The Thought Readers (Mind Dimensions #1)(7)

Of course, it’s also possible that they know more about me than what’s in the file. Maybe they’ve come across some info about my moms. Oh yeah, did I mention that I have two moms? Well, I do. Trust me, I know how strange that sounds. And before there’s any temptation, I never want to hear another joke on the subject. I got enough of that in school. Even in college, people used to say shit sometimes. I usually made sure they regretted it, of course.

In any case, Lucy, who is my adoptive mom—but is nonetheless the most awesome mom ever—is a tough-as-nails detective. If these bozos laid a finger on me, she’d probably track them down and personally kick their asses with a baseball bat. She also has a team that reports to her, and they would likely chime in, too. And Sara, my biological mom—who is usually quite peace-loving—wouldn’t stop her. Not in this case.

Nick and Buff are silent as they lead me out of their office and through the casino to the cab waiting area outside.

“If you come here again,” Nick says as I get into an empty cab, “I’ll break something of yours. Personally.”

I nod and quickly close the door. All he had to do was ask me nicely like that. In retrospect, Atlantic City wasn’t even that much fun.

I’m convinced I won’t ever want to come back.





Chapter 3


I start my post-Labor Day Tuesday morning feeling like a zombie. I couldn’t fall asleep after the events at the casino, but I can’t skip work today. I have an appointment with Bill.

Bill is my boss, and no one ever calls him that—except me, in my thoughts. His name is William Pierce. As in Pierce Capital Management. Even his wife calls him William—I’ve heard her do it. Most people call him Mr. Pierce, because they’re uncomfortable calling him by his first name. So, yeah, Bill is among the few people I take seriously. Even if, in this case, I’d rather nap than meet with him.

I wish it were possible to sleep in the Quiet. Then I’d be all set. I’d phase in and snooze right under my desk without anyone noticing.

I achieve some semblance of clear thought after my first cup of coffee. I’m in my cubicle at this point. It’s eight a.m. If you think that’s early, you’re wrong. I was actually the last to get into the office in my part of the floor. I don’t care what those early risers think of my lateness, though. I can barely function as is.

Despite my achievements at the fund, I don’t have an office. Bill has the only office in the company. It would be nice to have some privacy for slacking off, but otherwise, I’m content with my cube. As long as I can work in the field or from home most of the time—and as long as I get paid on par with people who typically have offices—the lack of my own office doesn’t bother me.

My computer is on, and I’m looking at the list of coworkers on the company instant messenger. Aha—I see Bert’s name come online. This is really early for him. As our best hacker, he gets to stroll in whenever he wants, and he knows it. Like me, he doesn’t care what anyone else thinks about it. In fact, he probably cares even less than I do—and thus comes in even later. I initially thought we would talk after my meeting with Bill, but there’s no time like the present, since Bert is in already.

“Stop by,” I message him. “Need your unique skills.”

“BRT,” Bert replies. Be right there.

I’ve known Bert for years. Unlike me, he’s a real prodigy. We were the only fourteen-year-olds in a Harvard Introduction to Computer Science course that year. He aced the course without having to phase into the Quiet and look up the answers in the textbook, the way I did in the middle of the exams. Nor did he pay a guy from Belarus to write his programing projects for him.

Bert is the computer guy at Pierce. He’s probably the most capable coder in New York City. He always drops hints that he used to work for some intelligence agency as a contractor before I got him to join me here and make some real money.

“Darren,” says Bert’s slightly nasal voice, and I swivel my chair in response.

Picturing this guy as part of the CIA or FBI always puts a smile on my face. He’s around five-four, and probably weighs less than a hundred pounds. Before we became friends, my nickname for Bert was Mini-Me.

“So, Albert, we should discuss that idea you gave me last week,” I begin, jerking my chin toward one of our public meeting rooms.

“Yes, I would love to hear your report,” Bert responds as we close the door. He always overacts this part.

As soon as we’re alone, he drops the formal colleague act. “Dude, you f*cking did it? You went to Vegas?”

“Well, not quite. I didn’t feel like taking a five-hour flight—”

“So you opted for a two-hour cab ride to Atlantic City instead,” Bert interrupts, grinning.

“Yes, exactly.” I grin back, taking a sip of my coffee.

“Classic Darren. And then?”

“They banned me,” I say triumphantly, like it’s some huge accomplishment.

“Already?”

“Yeah. But not before I met this chick.” I pause for dramatic effect. I know this is the part he’s really waiting for. His own experience with girls thus far has been horrendous.

Sure enough, he’s hooked. He wants to know every detail. I tell him a variation of what happened. Nothing about the Quiet, of course. I don’t share that with anyone, except my shrink. I just tell Bert I won a lot. He loves that part, as he was the one who suggested I try going to a casino. This was after he and a bunch of our coworkers got slaughtered by me at a friendly card game.