Exposed (Madame X, #2)(27)

The cell phone.

I lift it, press the circular button at the bottom. The screen lights up, showing the time—8:48 P.M.—and the date—September 18, 2015. Beneath that, there is a green icon. Next to the icon is a name: Caleb. And beside that is a line of text: the code to access the phone is 0309, the date you left the hospital.

I touch the icon and swipe it to the right, and a keypad appears, prompting me to either touch ID or enter passcode; I enter the numbers, and the screen appears to fly at me as it shifts to show the message. I see the message from you in a gray bubble on the left side of the screen. I touch the thing that looks like an Internet search bar, and a keyboard appears.

I type a message in return: Thank you.

Three gray dots appear in a bubble, and then a message pops up. Youre welcome. The lack of an apostrophe to denote the contraction irks me.

I’m leaving, I type.


Where

No question mark, just the single word. I didn’t expect such poor grammar from you.


I do not know. Anywhere but here. Anywhere that is not where you are.

I’m sorry, X. I went too far.

Yes, you did. Much too far.

Do you need money?

You are letting me go? I don’t know what to think about this, what to feel. It is odd to be using a cell phone, to be doing something so mundane as texting. I’ve seen you do it, I’ve seen clients do it. I never thought I would do it.


I do not want anything from you, Caleb.

Everything you have comes from me, X.

My name is Isabel. And yes, I know that. If I could walk out of here naked, with nothing but my skin, I would.

You wouldnt make it far in that state

No apostrophe, no period. Why? Is it hard to take the extra time to add them? I don’t understand. I notice, as well, that you do not address my statement of my name.


No, I would not.

Have fun with Logan. It won’t last.

I don’t know what that means, and I’m not sure what I can respond with, so I don’t respond at all. I have seen you use your phone—which is the same as this one except yours is black—so I know that the button on the right side near the top turns the screen off. I clutch the phone in my hand and notice that the elevator key is in the slot. I twist it, remove it when the doors open, and take the elevator down to the lobby. I debate whether to take the key.

If I take it, it would be a concession. It would mean I plan to return.

I don’t.

I see a security guard I recognize standing beside the receptionist desk. Frank? I think that’s the right name. I cross the lobby, my heels cracking loudly on the marble.

The guard eyes me suspiciously. “Ma’am.”

“Frank, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tall, round-shouldered, heavy brows, square jaw, shaved head.

I extend the key. “Give this to Mr. Indigo, if you would.”

“Won’t you need it, ma’am?”

“Not anymore.” I don’t wait for a response, I spin on my heel and pretend to have confidence I don’t feel as I stride out through the revolving door.

Turn right, up Fifth. Try to breathe. Try to ignore the noise, ignore the panic.

Try to ignore the fact that I am alone in the world. I have nothing but my name. Even the clothes I wear are yours, the phone, the shoes. Even my face belongs to you, since you paid to have it fixed.

I am reminded, then, of the chip in my hip. Is that real? Is that possible? I make it two blocks up and three blocks over before my nerves overcome me. I huddle against the side of a building, clutching the phone so hard my hand hurts.

Swipe right; 0-3-0-9; contacts; Logan.

It rings once. Twice. Three times.

“Logan Ryder.” His voice alone soothes me.

“Logan? It’s me. It’s”—I have to suck in a breath—“it’s Isabel.”

There are voices in the background, a phone ringing. “Sorry, it’s crazy at the office right now. Hold on, let me go somewhere quiet.” I hear a door click closed, and the background noise fades. “Are you okay?”

“No. I—I left.”

“Left?” You suck in a breath. “You mean you left, left?”

“Yes, Logan. I walked out.” My voice quavers. “I . . . Caleb, he . . . we—he did something. To me.” I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about that, yet.

“And he let you leave?”

“He gave me a cell phone, and even programmed your number into it.”

“So he can track you, probably.”

“He told me he had a microchip surgically implanted in my hip. So I don’t think he needs a cell phone to track me.”

“Are you joking?”

“Humor is not one of my strong suits, Logan.”

“Goddamn. That’s f*cked up. Like really, really f*cked up.”

“I know.” I fall silent as a man sidles past me on the sidewalk, eyeing me with something like greed in his gaze. I give him my best glare, and he continues past me. “Caleb, when I told him I was leaving, all he said was to have fun with you, and that it wouldn’t last.”

“I wonder what game he’s playing,” he muses.

“I wish I knew.” A phone rings in the background. “Do you have to answer that?”