Elusion(58)

Even though I’ve been here ten minutes, I haven’t yet made my way to the door. Why?

Betrayal. Disappointment. Loneliness. Fear.

These emotions have been hitting me in rapid-fire succession ever since this morning, and I want all of them gone.

But if that’s really true, why did I bother coming down here when Patrick said he needed me? I’ve been thinking about that question since I arrived, and I still can’t answer it. Maybe I want to confront him about Anthony. Maybe I want him to comfort me about Josh. Maybe I want to confess about the QuTap before Avery can pillage it and sell me out. Those all seem like perfectly good reasons, but I haven’t called to tell Patrick I’m just fifty feet away from his office building.

I can’t bring myself to do it.

Another burst of torrential wind blasts me and two or three other people near the back of the horde. Soon the Inner Sector will turn into a red zone. I think back to the calm conditions from this morning. Every day, something happens to remind me how fragile our world is. It can split open over and over and over again, and nothing can prevent that.

My umbrella kicks back hard, leaving my face exposed to the elements. I wipe at my eyes, which are already burning. Once I’ve gotten the grit out of my lashes, I see a lone figure exiting a side door on the far left of the building—sometimes my dad would use it to beat all the foot traffic. I take a few steps away from the cluster of reporters, moving slowly so I won’t arouse suspicion. As I close in, I can see the person is a woman, quite tall and wrapped in some kind of shimmering silver hooded cape, with a rebellious curl of white-blond hair poking out. My gaze shifts down and I recognize a pair of familiar jewel-toned designer shoes. Her steps become more hurried, like she’s trying to escape.

“Cathryn?” I say.

Her pace grinds to a halt when she hears her name, and she looks at me with surprise. “Regan? What are you doing out here?” She quickly glances at the media camp, and when she sees they haven’t detected her, she takes hold of my free hand and places it against her cheek, gasping when she feels how terribly cold my skin is. “Oh my God, you’re going to freeze to death.”

“I was . . . waiting f-for Patrick.” Now my teeth are chattering. She’s right; I just might turn into a human icicle.

“What? I sent him home an hour ago,” Cathryn says, her voice sounding a bit hollowed out through the speaker on her O2. “He was being hounded. Calls, texts, everything.”

I don’t say anything. My mind is kind of anesthetized, and suddenly I’m having trouble reacting.

“Come with me, we’ll get you warmed up.” Cathryn reaches out and hails an extra-stretch luxury sedan that stealthily pulls up to the curb without its lights on. She puts her arm around me and leads me to the car. A pudgy man in a suit and cap darts out of the driver’s-side door and helps us into the back.

I close my umbrella and duck inside, sliding across the leather seat as Cathryn follows close behind me. Once the door is shut, we take off our O2 shields and she pulls her hood down, revealing a beautiful face that has not one fine line or wrinkle or any other imperfection. It’s uncanny how much she and Patrick look alike. Their eyes are these serene pools of aquamarine, and they have the same chins—strong and somewhat narrow, but with this dimple that makes them both look so youthful and innocent.

She pulls off one of her gloves and presses a button on the intercom, which is located on a glass media panel built into a retractable wall adjacent to one of the windows.

“Fiske, could you please take us to the Historic Sector? And call ahead and make sure the private-access tunnels are open. It’s still going to be bumper-to-bumper out on the main roads.”

A voice crackles back, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Are you all right?” Cathryn places her hand on my knee.

I know she’s just being nice, but how can she ask me that when flocks of bloodthirsty field correspondents have surrounded Orexis, and negative reports about Elusion are running rampant on every news outlet? She doesn’t seem fazed by any of it.

Not that this should catch me too off guard. I’ve known Patrick’s mom for a long time, and she has always been a bit . . . impervious to everything. Except when her son wasn’t living up to his potential.

That was the only thing that seemed to strike a nerve.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I say, feeling my fingers and toes beginning to thaw.

She unhooks her cape, revealing a very expensive, high-collared silk blouse. “I’m sorry you missed Patrick. He could really use a friend right now.”

I want to tell Cathryn that I could use a friend too, but mentioning that seems woefully inappropriate considering I stole intellectual property from her company just yesterday.

I clear my throat and ask, “How’s he doing?”

“He’s a nervous wreck, I’m afraid,” she says, sighing. “You know how much I adore Patrick, but the slightest bit of pressure just completely overwhelms him.”

It sounds as though she’s criticizing him for being upset by what’s happened, even though that seems like a pretty normal response, given the circumstances. I’m almost compelled to defend him. Instead, I look out the window at the lights on the curved walls of the narrow tunnel, which are creating a blurry cone of golden yellow and milky white around the sedan.

“I worry he’s too much like his father,” Cathryn continues, her tone now perfectly clear and pinched. “Ambitious, smart, but not cut out for the high-stakes strategizing and head games of big business.”