Daily runs helped, but Logan insisted on going with her. Every time they went out, she felt like a dog Logan was taking for its daily stroll. At least at the clinic she had some freedom. Dave spent most of the day either with patients or with his medical students. The desk was next to a window and the front door opened directly to her left, keeping her out of a direct line of sight from the sidewalk but also allowing her to see anyone passing. It kept her from feeling quite as trapped.
Logan hadn’t liked the idea of her spending her days in a public place, but Dave had whispered something to him, something that made them both glance over and stare at her for a moment, and then he’d given in. Perhaps Dave had reminded Logan that Quincy didn’t need either of their permission to come and go as she pleased, no matter what Logan thought, and that him giving in was simply a way for Logan to save face in an argument he was going to lose. Regardless, it had won her some minor freedom, enough to keep her there. For awhile, anyway.
The days passed slowly, but they were nothing compared to the nights. She had never been able to sleep much but after the events of the last few months, sleep was even more elusive. She’d gone through Dave’s collection of medical books and the few cowboy novels Logan had, but she had run out of reading material a few weeks ago.
She left the boys to their work and their football, wandering into her “bedroom” - a corner of the room that Dave had strung a curtain across and tugged a mattress into before he even knew for sure she’d make it there - and heard the audible snap of Logan’s nose realigning.
She sighed. She knew what Logan would say. What his answer to her boredom and misery would be. He wanted her to start cooperating with Dave. He was in a big hurry to find out exactly what made her tick. It’s why she’d agreed to come here, after all. Finding out what all of this meant - living with Reflexive Neurological Bias, her amnesia, why a mysterious company was trying to kill her, it was important. It had every likelihood of making her life better. But there was something holding her back. Maybe she was afraid that, once they started, all of this would become real. Maybe she was worried that the knowing would make it worse. Or maybe she just didn’t want to know. Maybe she was sick of reacting to other people’s actions and just wanted to do it in her own time and in her own way.
That’s what she’d overheard Dave telling Logan several times. Be patient. Let her come to us. Logan wasn’t one to overly worry about pushing someone too hard, but Dave had been the exact opposite. Kind, in every sense of the word. Considerate of her space. Considerate of her feelings. Willing to let her stay with them, clothe her, feed her, put up with her, for nothing. No obligation to let him poke and pry and experiment on her. No obligation to participate in his crusade. Which only made her feel more guilty.
“Hey,” Dave said, knocking lightly on the wall beside her bed. The sheet was mostly open so he stuck his head in. “I got the sesame chicken just for you.”
“Which means I better get it before Logan does?” she asked, shaking herself out of the melancholy that set in so easily these days and giving him a smile.
“Exactly.” He grinned, the worry and stress he wore so easily melting from his face, and held out a hand. She reached out and let him haul her to her feet.
Quincy moved towards the center of the room and Dave wrapped an arm lightly around her shoulders, leaning in close.
“And don’t worry. I grabbed an extra 12-pack of Coke, just in case,” he whispered, winking in solidarity.
That got a genuine smile out of her. Kind. Considerate.
Guilty.
Chapter 2
“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.” Kurt Vonnegut
Everyone pretends.
Masks are created carefully, by degrees. And they become living things.
There are no honest people here.
***
Dr. Allison Cans
Dr. Allison Cans smiled and clapped politely along with the others, trying to cover the fact that she’d been drifting. Her fellow orientation attendees were all younger than her and brimming with excitement and enthusiasm.
They had certainly not been drifting, if their exuberant, forceful questioning of the speaker was any indication. Dr. Cans, however, had been around the block before. Though young for her qualifications, mid-30s suddenly seemed ancient next to this bright and shiny crop of new graduates. MIT, Brown, Stanford - they were all freshly handpicked from the Ivy League. The best and the brightest no doubt, they had certainly not been shy about their qualifications.
Dr. Cans had only smiled as her new colleagues name-dropped and mentioned their achievements in casual tones as they asked their questions, as though mentioning their awards and post-doc research would make them appear more credible to the presenter and give them a leg up on their competition. Having plenty of credentials herself, not to mention the benefit of age, Dr. Cans had felt no such need and it was having an effect on the others.
They were curious about her. Her age set her immediately apart and her straightforward questions left them guessing on who she was and why she was there. Was she competition? A threat to their own advancement? Or an over-the-hill nobody, not worth their time. The not-knowing was killing them. And so she continued to smile and clap with each new presenter, allowing them to stew. She didn’t really need to brag anyway. She was only here for one reason.
Dr. Cans mentally shook herself, focusing back towards the front of the room where the human resource officer in charge of the event was thanking the chief medical resident for his presentation on the healthcare benefits available to all employees on-campus. Dr. Cans had to admit, the company did a very nice job of making sure its employees had access to every necessary service on the two-mile wide research facility she now called home. As part of the agreement to live and work within the confines of the facility, they were amply rewarded.
Another hand shot into the air and Dr. Cans sighed. Who knew people could be this interested in on-site exercise facilities?
“Hey,” a voice at her elbow said suddenly and she turned. The girl sitting beside her had taken advantage of the moment and leaned towards her, a slightly irritated look on her face.
“Yes?” Dr. Cans asked politely.
“What field of study are you in?” the girl asked. “You never said.”
Dr. Cans glanced at the girl’s name tag. Mystie-with-a-Y. How appropriate.
“I’m working in the psychology department,” she answered vaguely. “And you?”
“Physics,” Mystie-with-a-Y said in annoyance, “like I’ve already mentioned several times today.” Mystie-with-a-Y stopped, obviously waiting for Dr. Cans to continue. She decided to comply.
“Physics is a wonderful field,” she chirped, full of false cheerfulness, “Good luck to you. I’m sure you’ll need it.”
Mystie-with-a-Y turned red, and Dr. Cans turned back to the front just as Tracy, the chipper blonde director of this little circus, directed her attention back to the audience.
“Any other questions?” she asked encouragingly.
There were, amazingly enough. Dr. Cans tried not to roll her eyes, instead allowing her thoughts to drift again. Her gaze ghosted around her, taking in as much as she could. The room they were in was well-appointed and designed for comfort, a stark contrast to the grand hall they had entered by. Tall and angular, with pristine lines highlighted in gold filigree, the grand hall had made a cold statement. It was abrupt and sterile, startling in its minimalism. This cozy meeting space, on the other hand, was designed for comfort. Whether the two rooms were supposed to be complementary or contradictory, she didn’t know.
Mystie-with-a-Y raised her hand.
“When will we be getting our phones back?” she asked, and Dr. Cans shook her head. Poor, sweet child. An employer that requires its employees to live on-campus and give up all contact with the outside world certainly wasn’t going to be returning phones to their rightful owners.
Tracy cleared her t
hroat awkwardly.
“Well, Mystie,” she said, leaving off with-a-Y. Frankly, Dr. Cans thought that was the best part of her name. “You actually won’t be getting your phones back. I’m so sorry,” she continued. “I thought you had been made aware of the privacy requirements.”
They had. Mystie-with-a-Y was just in denial.
“But,” she began, unbelieving, and Dr. Cans settled back in her seat for the show. “It has my whole life on it.”
Mystie-with-a-Y said it matter-of-factly, as though Tracy simply hadn’t understood what a phone was these days. As though her words would clear up the confusion. Any minute now, the light bulb would come on and Tracy would apologize profusely before handing her phone back.
Tracy did not apologize profusely. In fact, it looked like she was struggling to say anything at all. Good thing she didn’t have to.
“No contact with the outside world,” a commanding voice from behind them said. “If that’s too difficult, you can always be excused.”
The room as a whole turned to the imposing man standing at the back of the space. Though not overly tall, the man nevertheless had a demeanor that spoke of power and authority. Even Mystie-with-a-Y zipped it up and sank wordlessly back into her seat. This job was apparently too lucrative to lose, even in defense of her phone. That was good. Dr. Cans suspected she wouldn’t have liked how the company excused people.
“Mr. Anderson,” Tracy said in a strained voice, clearly surprised. “You’re just in time. These are our newest family members.”
“Hmm,” was all Mr. Anderson had to say.
Dr. Cans tipped her head, taking note of the man. Nathan Anderson. Executive Director of the research division of the Rhinehardt Corporation, he was an intimidating man with lofty standards and even loftier personal goals. Disagreeable. Arrogant. Controlling. Dr. Cans ought to know. She’d researched her new boss meticulously.
“I’m here for Dr. A. Cans,” Mr. Anderson said imperiously, as though having to come get his new chief psychologist was an inconvenience of the highest order.
He scanned the room as he spoke, impatiently looking for her. His gaze passed right over her and she exchanged a glance with Cheer Captain Tracy up front. Apparently her new boss hadn’t bothered to research her the same way.
Dr. Cans cleared her throat and stood.
“I’m here.” She bent and scooped up her things and turned in time to catch the incredulous look on his face.
“You’re Dr. A. Cans?” he asked, disapproval dripping from him like gasoline.
“That’s right,” she replied steadily, “Dr. Allison Cans.”
He eyed her up and down, his gaze lingering momentarily, and she added misogynist to his list of character traits.
“That’s too bad,” he finally replied. “I suppose there’s nothing to be done about it now.” He snapped a quick turn and strode from the room without waiting to see if she would follow.
Dr. Cans glanced back at the room full of her fellow new hires - some aghast, some delighted, all watching raptly. She made eye contact with Tracy again, who gave her a brittle smile.
“Good luck,” she said in solidarity.
Dr. Cans gave her a blinding smile. She’d dealt with worse than Nathan Anderson. She would be just fine.
If she could catch him, that is. How a middle-aged man could make such a speedy and complete exit, she didn’t know, but pride completely intact, Dr. Cans refused to run after him. She did, however, walk very quickly.
Chapter 3
Quincy
What Quincy considered hell, Logan saw as an adventure, and to that end had added both a hot plate and a crockpot to their spacious accommodations. While Quincy was unconvinced that there was anything that couldn’t be cooked with the equivalent of a dorm room kitchen set, Logan was determined to prove her wrong. Last night had been pizza. Again. And another point to Quincy.
“It wasn’t so bad,” Dave said gamely. “It was warm, at least.”
“Ah yes. Warmth. The very definition of fine cuisine,” Quincy snarked before shoveling a forkful of rice into her mouth. All this talk of the pizza-that-wasn’t was making her appreciate her current dinner even more. She had reminded herself, over and over, that Logan was doing the best that he could, and even if a fork and knife couldn’t cut it, her slice had rolled into something resembling a soggy taquito, which she had then been able to force down. Logan counted it a win. She, however, simply could not.
Speaking of, poor Logan was sitting on the floor, his back propped up against Dave’s desk.
“I just don’t get it,” he said, cramming his own bite of rice into his mouth. “I followed the instructions exactly.”
To his credit, last night’s attempt had been significantly better than the first time he’d tried to make pizza on a hot plate. She would have thought that debacle would have been enough to teach him a lesson but instead of lesson, Logan apparently heard challenge.
“I just don’t know where I went wrong.”
In Quincy’s opinion, it was the moment he thought a piece of tin foil and a hot plate equalled a brick oven and a pizza stone. But she kept her thoughts to herself. He really had been trying, and she knew it wasn’t for his or Dave’s benefit. They had been eating like bachelors for years, surviving on gas station burritos and Chinese carry-out quite happily. It wasn’t until shortly after her arrival that the hot plate had shown up, followed closely by the industrial-sized slow cooker. So while his attempts at home cooking had not been successful, she would still eat them. Because that’s what friends did.
She flashed back to the night before and changed her mind. They weren’t that good of friends.
She tossed her plate aside and wiped her hands on a spare napkin. Supper tonight was a blessed relief but she still wasn’t that hungry. The headache that had been nagging her all day wasn’t as bad as it could sometimes be but the crack to the back of the head hadn’t helped. She was exhausted, having slept even less last night than usual, and the lack of sleep was making her nauseous. If sleep had been fleeting before Boulder, it was worse now. In her weaker moments, she blamed it on the men. Suffocation could do that to a person. But she was in a more introspective frame of mind at the moment. She knew it was her. Her fault, her problem, her cross to bear.
Even though she knew she was the problem, the sighs really weren’t helping. Not Dave’s, and not Logan’s. Dave didn’t know he was doing it so she could cut him some slack. Logan, on the other hand, did. They were a constant presence in the basement, floating in the air and driving the dagger in just a little deeper every time. Dave might be reading or researching patient files and suddenly lean back, gazing into space for minutes at a time, before heaving out a deep sigh. It was the sigh of a troubled man. Since she was a large part of the troubles plaguing him, she felt guilty every time he did it.
Logan, she just wanted to punch. And so she did. Over and over. He hit back, but never as hard as a real attacker would. How could she be expected to defend herself from an actual attack if her instructor wouldn’t train her realistically? Of course, he would usually respond by catching her with an off-guard tackle to the floor. Hitting a girl wasn’t okay but body slamming apparently was. Go figure.
Dave had so little. He could be a millionaire. Was, in fact, before this whole crusade started. He had been a world-renowned neurosurgeon, specializing in traumatic brain injuries. His research on little-understood conditions was revolutionary and consulting requests had come from every part of the globe. But he’d given it all up to go into hiding and try to help people suffering from this wretched condition.
One theory, researched but unproven, and it had all come crumbling down. His genius turned to madness. His name, once synonymous with brilliance, was now mocked for going too far. In his desperation to prove that reflexive neurological bias was a practical theory, that people were dying from it, he agreed to partner with a pharmaceutical company that volunteered to fund his research. And when that company turned out to be differen
t than they appeared, he walked away with nothing left to his name but the patient files. He lost everything - his funding, his home, his livelihood, and his good name.
What little he now had was subject to Logan and Quincy’s random, impromptu training sessions. Just yesterday, in fact, his last bookshelf had fallen prey to a demonstration on how to take a fall, and Quincy felt terrible. Not because they hadn’t thought to move the bookshelf out of the way before they started. And not because her hip had taken the brunt of the blow; they hadn’t and it had, but neither of those things were unusual. It was because Dave never complained. Not about the loss of prestige and an early, easy retirement. Not about sub-par accommodations in the dark, dingy basement of the free clinic he ran on the down-low for the medical school in Boulder. And not about the petulant free-loader currently ransacking the few possessions he did have.
Said free-loader sighed now too. She knew what he wanted. What weighed so heavily on his mind. He wanted to help her. She was the living, breathing embodiment of this idea that had taken over his life and he was like a dog with a bone. But one that was so well-trained that he calmly sat and waited for permission before tearing into it. She knew he was waiting so as not to scare her off. She had no doubt Logan would have filled him in on some of her less-than-pleasant symptoms and with her penchant for running in a crisis, she supposed she didn’t blame him.
She didn’t know why she was so hesitant. After all, why was she here if not to figure out what the score was? Logan had insisted that there was nothing to fix, that RNB was the fix, but if Dave could figure out how her messed-up brain worked, maybe it wouldn’t be such a struggle to get out of bed every day or to keep going when all she wanted to do was stop.
She couldn’t stop, because she had promised Logan she wouldn’t. Not in so many words maybe, but she had agreed to come here with him. And once she’d come, she’d stayed. She didn’t have to. Logan and Dave both insisted that she was free to leave if she ever wanted that. But she didn’t. Because she didn’t have anywhere else to go. And maybe because Logan and Dave were the only two people in the world who knew who she really was. Or who she had been these last few years, anyway. No one knew who she’d been before that, not even her.
Burning Bridges (Shattered Highways Book 2) Page 2