Figment (13 page)

Realization hit me like a sack of wet cement. I could see it now, what I hadn’t bothered to notice before. He hadn’t said it, but he’d drawn it. He liked me. And the very last thing in the world I wanted was to hurt Oliver’s feelings.

I saw the little orange tag on the corner then and peered at it. A thousand dollars. It took my breath away. My face, worth a thousand dollars, hanging on some stranger’s wall day after day.

“I hope you don’t mind.”

I turned around. Oliver stood behind me, neatly dressed in a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, tucked into narrow black pants. His hair was artfully tousled, and I caught a whiff of some kind of spicy cologne or aftershave. He looked good.

“Mind?” I repeated, somewhat stupidly.

“The
portrait.” He gestured toward it.

“Oh! The
portrait!” We both looked at it together. It was like seeing him naked. Our eyes met accidentally, and his cheeks turned a little pink. He cleared his throat and looked away.

“Well
. . .” I cast around for something to say, something to save us from this sudden intimacy. “I . . . I like this one, too.” I gestured toward the sketch beside mine, a small square one. Then I leaned forward and studied it more closely. A boy ran down a street, head turned, fleeing two bobbies who were chasing him. A wave of nausea rose up in me, and I inhaled sharply just as the image crashed over me: Davis running through massive, bristling cranes, the ocean lapping inky black behind him, feet pounding the pavement. I could hear his breath sobbing in his throat as three dark figures pursued him, gaining on him. He tripped then, sprawling face-first, skidding along the pavement, and the figures leapt on him—

“Zoe? Zoe?” someone was saying.

I focused on Oliver’s face in front of me. He had me by the shoulders and was shaking me gently back and forth.

“Are you okay? You just kind of
. . . went away there.”

“Wh-what?” I looked around. “I
. . .” I staggered a little, and Oliver caught my arm.

“Jesus, Zoe. You need to sit down.” He looked around. “Here, let’s go over here.” He led me to a secluded alcove at the back.

I sank down onto a bench and bent over, resting my face in my hands. My cheeks were wet, and it took me a minute to realize I’d been crying.
It’s not true. Just a dream, just a thought. He is safe. He is safe.
I said it over and over like a mantra.

“Zoe, I have to say it. I’m worried about you.” Oliver touched my back.

I nodded without taking my face out of my hands. My nose dripped. “Can you get me a tissue?” I asked, still not looking up. My heart was pounding against my chest like the hooves of a spooked pony.

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” He patted my shoulder, then stood up. I raised my head and watched him weave his way through the crowd, stopping every few feet to accept congratulations from people.

I stared blankly at a couple of the sketches nearby that I’d missed before—a series of the London Bridge done at different times of the day: sunrise, midday, sunset, with gulls flying across the river.

A girl who had been examining the sunrise picture turned around. “Zoe!” she said with surprise. It was Elisa, Oliver’s friend from the Enterprise, wearing gorgeous leather pants and a plain white T-shirt.

“Oh, hi.” I straightened up, swiping at my cheeks and running my fingers through my hair.

She gave me a hug and a double cheek-kiss. “I haven’t seen you since that night at the pub. Have you been hanging out with Oliver?”

“Yeah, some,” I replied. Over her shoulder, I could see Oliver standing at the drinks table, talking to someone who was blocked by a pillar. Then they moved a few steps to the side, and my heart skipped a beat. He was talking to my parents.

Elisa was still talking. “. . . going to this outdoor music festival next week
. . .”

I dragged my attention back to her. “I’m sorry, what?”

She gave me an odd look. “I said, we’re all going to this great outdoor music festival next week, if you want to come.”

Oliver was gesturing now, still talking. My father threw a concerned glance in my direction. I had a horrible flashback to the night Becca betrayed me, then quickly banished that thought. Oliver would never do that to me—would he?

Elisa was still talking. I nodded automatically, half watching her pink mouth forming meaningless words, half watching Oliver. My parents were doing most of the talking, it seemed. I strained to hear them, but there was no way I could over the din of the crowd.

“Well, nice to run into you,” Elisa said. My inattention must have finally gotten to her, because the words had a hollow ring. “See you around.” She moved off without another hug or kiss.

“See you around,” I called after her belatedly, then immediately began wending my way through the crowded room to get to the drinks table. I was too late, though. Oliver hadn’t come back with my tissues, and my parents were bearing down on me with an intent I couldn’t mistake.

“Zoe
. . .” My mother whisked me off into a corner. “Your father and I want to talk to you.”

I looked from one to the other, trying to gauge what Oliver had told them. Everything? Nothing? Did they know he’d been covering for me?

“Oliver was just chatting with us a bit.” She twisted a bracelet on her wrist.

My chest tightened immediately. “Yeah, I saw.” I forced myself to breathe. Antagonizing them would get me nowhere, especially if Oliver had betrayed me.

“He said you’ve been a bit on edge, Zoe.” My father pinned me to the wall with his stare.

I exhaled sharply. Never would I get out of this situation. Never would I convince them I was better. They’d given me the phone, and everything had been peachy, and now—we were right back where we’d started.

“I’m feeling less anxious since we talked a few days ago.” I kept my voice supremely neutral. The music pounded in my head, and on every side, faces loomed and voices babbled. I had to get out of there. The walls were going to crush me at any second. “I just think about the accident sometimes, and it upsets me.” My voice wavered, and I steadied it with an effort.

My mother nodded. “That’s what I was telling Dad, but he’s worried there might be something
. . . more.” She cut her eyes over at my father. He stared at me, his face set in hard lines.

Crazy.
They were still saying I was crazy. Suddenly I couldn’t bear it anymore—couldn’t bear their moon faces staring at me, couldn’t bear the pressure to act normal, act casual, couldn’t bear not knowing if the boy I loved was alive or dead. I wanted to scream as loudly as I could until my lungs gave out, but instead I murmured, “I think I’ll just get a little fresh air.” I pasted on a smile and slipped past them, scurrying out the door.

I leaned against a light pole on the sidewalk, thankfully inhaling the soft night air. I could hear my pulse beating in my ears. I ground my forehead slowly against the cool metal of the pole, then looked up to see a knot of smokers staring at me strangely. I moved around the side of the building where a narrow alley stretched through to the block behind us. Some
where quiet where I could think.

Here, my only company was a Dumpster with a couch poking from the top and a few scurrying creatures I told myself were mice. I leaned against the rough brick wall and tried to empty my mind. The alley was silent, but I could hear the noise of the party down at the end. And something else, I realized. Footsteps, coming toward me.

Then a hand fell on my shoulder.

I gasped and whirled around. A small, slender man was standing in front of me, wearing a well-cut gray suit. He had buzzed blond hair and eyes that looked both sleepy and alert, like those of a lizard basking in the sun.

“Zoe.” The man smiled, as if pleased to see me. His hand reached out and squeezed my shoulder again. The touch was unpleasantly intimate.

I recoiled, backing up a step until my shoulder blades touched the brick wall. “Who—who are you?”

But even before the words were out of my mouth, I already knew. It was the man who had been following us. The man the Dubai ring had sent to track Davis.

Fear filled me, and, with adrenaline pumping through my body, I turned to run down the alley, call for Oliver, my father, somebody. But the man grabbed my wrist, jerking me back. I half fell against the brick wall with the unused scream caught in my throat.

With his hand still encircling my wrist like a hard bracelet, he brought his face close to mine. I could smell his breath—stale tobacco. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet his eyes.

“Zoe, I’m so glad we ran into each other.
I’m Jeremiah.” He sounded as if we’d met each other at a party. “Did your felon boyfriend Davis tell you I’d be coming?”

“He’s not a felon,” I whispered. Sweat slicked my palms.

Jeremiah released my wrist. “Whatever you say, dear.” He smiled broadly. His teeth were yellow.

“What do you want?” I kept the trembling from my voice.

“What do I want?” Jeremiah traced the side of my face with one finger. Sour spit filled my mouth, and I swallowed hard. “What I want isn’t the question. What my colleagues in Dubai want, on the other hand, is the password.” He paused and watched me alertly.

“What password?” I glanced up and down the alley. The lights from the gallery glowed at one end. I saw a merry group pass by, talking loudly, but I didn’t dare scream for help. Jeremiah saw my gaze shift.

“That’s right, Zoe. Best not to say anything.” His hand went around my wrist again, and the way he squeezed it sent a bolt of pain up my arm.

I cried out, doubling over, pressing my elbow into my belly. The fear was thick in my throat like vomit. “Please,” I whimpered. “What password?”

Jeremiah bent down so that his face was once again close to mine. “The password to the account, Zoe. Davis told you everything, didn’t he? Well, now we want to know it. Just to get the money—the money that is rightfully ours.” He squeezed my wrist again.

I groaned. “I don’t know it.” I was crying now, and my breath was coming in tight gasps. “I don’t know it. Please, you have to believe me. He never told me.” A shadowy figure appeared at the end of the alley—my father, but he was looking the wrong way, toward the street. Jeremiah glanced toward him. I opened my mouth to scream, but he twisted my arm behind my back. I fell to my knees in the dirt.

Jeremiah leaned down. “This isn’t over.” His breath was hot in my ear. Then he abruptly released me, and I heard his footsteps crunching as he ran the other way out of the alley.

“Zoe,” my father called, hurrying toward me. “What are you doing down here? I’ve been searching everywhere for you.” He reached me and pulled me up. All our tension from earlier dissolved, and I fell into his arms, struggling not to sob out the whole story. Instead, I just pressed my face to his crisp shirt, inhaling his familiar scent of Old Spice and cigars, just as I used to when I was little.

“I-I’m okay,” I managed after a moment. “I just . . . fell. On my arm.” I held it out, and we both looked at the bright bruise on my wrist.

“Here, let’s get you some ice.” My father guided me out of the alley and back into the noisy, glittering gallery.

As I stood in the back, waiting for my towel full of ice, the scene in the alley seemed unreal, as if it had never happened. Surely, in this throng of happy, beautifully dressed people, there were no men named Jeremiah with stale breath and a pincer grasp. There was no alley, no dirt, no darkness. But I knew that wasn’t true. It had happened. And Jeremiah wanted something very specific. The password to Davis’s account. The password that would unlock the money.

My legs felt weak. I felt for a chair behind me and slowly sank down. A password. He wanted a password. I didn’t know a password. This guy could hurt Davis—and me. Badly, if he wanted to.
“What am I going to do?” I moaned to myself. I wrapped my arms around my middle and rocked myself slowly back and forth, back and forth.

The metal door ricocheted off the wall as I banged into the empty bathroom stall. I fumbled the phone from my pocket and pressed the power button. I had to talk to Davis. I perched on the toilet and gripped the phone, the case sweaty in my hand, as the screen came gradually to life. I held my breath, stupidly, as the icons for voice mails and texts appeared. Nothing, of course. Davis didn’t have this international number. But maybe, just maybe . . . I thumbed rapidly to the Internet and logged on to my e-mail.
Please. Please let him have sent an e-mail.
Holding my breath, I scanned the list of new messages. I saw it halfway down—a message with no subject. The sender was Dana. I didn’t know a Dana. I clicked it open.

There was nothing in it but a phone number. Joy seared through my heart.

With my breath whistling in and out of my nose, with my fingers trembling, I dialed the number. It rang once, twice, three times—then a generic voice-mail message.

“Call me,” I whispered. Was someone listening in? How could I know it was safe? I hung up quickly. My mouth was dry.

I waited. The seconds ticked by endlessly. Then it came—the bing of a message. I thumbed the screen, my fingers skidding across the surface, leaving sweaty fingerprints. A text.