look crosses his face that’s hard to read, and not because of the scarring. It’s strangely sorrowful.

  “Now, how about you tell me what’s going on? The house is going crazy. The police are here. What is that all about?”

  I briefly wonder if I should tell him about the tape.

  “I think…” The explanation gets stuck, and I can’t seem to get it out. Because, put into words, it all sounds so insane. “I think my house is trying to kill me.”

  I half expect him to burst out laughing but he only shakes his head. “Figures.”

  “‘Figures’? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  But he doesn’t answer. Instead, he picks up a tablet from a glass coffee table and starts to tap away at the screen. “What are you doing?” I ask, alarmed.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t call IntelTech. On the contrary. I’m disabling the security system. We don’t want it to alert anyone to where you are, do we?”

  “I had no idea you could do that.”

  “Most people can’t. It was part of m
y deal with them. I pay full price for the house but get to keep some semblance of privacy.”

  I look around. Really, the only way to describe this place is unique. While ours looks like something cut out of a lifestyle magazine, this one is a strange and wonderful architectural creation. The stairs that lead to the second floor are suspended from the ceiling, and there are no visible light fixtures anywhere. In the center of the living room is a fireplace that looks like fire caught in a glass cube—you can see it from all four sides. Taryn, of course, makes a beeline right for it.

  “Taryn!” I snap, worried she might burn herself or break something.

  “That’s all right,” our host is saying. “It’s not a real fire.”

  I could have sworn that it was. Fascinated, I come up to the structure and run my fingertips along its surface—ice-cold. That’s when it hits me: The glass isn’t smooth. Its surface is ever so subtly matte. Nothing in here is reflective.

  I have so many questions but it seems rude to let loose. And he’s not in any hurry to tell me anything.

  “I understand that you’d like to get out of here,” he says.

  “As quickly as possible,” I say, grateful. “But my car—”

  “That’s all right. Come with me to the garage. I think I can help you out.”

  * * *

  We access the garage via the elevator, concealed behind a wall panel. Everything is made of the same buffed, sea glass–like material in muted shades of pale gray and charcoal. Taryn looks around in wonderment, and even I find it difficult to hold back a gasp when the elevator stops, the door slides open, and we enter the garage.

  The cars are something to see. I’ve never been a car enthusiast—for me, a good car is the one that gets me from point A to point B with minimal difficulties—but it’s hard to remain indifferent in front of such a display. There are three vintage sports cars so immaculate and shiny I’m tempted to reach out and touch the perfect paint, just to make sure they’re real and not merely colorful reproductions. He has a Lamborghini and the latest Tesla with all the bells and whistles—I know because it’s Scott’s dream car, the one he’s always talking about buying one day. And, in the corner, to my surprise, I spot a grimy SUV, toward which he directs his steps. As we get closer, I realize it’s definitely from an era before electric cars were a thing.

  “That’s the one we’re taking?” I wonder aloud.

  “Sorry for the modest ride. But we’ll have an easier time smuggling you two out of here incognito.”

  I sit in the back seat with Taryn on my lap, since of course the car doesn’t have a child seat. Through the tinted windows, the world looks different, the street’s too-vibrant colors muted and washed out. Strangely enough, I find it makes it look more real.

  There’s only one police car in front of my house, and when we pass by, I instinctively duck, grasping Taryn under her armpits and praying she doesn’t make a sound. But the officer hardly pays attention. He waves us through with a vague gesture.

  “They know me well around here,” the man says enigmatically. Before leaving, he took a pair of sunglasses from the glove compartment and put them on. They’re big but they don’t quite hide the full extent of his disfigurement. Heck, I can’t even warrant a guess how old he might be—anywhere between forty and sixty. Spending his life mired in paranoia behind the impregnable walls of the SmartHome, locked in its luxurious cage instead of going out to enjoy his obvious vast wealth. It boggles my mind.

  “Why are you helping us?” I ask timidly.

  He heaves a sigh. I watch his face in the mirror above the windshield but the sunglasses disguise not just the scars but any hint of his expression as well.

  “I had a family once too,” he says. “Well, kind of. I messed it up. I thought that as long as I never missed a single child support payment, it meant I’d done right by them but—now I’m old, alone, a recluse in here. And suddenly it doesn’t feel right at all.”

  “That’s it?”

  He chuckles, a corner of his mouth curving up, tugging at the scar tissue. “Besides…let’s just say that not all is clear between me and IntelTech.” The car blows past the last intersection, barely pretending to pause at the stop sign. Next is the exit from Venture. I try to think about it as little as possible.

  “Then why do you live here?” I can’t hide my bafflement.

  He shrugs. “They think they’re watching me but really, I’m the one watching them.”

  My heart starts to beat faster when we pull up to the exit gate. “Brace yourself,” our rescuer says, and in the mirror, I catch the hint of a grin, even despite the scar tissue at the corner of his mouth that distorts it.

  Before I can wonder at the meaning of his words, he hits the gas pedal. With a roar of the engine that seems thunderously loud to me, after years driving whisper-quiet hybrid vehicles, the car accelerates. Blood rushes to my head. I try to shout a warning but the engine drowns me out—all I have time to do is pull Taryn close and shield her with my body. A deafening crash shakes the car, resonating in my bone marrow, and when I look up again, we’ve blown right through the automatic gate arm.

  “Jesus!” I’m trembling all over, and Taryn is too terrified to utter a word, clinging to my arm. In the mirror, I see him laugh soundlessly. I twist my neck to look behind us, expecting an entire cavalcade of police cars and IntelTech vans to appear out of nowhere, hot on our trail.

  “But…how can you just— Won’t they—”

  “I might get into some trouble, sure. But I’ll talk my way out of it. Now, don’t worry. I know exactly where to go.”

  * * *

  It’s getting dark by the time he pulls up to the building. The sun is almost finished setting, and there’s a stillness and a chill in the air that reminds me that fall is coming. We exit the car, although he keeps the engine running.

  “How did you know where to go?” I ask him, knowing already I’m not going to get an answer.

  Again, the wistful look returns. “It’s not important.”

  “You have to at least tell me,” I say before my courage can slip away from me, “what happened between you and IntelTech?”

  He shakes his head. “Not so much between us,” he says. “I am IntelTech. Well, I used to be. Until the one you call Clarisse came on board and took over the whole thing. Her vision was, shall we say, different from mine.”

  I stand there, utterly astounded, unsure what to say as my mind works hard to fill in the blanks in his story. He doesn’t make me wait.

  “Then, shortly after our disagreement, my smart car got out of control in the middle of a freeway. I can’t prove she did it—yet. But in the meantime…”

  The pause lingers. I wait for him to tell me more but he doesn’t.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” I say, my voice hoarse with emotion. Taryn has managed to nod off in my arms—she’s usually in bed by this time. Now, as if sensing that we’ve arrived, she begins to stir, her sweet, little face creasing in a frown. My chest aches. How could I leave some soulless machine in charge of her? How could I let this happen? In that moment, I vow I’ll do everything in my power to fix this. A place to sleep would be a nice start, though, and I realize with a sinking feeling that there’s no bed for her where we’re going. Oh, hell, I’ll just have to improvise. I’ll sleep on the floor if I have to.

  I reach discreetly into my purse and feel the reassuring shape of the cassette player. It’s not over. I have proof now. I can fix this.

  “Don’t thank me, Cecelia,” says the man who I’m still calling Radley in my head. How ridiculous is this? I should at least ask his name. “Just, whatever you have on them—use it wisely. All right?”

  I give a terse nod.

  “You have an adorable little girl,” he says, his voice brimming with sadness.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “but I have to ask. Was it you? Were you taking pictures of our house from your window?”

  He seems to think about it and then gives a terse nod. />
  “Why?”

  “Please don’t think I had any ill intent. I didn’t. I guess— I just wanted to see—” He cuts himself off. In an instant, I’m overwhelmed with the feeling like he’s about to say something extremely important—something that will answer at least some of the questions that have been plaguing me for longer than I dare admit. But then he clears his throat. “Just wanted to know who I was living next to,” he says dryly.

  Careful not to wake Taryn, I extricate her from the car, placing her head on my shoulder where she falls peacefully back asleep. Then Radley shuts the car door behind me. But he doesn’t seem in a hurry to get back into the SUV and leave.

  “Cecelia,” he says, “the woman who used to live in the house before you, her name is Lydia Marie Bishop.” He takes a folded square of paper, no bigger than a quarter, out of the pocket of his jacket and hands it to me. “And this is where you can find her.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “Hi, Mama.”

  The look on Therese’s face is utter shock. For a moment, I think she’s going to slam the door in my face. I can practically see her wrestle with the idea but it seems that common decency prevails. Or maybe she takes pity on me with the cuts on my face and blood smeared along my hairline. She steps aside to let me through.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  Stiffly, she bustles around the living room, unsure what to do with herself. She brings a pillow and a throw blanket and sets them down on the couch. I carefully lower Taryn onto the pillow. She whimpers but doesn’t wake up. I tuck the throw blanket (synthetic fibers, fleecy texture with a cloying image of a cat and some flowers in unnatural colors) around her without bothering to take off her shoes.

  When I look up again, my mother is looming over me, arms folded. She’s unkempt—she clearly wasn’t expecting visitors. Her sweater is stretched out with a pale stain on the chest, and without makeup, she hardly has any eyebrows or eyelashes left, which adds a flatness to her expression, already stone-cold.