Crosstalk (25 page)

Good,
Briddey said, in case he was still listening, which she wouldn't put past him, and started back down to her office, walking in the middle of the corridor in case it was a trick, and he was lying in wait in the copy room or the staff lounge.

He wasn't, and she didn't run into anyone else, thank goodness, though just before she reached her office she heard Art Sampson say, “…can't live on what I've got saved.”

Poor man, he was apparently roaming the halls nonstop, talking about the layoffs to anyone who'd listen.
It's not going to be me,
Briddey thought, diving into her office. She already had too much to deal with.

Including Charla, who stood up in alarm when she saw her and said, “Are you
okay
?”

“Yes, of course,” Briddey said, starting past her.

“You just look so…did you have an argument with somebody?”

She must look as furious as she felt. And she'd better say something if she didn't want Charla telling Suki she'd broken up with Trent. “Yes, I did,” she said. “With Art Sampson. He's upset about having to work on a Saturday.”

Charla frowned. “Art Sampson? But he's not here.”

“Not here?” Briddey repeated blankly.

“No. That's why his assistant called to cancel, because he's sick and couldn't come in today.”

But I heard his voice,
Briddey thought.

Charla was looking at her worriedly. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Of course. He must have come in to pick up some files or something.”

“But why would he come in if he was sick? And why couldn't his assistant have emailed the files to him?”

“I don't know,” Briddey said, belatedly remembering C.B.'s Rules of Lying, and went into her office and shut the door before she could get into any more trouble. She hadn't heard Art Sampson coming down the hall just now. He'd been a voice in her head. Had he been one yesterday, too?

She'd told C.B. she'd only started hearing other people today, but if Art Sampson was one of them, that wasn't true. She'd been hearing them since yesterday morning. And C.B. had said in another day or two she'd be hearing more voices than she could handle, which might be today. If
he was telling the truth. If that wasn't just another lie to keep me from telling Trent.
But she wondered if she should tell C.B.

Not until I know for sure that Art Sampson didn't come in today,
she thought, and called his office to find out.

He wasn't here. He'd called in sick this morning. And five minutes later Briddey heard him say,
First layoffs and now the flu. It's not fair!,
and a moment after that:
Where's the damned aspirin? She said it was in the medicine cabinet,
which pretty much confirmed his being at home.

But she didn't hear the decaf latte guy again, or the person who'd said,
Why is this taking so long?
And at least hearing Art Sampson was going to make it easier to tell Trent about C.B. She couldn't possibly be emotionally bonded to him.

Or to Lorraine from Marketing, who popped up to say,
There's definitely a spy here at Commspan. I wonder who it is. Probably my supervisor. I hope it is, and she gets caught and fired. I need to text Jeremiah in Human Resources and see who he thinks it is. He is
so
cute.”

Now if Trent would just pop up. But he didn't. Happily, C.B. didn't either.
Maybe he finally figured out I wasn't going to listen to any more of his lies,
she thought.

But they hadn't all been lies. She
was
hearing more voices, and they
did
seem to be random. Trying to hear more of what Lorraine thought and
not
to hear Art Sampson had no effect on her ability to pick up what they were saying, which worried her a little. If C.B.'d told the truth about that, could he have been telling the truth about needing to stay away from crowded places?

But he'd obviously told her that because he didn't want her to meet Trent at the restaurant—and Art Sampson and Lorraine hardly needed to be defended against. Hearing them in her head was no worse than what she experienced every day walking to her office. It was better, actually. She didn't have to make excuses to get away from them, and it was sort of fun to know that Lorraine had a crush on someone in Human Resources and that she hated her supervisor.

Charla came in to tell her that Jill Quincy wanted to meet with her and that she had an email from Trent. When Briddey opened it, it was an ad for Tiffany's engagement rings. “To give you something to think about until dinner.”

Maybe that means he's out of his meeting,
Briddey thought, but when she phoned him there was no answer, and when she looked at the time stamp on his email, she saw it had been sent earlier in the day.

She went up to meet with Jill, wondering if she'd hear Jill's voice, too, and who
she
had a secret crush on.
Careful, you're starting to sound like Suki,
she thought, and pondered how much damage Suki could do if
she
could hear voices.

None of us would be safe,
she thought, and had to admit that C.B. had been right about telepathy being dangerous. And unsettling. Except for Art Sampson, who she knew wasn't here, it was impossible to tell whether the voices she heard were real or in her head. When she heard Phillip say, “Briddey Flannigan,” she ignored it, only to have him catch up to her and ask, “Didn't you hear me? I wanted to ask you, do you know what the Hermes Project's working on? Somebody told me it's a smart baseball cap.”

Which she supposed was better than a smart tattoo. “I don't know,” she said. “I've heard all kinds of things. Sorry, I've got a meeting.” She started past him.

“Oh, you know, all right. You just don't want to tell,” Phillip said, and she had no way to know whether he'd actually said that or not, and, consequently, no idea whether she should answer him.

Maybe schizophrenics don't start out insane,
she thought.
Maybe they just end up that way from the strain of not knowing whether the voices they hear are real or not.

It was a positive relief to reach Jill's office and sit across from the person she was talking to and be able to see whether she was speaking or not, though it turned out not to be necessary. She didn't hear Jill's thoughts at all through the entire meeting—or anyone else's.

“Okay,” Jill said as they finished, “so you'll send me the analysis on this?”

“Yes,” Briddey said, and got up to go.

“So I suppose you and Trent are doing something exciting tonight?”

I hope not,
Briddey thought. “No, he's just taking me out to dinner. To Luminesce.”

“Oh, you're so lucky. I've always wanted to go there! I know you'll have a wonderful time!”

A wonderful time,
Briddey thought grimly as she headed back to her office.
I rather doubt it, not when I've got to tell Trent I'm hearing voices.
But at least she could finally stop lying and—

“Briddey—” she heard Jill say, and turned around, thinking Jill had forgotten to tell her something, but the hallway was empty.

That was Jill's mental voice I heard,
Briddey thought.
That makes five voices. No, six, if Phillip only thought that thing about my knowing what the Hermes Project was doing.
C.B. hadn't been lying about that part. She
was
starting to hear more and more voices.

“No, we're not doing anything exciting tonight,”
Jill said in a sarcastic, mimicking voice.
“Trent's
only
taking me to Luminesce, the most exclusive restaurant in town.” Oh, I could just slap her bragging little face!

I
wasn't
bragging,
Briddey protested.
You asked me what we were doing.

I'm so sick of hearing about her stupid perfect boyfriend and her stupid perfect life!

But you brought it up,
Briddey thought, mortified. And appalled that Jill felt that way about her. She was grateful when Art Sampson cut back in, fretting about his health insurance again. But when she got back to her office and Charla smiled cheerfully up at her, she wondered,
Do you hate me, too?

“You have a bunch of messages,” Charla said. “Your sister Mary Clare called to say your niece is feeling better but she's still worried about her. And Kathleen called to say she decided to go with Lattes'n'Luv, whatever that is.”

“An internet dating site. For people who want to commit to coffee but not lunch.”

“I wish I knew if Nate was willing to commit,” Charla said ruefully, and Briddey found herself turning to look sharply at her, wondering if Charla'd said that or only thought it.

“Trent Worth's secretary called and said his meeting is running long, so to go on home and he'll pick you up at seven. Oh, and these came for you,” she said, pointing to a bouquet of pale pink camellias. The card read simply, “Tonight. Trent.”

“Thank you,” Briddey said. She picked up the flowers and went into her office, bracing herself for some spiteful unspoken remark.

I hope she goes home early,
she heard Charla think.
She looks exhausted,
and Briddey was so grateful she hadn't said something cruel, she came back out and said, “You can go home now, Charla. I'll finish up here.”

She didn't hear anything more from Charla or from the others as she finished up her work and went out to the car. She didn't hear anything from C.B. either, which was just as well, because Ethel Godwin phoned as she pulled out of the parking lot to tell her that plans had changed and Trent wasn't picking her up. She was to meet him at the theater.

“Theater?” Briddey said.

“Yes, he was able to get tickets to
Dropped Call
after all, so you're going to the play and having supper afterward.” She gave Briddey the name and address of the theater. “The curtain's at eight.”

If C.B. didn't want her to go to a restaurant, he definitely wouldn't want her to go to a theater, and she was glad he didn't pop up and start yammering at her again, especially since the traffic on her way home was terrible. She'd never make it home in time to shower and dress. And how was she going to be able to shower anyway, knowing C.B. might be spying on her?

Maybe she should have listened to his instructions for keeping the voices out after all. She could have used them to keep
him
out. What had he said, to put up a barricade?
I'll definitely do that,
she thought.
One made of lead, in case he lied to me about the X-ray vision thing, too.

The traffic was getting heavier, and up ahead brake lights were beginning to flash on in her lane. She flicked on her turn signal so she could change lanes.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” a stranger said in her ear.

Panicked, she whipped her head around to see who was in the back seat. Horns blared, and she realized she'd swerved. She pulled back into her own lane, heart thudding, mouthing an automatic “Sorry” to the driver of the car she'd nearly hit. He made a rude gesture and roared ahead of her.
Didn't you ever learn to drive?
the voice bellowed.

There isn't anyone in the back seat
, Briddey told herself over her racketing heart. It was just a voice, like the decaf latte guy.

But it took all her willpower to keep her eyes on the road, and she reached for her phone and held it as she maneuvered her way over to the exit lane and down the off-ramp.

Signal, will you? Make up your mind! Are you getting in this lane or what?

He isn't talking to me,
Briddey told herself firmly, turning right at the bottom of the ramp onto a surface street.

At the first opportunity, she pulled over to the curb, unlocked her phone, tapped on her contacts list, and scrolled down to 911—finger poised to hit it if someone put a gun to her head—and then turned to look in the back seat.

There was no one there.
It was just someone yelling at some other driver,
she thought, relieved, and got back on the highway, but his anger had left her shaken, even though it hadn't been directed at her.

Jesus, some people!
he shouted a mile later.
Look at that! Learn how to drive!
Immediately after, a different voice said,
God, at this rate I'm not going to be done delivering till eight o'clock!

He must be in the same traffic as I am,
Briddey thought, and heard him say,
If I hadn't had to take those camellias to Commspan, I wouldn't be stuck in this…
She lost the last part of that, but it was clear who he was—the person who'd delivered the flowers from Trent.

If I get off here, I can deliver the roses and then that funeral spray,
he said, and a few seconds later Art Sampson started in again, fretting about getting laid off, a soliloquy he kept up till Briddey got home, with occasional interjections by the angry driver and Jill, all of which convinced Briddey she'd better not drive to the theater.

She called a taxi as soon as she got up to her apartment and stepped into the shower, imagining a barricade around it in case C.B. was eavesdropping. She was surprised he'd been gone this long. She wondered what he was doing, and why he'd said,
Shit. It never rains, but it pours.
Did that mean—?

Will you look at this!
a voice said, and Briddey grabbed instinctively for a towel.

“Go
away
!” she shouted, clutching the towel to her and grabbing the shampoo bottle to use as a weapon.

But it was only the florist guy, saying,
Half the stems are broken! I'll have to go all the way back to the shop.

This is ridiculous,
Briddey thought, and was grateful she didn't hear anyone else as she dried her hair and put on her emerald-green taffeta with the short, swingy skirt, and the diamond earrings Trent had gotten her. She twisted her hair into an updo, put on mascara and lipstick, and went in search of her silver evening bag.