by Paula Stokes
I bite my lip as I consider going to sleep and dealing with things in the morning. But it won’t be any easier then. It is never going to be easy to see Gideon again, to hear him and feel him after watching him die. If I am going to find my brother and kill Kyung, I cannot be afraid of sensory impulses on a ViSE. I cannot be afraid of my own feelings.
It’s all right to be scared.
“It’s not all right,” I mumble under my breath. “It’s not helpful, anyway.” I grab my headset out of the safe and relax on the bed. I breathe in and out a couple of times, try to empty my mind of all thoughts, and press PLAY.
“Winter,” Gideon says. “If you’re watching this, then something bad has happened to me. I have many things to tell you, some of which I should have told you a long time ago. I don’t know the exact set of circumstances that led you here, so you’ll have to excuse me if you know some of this information already.
“Your sister is dead. She died when we were leaving Los Angeles. She died protecting you—protecting both of us. I blame myself. I was so focused on getting the three of us to safety that I took you in the elevator because it was fastest. We should have used the stairs. Perhaps then…” He swallows hard. “One of Kyung’s men caught us leaving. When your sister tried to resist him, he stabbed her.” Gideon blinks rapidly and looks down at the desk. “I hope you were aware of the details surrounding her death, because I would hate the thought of you going through that realization alone. If you need someone, Jesse and Sebastian have both promised they’ll look out for you. And Dr. Abrams—you can always call her. Please don’t try to get through this by yourself.”
He goes on to tell me the things he told me when he returned from his business trip, about how he realized I was both hallucinating and dissociating as my sister and why he allowed me to live in a fantasy world for so long.
He holds up a brochure. “There are clinics for people with dissociative disorders where you can get special help. Dr. Abrams seemed fond of this one in Arizona. I know you won’t want to go—that you think you have to fix all your problems yourself—but Winter, Ha Neul, some things are too big for any of us to handle alone.”
My eyes water. I always get choked up when Gideon calls me Ha Neul. I shed that name when we left L.A., like a moth shaking off the broken confines of its cocoon as it sees light for the first time. But it tethers me to my past, and to my sister, who never got a chance to fly.
I know he’s right too, about doing this on my own. Gideon wouldn’t want me to risk my life by going after Kyung. He wouldn’t want me to skip out on my therapy sessions. But he doesn’t know about my brother. It’s not just my own well-being I have to consider. If I have a younger brother, then I need to look out for him, much the same way Rose needed to look out for me. Where I come from, the older siblings take care of the younger. That’s how it is—how it always has been.
Next Gideon discusses the flash drive.
“The password has been coded to change every day at midnight Central Time, assuming Daylight Savings is not in effect. The first part of it is constant, the word sky, with the s and k in lowercase letters and the Y capitalized. Then insert an underscore.”
I swallow hard. My real name means “sky” in Korean.
“The second part of the password is a numerical sequence. Start with your date of birth in US format—two digits for the day, two for the month, four for the year. Subtract your sister’s birthday in the same format and then add the numbers for yesterday’s day only. Be careful with your attempts because this drive cannot be copied and you are only given three tries in each twenty-four-hour period before the data will be destroyed.”
Gideon clears his throat before continuing. “There are three things of importance on the drive. First is a folder with additional legal documents in it. There’s my will, which has both your real and assumed name on it. My attorney has copies of all of this and knows that your identification paperwork was lost, but he has your picture and you’ll be the only one able to answer the questions he’ll ask to verify your ID. There is also the paperwork for Escape, the building, the ViSE technology, and some other assets. All of it is passing over to you.
“The next folder on the drive is my research. The flash drive contains all of the notes I took from UsuMed and the ones I made when I was creating the ViSE technology. I disabled the neural editor when I removed it from Escape and hid it in the penthouse, just in case Kyung sent someone to steal it, but an engineer could rebuild the missing components using my notes. I’m not sure why Kyung wants the tech so badly, but I suspect it’s about more than mass production of headsets and streaming across platforms. Still, if he comes after you for it, just give it to him. I know better than anyone what Kyung is capable of. The tech isn’t worth dying for. I want you to live a long and happy life. I know it might not feel like it now, but you can be happy. I promise.
“The final folder is full of pictures of your sister, and a few of you.” Gideon turns his laptop around. There is a picture of my sister on the screen.
A sob bursts from my lips. I’ve never seen this picture of Rose. Gideon must have taken it of her in Los Angeles before we tried to escape. Our lives were hell there—Kyung’s men selling us to strangers every night—but Rose’s eyes are bright and her smile is wide, openmouthed, like she is laughing. I am so glad she had Gideon to keep her spirits from breaking. She had him and I had her, and because of them both, I’m still alive.
Gideon taps the screen and the image changes. It’s a picture of me when I was younger, asleep on the penthouse sofa. A blanket is draped neatly over my slender body. “You weren’t much for pictures when we first moved here,” he explains. “I had to sneak them from time to time.” Gideon closes the laptop.
He walks across the room, reaches out, holds my face in his hands. His touch manages to be both firm and soft at the same time. He leans in and gently kisses me on the forehead.
Tears roll down my cheeks. As I concentrate on the sensation of him touching me, I wonder who recorded this. How strange it must have been for Gideon to talk to someone else—to touch another person—as if they were me.
“Always remember that I am proud of you,” Gideon finishes. “That I love you. I hope that you will play this recording any time you are feeling alone.”
Another sob escapes me, this one from deep in my gut. For once, I embrace the pain instead of trying to lock it away. I am so grateful for this recording. At least now I won’t forget how it feels to be loved.
I lie staring up at the ceiling of the motel room for a few minutes. Then I dry my tears with the sleeve of my hoodie and reach for the tablet computer. I work out the answer to the password in my head and enter it. A series of folders pops up.
I skim through the legal documents to assure myself there’s nothing that needs to be taken care of immediately. I recognize a durable power of attorney for health care and a page with requests to be cremated in case of death. This causes another wave of tears to spill forth, and I’m not even sure why. Perhaps it’s just the idea of Gideon sitting down at his desk and trying to think of everything he could do to make his death easier for me.
Next I open some of the research files, but most of them are incomprehensible to me. I have no idea what to do with Gideon’s notes. Maybe I could share these files with a university or research team who might be able to use his findings for good. All I know is I don’t want Kyung to have them.
I skip to the folder marked Photos—there are pictures of Rose with Gideon, Rose with me, Rose by herself. There are even selfies of Gideon and me that I have no recollection of posing for—most likely because I was dissociating at the time.
By the time I get to the last picture, I am crying uncontrollably. So many memories have come flooding back. I can’t take the pain.
I trace the cross-shaped scar on my palm with one finger. I cut myself the first day of working for Kyung. I promised my sister I would never do it again, but sometimes it’s hard to resist the temptation. I lift one of my throwing k
nives from the nightstand and consider the blade’s edge. It’s not very sharp. The point is, though. I touch it to the skin of my palm, trace the scar once more. My hand tightens around the hilt until my knuckles blanch white.
Pain is not the answer.
I used to think the voices in my head were just my conscience, or perhaps my id and superego arguing things out the way you see angels and devils do in cartoons. After finding out about my DID, I have no idea who’s telling me what. I guess I’m fortunate that the advice is usually good. This voice is right. I can’t hurt myself—not now. There’s too much to do.
I turn the blade of the knife away from myself and plunge it into one of the pillows. I exhale deeply and then pull the knife out and stab the pillow again. Bits of filling float through the air.
Hopping to my feet, I pull the mattress off my bed and lean it against the wall. I stand at the far side of the room and fling my knives, one after the next. They both hit the center of the mattress. I retrieve my knives and throw them again.
And again.
And again.
I throw them until my hands have stopped shaking.
Then I drop to the floor and start doing push-ups. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. The blood races from my head and heart to my muscles as they ache in protest. I collapse to the floor after the fiftieth push-up. My breath whistles in and out of my chest. “Weak,” I tell myself.
You’re strong.
“I need to be stronger.” I grit through another twenty push-ups and then head for the shower. I love the feel of hot water pouring over me. It’s the only time when I feel completely clean.
After about twenty minutes, I hop out and change into sweatpants and a T-shirt. I place both throwing knives on my nightstand for easy access. Frowning at the holes in the mattress, I slide the damaged side down onto the bed frame and replace the sheets, even though I seriously doubt I’m going to get much sleep tonight.
And then I remember my DID. What if my alter takes over after I fall asleep? I don’t think she would do anything to hurt me—so far most of her actions seem to have been to try to help me or protect me—but I slip my headset over my ears and start recording just in case. I can review the footage in the morning, make sure Rose doesn’t make my already bad situation even worse. Each memory card can hold two hours of recording time. I set an alarm on one of the burner cell phones to wake me up just before the card will run out. It’s not ideal as far as sleep and restfulness go, but I’m done wondering about the things I do when I’m out of my mind.
CHAPTER 3
I wake to my alarm at twelve, two, and four, and then decide to get up at six a.m., even though my plane to San Diego doesn’t leave until almost eleven. The first thing I do is skim back through the footage I recorded last night while I was sleeping. There is nothing but quiet blackness. Thank you, I think.
I remove the headset and go to the window. For a few moments, I watch flakes of snow flutter down and cling to the motel’s black asphalt parking lot. It’s like being trapped in a snow globe. I collect snow globes, or at least I used to. Lately all I seem to collect is death.
I pack everything up into my luggage except for what I’m going to wear. Slipping into one of the dresses, I study myself in the mirror. I look wan, washed out, my hair flat and stringy. I also look too much like me.
I don the reading glasses and the wig with the bangs and apply a little blush before taking another look in the mirror. Better. The girl who stares back at me manages to resemble my ID, yet still look like a stranger.
I go in search of breakfast, but all I find is coffee, orange juice, a few bruised apples, and a scattering of packaged pastries spread across a counter in the motel lobby. I fix myself a cup of coffee while the housecleaning staff huddles outside in the cold, smoking cigarettes before they come on shift. I should eat something, but I can’t. My stomach feels like it’s full of rocks.
After I finish my coffee, I fetch my bags from the room and call a cab. When the taxi driver arrives, I ask him to take me to St. Louis Medical Center, the hospital where Jesse and Baz were both transported to yesterday. When the driver puts the car into park about twenty minutes later and looks back expectantly at me, I stare through the smudgy side window for a few seconds, watching swirls of snow dance in the early morning sunlight.
“Can you leave the meter running and wait for me?” I ask. “I just need to say good-bye to someone before I head to the airport.”
The driver nods. “I’ll have to find a parking spot, but I’ll watch for you.”
“Thanks.” I slide out of the car and shut the door gently behind me. I cross the sidewalk, stepping gingerly over a patch of ice. As I enter the hospital’s main lobby, the heat envelops me like a breath of warm air. I wipe my feet on the damp rug just inside the doors and then stride purposefully up to the information desk. I flick bits of snow from the sleeves of my coat.
“Can I help you?” a woman wearing a dark blazer asks.
“My … friend got admitted through the ER last night.” I keep my voice level, maintaining eye contact as she clicks her mouse. “Jesse Ramirez? I’m not sure what room they moved him to.” Normally getting a patient’s room number is a simple process, but since he came in with gunshot wounds, there’s a chance his information might be restricted.
The clerk clicks her mouse and scrolls down a couple of screens. “He’s in 5612,” she says. “That’s the cardiothoracic ICU. It’s on the fifth floor of the Southwest Tower. You’ll want to follow the signs to the ER and then continue past until you see the SWT elevator.”
“Thank you.” Cardiothoracic ICU. That doesn’t sound good. I find the elevator she indicated and then hunt around until I find a door that leads to a narrow set of stairs.
I take the stairs to the fifth floor and follow the signs marked CTICU. I end up in a small waiting room decorated in outdated earth tones. There’s a desk at one end of it, but whoever is supposed to be manning it either hasn’t arrived for the day or has stepped away momentarily. A square metal plate is mounted on one of the side walls next to a set of heavy fire doors. I press it and they open.
The inside of the ICU is bright white and pale green, with lights shining everywhere. Nurses and doctors stride past without even glancing at me. The rooms are numbered in order, so finding Jesse in number 12 is easy. The front of his room is a wall of glass with a sliding door that’s currently open. I glance furtively around as I enter the room, but again no one is paying me any attention. I swallow back a little gasp as I approach the bed. Jesse’s body is covered in plain white hospital blankets and he’s breathing through an oxygen mask that covers most of his face. His hearing aid is in a plastic medicine cup that sits on the bedside table. An IV pump stands next to the bed, three different bags of clear fluid infusing him simultaneously.
My eyes flick to a flat-screen monitor mounted above his bed. There are numbers for heart rate, blood pressure, and something called SpO2.
“Hey,” a female voice says sharply. I spin around to find a tall, dark-skinned girl in scrubs studying me curiously. She doesn’t look much older than I am. “Did you check in at the desk?”
“There was no one there when I arrived,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I turn back to Jesse. “Is he going to be all right?”
“I think so,” she says. “I’m Kendra, his nurse. Are you Winter?”
I should lie, but my curiosity gets the better of me. “How did you know that?”
“He kept saying your name over and over when we weaned him from the ventilator. Everyone else thought he was just talking crazy from the narcotics, but somehow I could tell he didn’t mean the season.”
I wonder what it was like for Jesse, waking up in the hospital on a breathing machine. I should have been there for him. “Do you know if anyone called his parents? They live in New Mexico. The number might be in his phone.”
“He gave someone in the ER his cousin’s phone number. Miguel, maybe? He was here last night. I think Jesse’s parents are going to be
arriving today.”
“Good.” My eyes go to the monitor again.
“His numbers aren’t bad,” Kendra says. “The surgeon was up here earlier and said he’s recovering as expected.”
I nod. “Jesse came in with a friend. They both got shot. Sebastian Faber. You don’t know about him, do you?”
Kendra chuckles. “Oh, Mr. Faber. Now there’s a piece of work.”
This sounds like something someone might say about Baz. I try to imagine him in a backless hospital gown, a nurse spooning Jell-O into his mouth. I don’t really see that happening. “So Baz is all right?”
“If by all right you mean a complete pain in the ass, then sure,” she says. “Getting up without calling for help, eating and drinking when he’s not supposed to, trying to say he’s ready to go home when he can barely walk. Do you know if he has any family we can call? Maybe a parent or stern older sister who can keep him in line?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. “I’ve never heard him talk about family, but I only know him from my job.”
“Well, I’m not supposed to discuss his medical condition, but I can tell you he was up here on a monitor last night for a couple hours, but we already moved him to the step-down.” She rolls her eyes. “Thankfully.”
“Step-down?”
“It’s a step down from ICU care,” she explains. “For patients in better condition. He didn’t need the same kind of surgery as Jesse.”
“Oh.” I look back at Jesse, at the tubes running from his arms to the IV pumps, at the clear plastic mask over his face.
“His stats dropped when we gave him pain medicine,” she says. “That’s why he’s on the oxygen. We’ll wean him later today.”
It’s still hard to believe this is Jesse. His normally tanned skin looks paler than mine. The bruises from where I punched him are a blackish-purple color and the blue veins at his temples stand out.
“I’ll give you some time,” Kendra says. “Sign in on your way out, if you don’t mind.”