BROKEN SYMMETRY: A Young Adult Science Fiction Thriller

by Dan Rix

  “We’ve been downsizing,” he said once we reached his office at the end of the hall in response to my unspoken question. He pulled the door shut behind us and motioned I sit across from the mahogany desk.

  The moment the door latched, I became aware of the strange acoustics, like we were in a fishbowl. So quiet and still. Charles saw me glancing around, perturbed, and commented. “Soundproof glass. Same with the walls. This used to be a recording studio.”

  “Doctor Johnson referred me to you,” I said, getting right to the point. “She said I had an extra chromosome.”

  “Two, in fact,” said Charles. “Your mother was also a carrier. I knew them both.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “A carrier?”

  “Of a forty-seventh chromosome.”

  “Is that why my dad died?”

  Charles held my gaze. “I’m very sorry about your loss. He was one of our best.”

  “One of your best what? Designers?” I leaned forward. “Can we skip all this crap? I just want to know what happened to him. My dad’s dead, he’s been gone for a year, he used to work here, and now they’re saying he has a chromosomal disorder and died of internal bleeding—and my neighbor just committed suicide.” I paused. “That last one wasn’t you.”

  “Look,” he said, leaning back, “I know you’re confused. I wish I could tell you what happened to your father, but I’m afraid it’s sensitive information that would damage the reputation of a former client.”

  My jaw unclenched and fell.

  Never, in eleven months, had I received the likes of Charles’s answer. He knew. Charles actually knew.

  I nearly leapt onto the desk, my heart pounding. “What . . . what happened to him?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “I can’t.”

  “Because of a former client?” I stared in disbelief. “So you know exactly what happened to him—something even the police don’t know—and you’re not going to tell me because of a former client?”

  He raised his hands in surrender. “Blaire, I just can’t.”

  “This is my dad we’re talking about. He’s dead.”

  “And that’s what makes it so hard for me.”

  “Right before he died, do you know what he said about you?” I taunted, anger flushing my face.

  Charles tilted upright, startled. “You actually spoke to him?”

  I nodded, relishing what I hoped was panic in his voice.

  “And he said something to you?”

  Time to bluff. “He didn’t have to,” I said. “He wrote it all down in a diary, all the illegal stuff you did . . . all I have to do is read it. Should I be concerned about my safety?”

  “A diary you say,” said Charles, suddenly more interested than alarmed. “Where is it?”

  Before I could answer, though, the boy from the downstairs couch leaned into Charles’s office—instantly silencing me.

  “Charles,” he said, “I’m good for tonight.”

  Charles glanced up at the boy. “Absolutely not. You worked yesterday night.”

  The boy opened his mouth to protest, but his eyes flicked to mine instead, and without a word he crossed his arms.

  “What do you want?” I said when he didn’t look away.

  “I work here. What do you want?”

  “You’re an intern too?”

  He sighed, shook his head, and disappeared down the hall.

  Charles let out a chuckle. “Don’t mind Damian. Not the easiest to get along with, but he does brilliant work—reminds me so much of your father when he was younger.”

  I faced Charles again. “For the last time, what happened to him?”

  Charles smiled warmly. “I’m sorry, Blaire. It sounds like your dad lost his memory. What you described sounds exactly like symptoms of Chromosomal Aneuploidy-47.”

  “Then why didn’t you just say that? So being a carrier . . . I’m screwed, basically.”

  He chewed his lip. “Not necessarily. You have two extra chromosomes, not just one, which hopefully will provide a measure of protection from certain defects—”

  “I know, I already got the lecture,” I said. “Why did Doctor Johnson even refer me to you? You’re not a medical specialist . . . I mean, what do you guys even do here?”

  Without a hesitation, he answered, “high-end commercial and institutional interior design.”

  “That’s a pretty compelling cover story,” I said, just to see how he’d react.

  He smiled, but the corner of his eye twitched.

  And I knew he was lying.

  ***

  My dad always said the best place to find someone’s secrets was in their garbage can.

  After my job interview with Charles, or whatever that useless meeting was, I drove off and parked a block up the street. Another tidbit of dad’s advice: make sure they see you leave.

  I jogged back the way I’d come, scouting for the alleyway behind the row of warehouses and boarded up shops. The street appeared abandoned, and from the looks of it, ISDI was the only place around open for business.

  Then the fear hit me. The sun was sinking fast, and I did not want to get caught out here after dark. Not alone.

  Yet not a soul lingered. As far as I could see, just rows and rows of empty warehouses, abandoned industrial buildings, weed infested lots. I almost preferred to see a thug or two, or a hooker taking hits behind a fire escape.

  But no one? It was almost sinister.

  Behind the ISDI studio, two garages opened into a blind alley, both marked with a single letter.

  A and B.

  Like the doors upstairs.

  Between the garages, a metal chute jutted out of the building and emptied directly into an open dumpster.

  Bingo.

  I stepped up to the dumpster, glancing side to side to make sure nobody saw me, and peered over the edge—and what I saw made me flinch in surprise.

  No trash. No papers. No body bags or bloody limbs.

  Just broken shards of mirrors.

  Millions of them, filling the dumpster to the brim. They installed them for their clients, no doubt. Tons of them.

  My eyes returned to the spigot halfway up the wall, the source of the broken mirrors.

  Movement caught my eye to my right, and I glanced at a window in the side of the building. The blinds snapped closed.

  Someone had seen me. Two dark eyes lingered in my vision. But now as I stared at the blinds, hanging motionless and unperturbed behind the glass, I wasn’t even sure I hadn’t imagined it.

  As I drove home, I mulled over my meeting with Charles—and what in the world it could mean that his biggest secret was a dumpster full of broken mirrors.

  An idea struck me.

  Today, I had come closer to answers than ever before. True to Joe Paretti’s intuition, my father’s disappearance tied back to his former employer, Charles Donovan—who, starting on June 30, would be my employer too.

  I couldn’t wait until June 30, though.

  What I could do was convince Charles to let me start the internship early.

  ***

  On Wednesday morning before school, as a last ditch effort to get the diary back, I sprawled out on my stomach on my living room floor and wrote a letter to the mayor explaining why the diary had sentimental value to me and requesting that it be returned. Then I sealed the envelope, slapped on a stamp, and slipped it inside my mailbox for the mailman.

  It was out of my hands now.

  ***

  I returned to ISDI that afternoon after school and declared—perhaps overzealously—that I wanted to begin my internship as soon as possible. The effect was instantaneous . . . Charles retracted the offer.

  Now he circled me, massaging his chin and i
nspecting me. Behind him, Amy the secretary glared at me. Damian watched me also, leaning against the wall, arms folded. His smirk betrayed the sick kind of enjoyment he got at my predicament. I hated him already.

  “You know,” Charles began, finishing his full circle around me, “now that I see you in the light, I don’t think I can use you.”

  “But you already gave me the job.”

  “Internship,” he corrected, “and that was before we met you, Blaire. You haven’t exactly been trying to impress me. I’m going to trust my better judgment and take back the offer.”

  “I’m really sorry about yesterday,” I said. “I was flustered.”

  Charles continued to study me. “Not only are you a liability, Blaire, but you draw attention to yourself. You’re distracting.”

  “I’m not distracting.”

  “I’m not talking about your personality.”

  His words took a moment to register. “So, what, you’re saying I’m too pretty?”

  He shrugged. “That’s one way to put it.”

  I scoffed, and without thinking, gestured at Damian. “And he isn’t?” Whoops.

  Damian raised his eyebrow at me, and with that infuriating smirk firmly in place, mouthed, “too pretty?”

  I rolled my eyes and ignored him. It wasn’t a compliment. I didn’t like pretty boys.

  “He can be as pretty as he wants to be,” said Charles. “He’s my best. You on the other hand, would do well to blend in. In this business, we like plain.”

  “Plain?” I repeated, staring blankly. Shouldn’t have worn my denim cutoff shorts. But it was mid-spring in Southern California; I didn’t really have a choice. I wiggled in an attempt to tug them down.

  “Yeah,” said Damian. “Be more like Amy.”

  The secretary threw him a mutinous glare, and I wondered if they might not be dating after all.

  “Just let me try the work,” I said, in a final attempt. “I promise you, you won’t be disappointed.”

  “Famous last words,” he said, shaking his head. “Even so, I don’t think you could handle the time commitment on top of your school work. It’s supposed to be a summer internship.”

  “I’ll stop going to school.”

  “Not exactly the answer I’d hoped for,” said Charles. “I expect you to continue your studies just as diligently. After all, this internship is preparing you for the rigors of college curriculum.”

  “I’ll stop sleeping. Whatever. Just give me the job.”

  “Internship,” he corrected, rubbing his chin again. “Hmm . . . I’ll admit, I do admire that kind of work ethic. Because you’re right about that, you won’t be getting much sleep once you work for this office. That much I can guarantee.”

  “I’ve heard. My boyfriend’s older sister is studying architecture.” I peeked at Damian. Nothing, not even a hint of a reaction.

  As if he would care about Josh, my not-even boyfriend.

  “Blaire, this internship is a serious commitment, do you understand that?” said Charles.

  “Sure.”

  “I need you to work four to ten, Monday through Friday, and probably most weekends too.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “It’s supposed to be a summer internship.”

  I bit my lip, kissing goodbye to my social life. “Fine.”

  “Well, alright then. I suppose I’ll give you a try,” said Charles. “Why don’t you come in after school tomorrow and we’ll get you started. Damian will train you.”

  ***

  My heart sped up, but my excitement was immediately replaced by nervousness. Although I wasn’t sure what to blame: the sudden, irrevocable realization—as if for the first time—that my father had died in this line of work . . . or Damian.

  Before my first day, I made myself a salad wrap. Whole grain flat bread, spinach, chicken, cottage cheese—you know, the stuff rabbits eat.

  An off-season runner’s grub.

  My mind still reeled with the previous week’s events, and I was going through it all in my head while I chewed. I was so close to the truth about my dad; now wasn’t the time to let it all slip away—

  That’s when it happened.

  Déjà vu.

  Like I’d experienced this very breakfast in a dream but only now remembered.

  In the other version, there was someone here with me. I glanced around my breakfast nook, feeling both loneliness and the creepy sensation of another presence.

  Without warning, I found myself whispering, “chicken, spinach, cottage cheese.” The feeling didn’t pass, and the sustained creepiness raised goose bumps along my skin.

  I felt off for the rest of the morning.

  ***

  After school, Charles guided me to the cubicle furnished with the one computer. “This is going to be your desk,” he said. “We have a learn-on-the-job mentality here, so we’ll just give you your first assignment and cast you off.”

  A look over my shoulder confirmed that Amy, the secretary, was watching YouTube videos, while Damian hadn’t even shown up. I got the feeling I might be the only one doing work around here.

  I surveyed the rest of the office, no longer paying attention to Charles. Which desk had my father worked at? My eyes settled on one across the room buried under plump rubber-banded manila folders. I veered in that direction.

  “Over here, Blaire. This desk.”

  Foiled. I let my fingers trail over the folders, flipped one open, and scanned a detailed report of a property—

  “Blaire, don’t touch that!”

  I sauntered back to my desk, defeated. Before the end of the day, I’d grab one of those folders and take it home with me. I doubt anyone would miss it.

  “Any questions?” Charles said after he finished explaining my work, none of which I’d caught.

  “Uh—yeah, don’t I need to fill out paperwork or something?”

  “Already got your paperwork,” said Damian, appearing behind me and tossing a paperclipped stack of paper into my arms, which I dropped.

  In the mix were an I-9 tax form, employment contract, and pages and pages of liability agreements. I flipped through them. All had been filled out and signed, dated today.

  “You know, if I’m going to sign over my life to you guys, I’d rather do it myself.”

  “You did,” said Damian, settling in for a nap on the couch. “This morning.”

  I glanced down at the forms again. “So you forged my signature. That’s a terrific way to earn the trust of a new employee.”

  “Intern,” Charles corrected.

  “Came by this morning,” said Damian, his eyes still closed. “See the stain, top left corner? That’s from that salad wrap you were eating. Carrots, spinach, and cottage cheese or whatever.”

  “I think I would have remembered if you came by,” I said, his joke just pissing me off now. “And there weren’t any carrots in my wrap. Buy a more powerful telescope if you want to spy on me.” I felt my lip curl, thoroughly disturbed.

  Note to self: close all blinds in my house, always.

  “You mean I visited you this morning and you don’t even remember it? Ouch,” said Damian, an unmistakable smirk crossing his lips.

  Screw him.

  But how they had faked my signature . . . I scrutinized the forms for the forgery, but couldn’t spot it. Had they hired a professional? Okay, seriously—

  No. The signatures weren’t forgeries. I signed the forms. I remembered doing so, but in some other place . . . in a dream. And then it registered.

  The déjà vu.

  That was Damian.

  ***

  Hours later I was still cleaning junk off my new desk and wondering if I would ever get answers from this place. The déjà
vu thing still weirded me out, but I was no sucker for the mystical. There was another explanation. Period.

  I recalled something my father had said once—unlikely yet ordinary events, when combined, will appear extraordinary.

  His wisdom gave me comfort. Although eerie, déjà vu was indeed ordinary. I felt it often, in fact. And anyone in this office could have been a skilled forger; I suspected Damian. He moved with the calculated precision of someone skilled in sleights of hand. Charles probably just wanted to hurry things along and sent Damian to my house that morning to get the forms signed.

  Damian, the misogynist he was, spotted me eating breakfast and decided to play me.

  Unlikely, but not extraordinary at all.

  The moment Charles went upstairs, I slipped over to the other desks and rifled through the folders.

  All I saw were client contracts for commercial properties, invoices, shrunk down architectural plans, and paperclipped interior photographs. My eyes lingered on the client contracts.

  A former client, Charles had said. But there had to be millions of contracts here. “Don’t you guys digitize anything?” I asked.

  “It’s so snitches like you can’t find top secret information,” said Amy.

  “If you’re looking for something to do,” said Damian, eyes still closed, “you might organize those.”

  “Are you napping, or being a smartass?” I said.

  “Both,” said Amy. “He talks in his sleep.” She gave me a wry smile. Translation: I sleep with him, so I would know.

  “Whatever. Isn’t he supposed to train me?”

  “Oh, didn’t my dad tell you?” she said, fake sweetly. “We actually have a learn-by-doing philosophy, Blaire.”

  I rolled my eyes. A while later I found myself back at my computer, exploring the folders they hadn’t wiped from the hard drive. Just AutoCAD files, which flashed an error when opened, and more pictures. The computer clock showed 9:45 PM. In fifteen minutes, my first day would be over.