Elusion(45)

Regan: That didn’t work either. Abort?

Josh: No. This should do it //EyE Am ph33|1n6 |u(ky5020//

I stop to yank off my coat—it feels like a million degrees in here—and then I type in the last command Josh sent me. After I hit Enter, I say a silent prayer to the computer gods that this will turn up something. When a message rejecting my request doesn’t appear right away, a surge of hope rips through me, and suddenly rows and rows of file names start piling up on the screen. There’s hundreds of them, all containing the number 5020 in the programming code.

I text Josh right away.

Regan: Pay dirt.

Josh: Shit yeah!

My lips twist into a goofy, satisfied smile, but it only lasts for a brief moment.

Patrick’s ever-so-charming voice is carrying through the hall. He’s making his way toward his office. A shot of sheer panic jolts me out of the chair. I open both my hands, using all my fingers to copy and drag as many files as possible, dumping them into the QuTap icon. My hair falls in front of my eyes and I don’t even bother to wipe it away; my heart is rattling against my ribs so loudly I’m half certain Patrick can hear.

“Wait, you’re saying it’s being outsourced?” he says, from behind the door. “When the hell did this happen?”

“I’m not sure. I just found out myself,” says another, much deeper voice.

“Why weren’t we notified?”

“Maybe it was some kind of oversight.”

A bead of sweat trickles down the side of my face as I exit out of the program and give the screen a quick wipe with my elbow. Then I lunge for the magnet and pluck it off the panel. I have just enough time to stick it in my pocket and step away from the computer before Patrick enters the room.

The only thing I forget to do is take off these damn gloves.

At first Patrick doesn’t even notice me, his attention directed toward the middle-aged man with glasses who is following close behind him. He’s tall and handsome, wearing an expensive suit like Patrick’s, with black hair and a dark ebony complexion. I recognize him immediately. Bryce Williams. He was on my dad’s original Elusion design team.

With my hands behind my back, I pull the gloves off finger by finger, hoping that I’ll have time to dispose of them before they realize I’m here.

“I want to know exactly when we switched over,” Patrick says to him. “Find me whatever documentation you can . . .” He pauses and sniffs the air. “Wait, does it smell like cinnamon buns in here?”

Bryce spots me over Patrick’s shoulder and gives him a sharp nudge in the arm—just as I snap off the last glove and curl them into a little ball.

“Regan?” Patrick’s voice lilts. Obviously he’s surprised to see me.

“Hey,” I say, tucking the gloves in the back pocket of my cargo skirt.

“What are you doing here?”

“I brought you breakfast. Estelle let me in.” I worry that this might get her in trouble, but it’s either her or me, and any other excuse might raise suspicion.

Patrick squints his eyes. He looks absolutely bewildered right now. Can’t say that I blame him.

“Don’t you have school?” he asks.

I give him an indifferent shrug. “I’ll get there eventually.”

“How’ve you been, Regan?” Bryce pipes up, extending a hand in my direction.

“Good, thanks,” I say during our polite handshake. “It’s nice to see you.”

“Bryce, let’s catch up later, okay?” Patrick says, patting him on the shoulder.

“Yeah, sure.” Bryce walks toward the door, but just before he exits, he stops and turns around to smile at me. “We really miss your father around here, Regan.”

I smile back. “Thanks.”

Once the door slides closed behind him, Patrick strolls over toward the conference table, where the goodies I brought him are probably starting to get cold. Oh well. He opens the bag and breaks into a grin when he inhales. “Mo’s Bakery?”

A twinge of sentimentality tugs at my heart, and all of a sudden, I feel my eyes glistening. When Patrick and I were in elementary school, my father used to spoil us with treats from Mo’s every Friday. After our hands became sticky with frosting or glaze, Patrick would chase me around my house, trying to tickle me. We were so innocent then. Everything between us was easy.

“I thought you could use a pick-me-up,” I say, my words sounding a bit garbled. “Besides, I owe you a thank-you for the other night.”

“No thanks necessary.” Patrick pulls out a black leather bucket chair from the conference table and nods at it. “Can we talk for a second?”

I nervously shift my weight from one leg to the other. If I engage in some kind of deep, emotional conversation with Patrick right now, I might lose my cool, or do something worse, like tell him what’s in my back pocket. I’ve always had a hard time keeping secrets from him.

Which is why I need to get out of here.

“Sorry, Pat. I should probably head to school.”

Patrick unbuttons his jacket and places his hands on his hips. “You weren’t in such a rush a minute ago.”

“I just remembered—I have a chem quiz,” I lie.

But when he smirks, I know that he’s on to me.

“So you’re still mad at me, huh?”