Perfect Lies (6 page)

“Yes, sir.” I stand, brushing the sand off my pants. He joins me in the walk back to the house and I turn things around in my head, everything mixing together and jumbling up. Cole’s tragic history. Fia’s choice to leave me. Her relationship with James.

The world bursts into bright colors, and I see a girl, a teenager, but tiny. She’s got white hair and black eyes. She’s sitting across from a woman I actually recognize—Doris, from the school—but she looks bored, slouched with one leg draped lazily over the side of her chair.

“Could you please state your name?” Doris says, eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

The girl doesn’t say anything, her gaze steady under one raised eyebrow.

Doris frowns. “Your name is not Katniss Everdeen. Think your name. Your name. The name your mother called you. The name on your birth certificate.” Doris’s face is growing angrier. “This isn’t a joke.”

“No, Doris Robertson, it isn’t. But you are. This whole place is. Do any of you think I haven’t already pulled from your brains exactly what’s going on here? I don’t want to talk to you. I want to talk to your boss. I should be working for Mr. Keane, not trapped in a school with a bunch of scared brats who have no idea what they can do. What’s his phone number?”

Doris stammers. “I can’t—you—”

The girl sighs and pulls out her phone, dialing a number. “Too easy,” she says. “Hello, this is Mae Rubio. I’d like to speak with Mr. Keane.”

The image shifts, and I see the same girl on a sidewalk, shivering, a wild and terrified look in her eyes. Another girl stands close, holding her by the arm. That’s when I realize—Fia. She’s with Fia. Whoever this girl is, she’s going to be with Fia sometime in the future.

Fia’s holding a broken bottle like a weapon.

And then I’m back in the dark, but not back in reality. I try not to freak out, try to calm my brain down because I’m worried if I get too excited the vision will stop, but it all continues as it did before. The hand in mine. The invisible slide and click of pieces falling into place as vision-me realizes she is in love.

“Annie,” someone whispers, and I want to scream in frustration because if he’s whispering, how can I recognize his voice when I hear it again? But vision-me, caught in the same eternal darkness I am, doesn’t mind. She knows exactly who she is with and how she feels about it, and our racing hearts match pace.

“Annie?”

The sound of Cole’s voice nearly makes my racing heart stop, until I realize with a shuddering gasp that reality has reclaimed me, and I’m back outside with Cole.

“Vision?”

I nod, disoriented. I’m sitting down. I wasn’t sitting down before. “Did I fall?”

“You stopped walking and were pretty gone. I was worried you’d fall, so I helped you sit.”

“Thanks.” I push myself up, Cole’s hand on my elbow turning me toward the house. I take off my sunglasses to rub the bridge of my nose, then settle them back into place.

“What did you see?” he asks, and it takes me a few seconds to process what he’s asking. Visions are so disorienting. And I kind of resent having to dive back into reality
right now
; I’d like to hold on to the few remaining strands of how it felt to be me in that last vision. I love how it feels to be me in that vision. I want it so much it hurts.

“There you are,” Rafael calls, his voice warm against the chill of the evening. I can hear his smile in it. “You left so quickly I was worried you were upset.”

I shake my head. “No, I’m fine, I—”

“Did something happen? You look flushed.” He puts his hand against my cheek, which means if I wasn’t already flushed, I certainly am now.

“A vision.”

“Really? Come, let’s get you inside.” He takes my hand—for the briefest second my heart flutters at the thought that it could be
his
hand—until I realize that it’s not. I’d know that hand anywhere now, and it isn’t Rafael’s. There’s a whisper of disappointment in my soul. It would have been so exciting to know it was Rafael. Oh well. He puts my hand on his arm, walking very close to me so that I’m entirely filled with the smell of him. The dark, heady spice of his cologne feels appropriate for how disoriented I am right now.

“There was a girl,” I say, letting the images wash over my memory, relishing the look of the world. “White hair, dark eyes. At the school, being interviewed by a woman named Doris Robertson, a Reader there.” I snort a small laugh. “The girl totally ran circles around her. Her name was … Mae Rubio. And then later I saw her with Fia.” I swallow hard against the swelling of emotions. “Not doing anything specific, but it looked like they knew each other. That’s probably why I saw her in the first place.” I don’t mention the broken bottle or how scared Mae looked. Was Fia about to hurt her?

I feel sick thinking about it. I’m glad the vision ended when it did. For once I don’t wish for more information.

“Explain?” Rafael prods. “Why would that make you see her?”

“Most of my visions involve Fia in one form or another. I’m the only person who can see her clearly.” I realize maybe I should have told him this sooner, but I didn’t want to talk about it. “She’s so … umm, flighty? She’s hard for Seers to grab ahold of. Clarice could never track her.”

“Who is Clarice?”

I miss a step and he catches me around my waist. We’re suddenly very, very close, but he doesn’t let go or move away. Darn it, vision, couldn’t it have been his hand? “She was my teacher. At the school. But she’s dead.”

“I see.”

Cole’s voice is like a rush of cold night air, bursting the bubble between Rafael and me. “We should find Mae. Talk to her before Keane gets her.” I back up, embarrassed.

“I agree. And I think Annie should be the one to do it.”

“What? Why?” Cole sounds suspicious.

“Who better to warn this poor girl of what her future holds than a beautiful woman who has escaped it?”

“You really think I should?” I ask.

“I do.”

“Okay. I will.” A smile pulls at my lips. I have something to do, and I’ll be able to help, finally. I’ll keep someone away from Keane. I’ll save a girl from the school. Fia would be proud.

I COULD WALK STRAIGHT BACK. HE’S IN THERE—PAST
that doorway, somewhere in the maze of offices in this gleaming, window-lit skyscraper. Walk straight back. I don’t know what I’d do when I got there. Probably nothing that works with the plan. But my fingers itch to
do
.

“Don’t,” Pixie says, not looking up from her magazine. She’s manning the front desk, and I’m sitting on top of it. I’m just
sitting
here.

She glares up at me. “You’re not sitting, you’re lurking. And you wouldn’t get very far. There’s a buttload of security guards once you get past that door, and you’re on the watch list. So you can’t go back and see James.”

James. Yes. I was thinking about
James
. Of course that’s what I was thinking about. I want to go back to see James. I want to jump him, throw him across a desk, rip off his shirt and …

“SHUT UP, gag, you are so gross.”

I smile and tap my temple, but that was close. I have to be more careful. James asked me again this morning for a verdict he could give his father.

I don’t know if I’m delaying because I like Pixie and worry what will happen to her, or if I’m delaying because I’m worried about whatever job his father would have for me next. But I’ll have to decide soon. Decide what to do with Pixie. Pick her fate. I reach out and brush her bangs out of her eyes.

She doesn’t look up. “Did you figure out who was watching you?” she asks, slowly tearing strips through the glowingly photoshopped face of some pop star.

“Hmm?” I jump off the desk and walk to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. I can see the green beacon of Central Park from here. It’d be nice to be down there today. But I need to be here. Why? I can’t do anything right now. I feel like I need to be here, though.

“Last night, before you left with James. Remember? At the club?”

I shrug. “No idea.” I hadn’t even thought about it. Last night James held me and we laughed, and we dared to talk about a plan, our plan, and a future without all this. Whatever was happening at the club is yet another thing on my endless list of things to worry about or not worry about. I opt not to worry. Why worry about something as stupid as that? If I have to confront it, I will. And I’ll win.

Tap tap tap tap. I win.

“You want to do something tonight? Or do you have plans with Peachy Keane?”

James would hate that nickname. I’ll have to use it. I feel a little better today. More patient. I roll my eyes, the word sticking in my head like one of my taps. Awful word.

The main office door opens and a woman walks in. “Afternoon,” she says, her voice low and sleepy.

Pixie pops her gum loudly, then pushes a button under her desk that opens the door to the hall. The woman goes straight back.

“We should see a movie. Movies are quiet. People don’t think much during them.” Pixie’s voice buzzes at me, but I can’t quite focus on it.

Something.

Something.

Something.

Something is wrong. Very wrong. SO WRONG.

I whirl around just in time to see the door close behind the woman. “What was she thinking?”

Pixie sees my expression and frowns. “I don’t know, paperwork deadlines. Her thoughts are never interesting.”

“Let me back.”

“Fia, I can’t—”

I jump over the desk, knock her down, and push the button. The doors click unlocked and I throw them open, sprint through. A guard stands up from his chair and sputters something, blocking my way. I punch him in the neck and keep going.

Around the corner. Everything is buzzing, every internal alarm ringing, I feel sick and I feel tight and coiled like a spring. I see the back of the woman as she opens a plain door and walks in.

Wrong.

“You can’t be back here,” a man says, roughly grabbing my elbow. I put a foot against the wall and use it for leverage, shoving myself into him. He’s off-balance. I drop to the floor and sweep his legs, knocking him down.

Can’t stop. Can’t wait.

More footsteps pounding behind me but I don’t care, I throw myself at the door, slam through.

Everything is fuzzy, the room out of focus except the woman. Her back is to me but she is in sharp relief, every line clear, every instinct in my body tuned in to her.

Stop stop stop stop her, I have to stop her! I lower my shoulder and run straight forward, slamming her head into the edge of a table with a resounding crack. She collapses on the floor and I pin her arm behind her back.

My heart races, but everything else starts to calm, the rush in my ears fading and my vision going back to normal. She looks small and fragile there on the carpet, wearing a white blouse and charcoal dress slacks. Her hair is still perfectly set in a bun at the base of her neck and I—

Oh, no, please no, please no no I didn’t mean to I didn’t want to—

I see her chest move and I lean back, exhaling with relief. She’s not dead.

I’m grabbed roughly from behind. Elbow to the nose, turn, knee to the crotch, I am a fury of fists and knees and elbows, but there are a lot of them. I don’t know why I’m fighting them, I don’t need to fight them except they won’t leave me alone.

They have stun guns. Now I
want
to fight them. I break a nose, pop an arm out of its socket, fight my way into the corner. Two left. Two on one. Not fair.

Not a problem.

“Stop! Get off her!” James shouts.

The security guard immediately in front of me pauses. I slam my head into his nose and he stumbles backward, clutching it.

Good. Now no one is touching me. I don’t want anyone to touch me. I smooth down the front of my black tee, then finally take in the room. Several men in various stages of shock sit around a large oval table. The table I slammed the woman into. She’s still lying on the floor, but James is crouching next to her.

“She’s not dead,” I blurt, needing to say it and needing him to confirm it. “I didn’t kill her.”

James finally looks up and meets my eyes. I can read the panic hidden there, but his face is carefully composed. “She’s unconscious.”

“Why did you attack her?” a handsome older man with salt-and-pepper hair asks, and when I look at him I feel

nothing

nothing

nothing

so much nothing I worry that I will lose myself in it.

I shake my head, trying to snap out of it. He is worse than the distraction of the wrong feeling. There is something so strong in the way I react to him that it goes beyond right or wrong. I can hardly breathe. “I needed to.”

“She’s worked here for five years.”

James stands, holding a handgun. “She had this. I think Fia saved your life.”

The man’s expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t have an expression. He’s not a person. For the first time in my life I think I know what fear—true fear—feels like. Because everything about him is off, so far off I don’t even know how to process it.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” he says, and I think he is smiling, but it isn’t a smile because he isn’t a person. My instincts made me run in here, my instincts made me stop whatever this woman was going to do. But this man can’t be right, can’t be.