Chapter Four
The following afternoon, I spend two hours with the maid—whose name I’ve overheard from other staff is Maria—going over the correct order in which to use my silverware and how to place my napkin properly. These are all things I learned during my first year in Twig City but Titus insists I be put through a refresher course.
I am told by the security guard on duty that Titus watches from a hidden security feed, and throughout my lessons the back of my neck burns with the knowledge. It is exhausting and mind-numbing how serious they take social etiquette, but I know it will mean the difference between being me and being her tonight. In other words, the difference between survival and termination.
Not that anyone would suspect differently. The world at large knows nothing of Imitations. Not unless you’re rich enough to afford one yourself. We are the ultimate in genetically engineered secrets.
At seven, Maria ends her lessons and leads me back to my room. She goes straight to the closet, examining my dresses with solemn scrutiny. She does not speak of anything personal, nor does she seem to care for my company, but she is not disdainful like the rest of the staff. Like Linc is.
I haven’t seen him today. Earlier, I swore I heard his voice in the hall, but he never showed himself. I don’t think I want him to. I know it is all a reflection on her, but it is daunting nonetheless to know that everyone I meet hates me even before I open my mouth. I haven’t even left the house yet. What does the rest of the world think of Raven Rogen?
Maria thumbs through waves of fabric and stops on a purple halter-top gown. The skirt is layered with gauzy fabric that reminds me of tissue paper. “This one,” she says, shoving it at me.
“Are you sure?” I ask, eyeing the tiny swath of fabric that will clothe my torso. It doesn’t seem to be enough to cover all that I’m used to covering.
She looks at me quizzically, and I remember I’m supposed to want to wear this sort of thing. “I’m sure. Mr. Titus will approve,” she says.
I force flippancy into my words and say, “Good. I’ll get changed.”
She regards me for another moment and then leaves without another word. I don’t exhale until the door clicks shut behind her. For once, when the lock twists, I am relieved.
The dress is short in the front with a tail of gauze flowing down the back. The gym shorts I wore in Twig City were longer than the front of this dress. I stare at myself in the full-length mirror and pretend this is exactly the sort of thing I want to be seen in. But my skin feels so exposed I might as well be naked. It’s more than my body … I feel as if they’ll see all the way through to the secrets I keep.
I was created to keep secrets. I am a secret.
It shouldn’t bother me so much but it does. I’ve never admitted it to a single person—not my examiner, not even Lonnie or Ida—but I am not nearly as accepting of my intended purpose or fate as they’d like me to be. I wasn’t certain of it then, when it was just an abstract idea of something that hadn’t happened yet. And I’m not certain now, when it’s such a stark reality that each passing second feels like a grain of sand lost inside an hourglass. It is all a countdown to the end now.
I was created a copy. I want more than anything to be an original.
The only move I have is forward, though, and so I continue to dress and ready myself. If I can pull off tonight, I’ll live until tomorrow. It’s not much but it’s all I have. For some reason, this line of thinking makes me angry. I let it, knowing anger is much more effective than fear for all I have to do tonight.
The purple heels I wear only serve to raise the hem another half an inch and I growl in frustration. The lock slides free and the door opens. Gus pokes his head in and his eyes land on mine through the reflection in the mirror.
“It’s time,” he says, swinging the door wider to allow me passage.
I slide my arms into the jacket he offers and walk out.
Titus waits for us by the elevator. He is dressed in a dark suit that shines with newness. It makes his shoulders appear wider, his chest broader than it seemed last night. I wonder if he’s trying to look taller or if it’s an unintentional side effect of the fabric’s cut. He doesn’t seem the type to need cosmetic reassurances. My heels leave the soft carpet and make a click-click against the heavy marble. Titus looks up and gives me a once-over that tightens my knuckles.
Like before, I have the urge to speak up, to rail against the injustice of his ultimatum: be her, or die. But the look he gives me freezes my tongue. I don’t know what he is capable of and the possibilities scare me.
He gives a barely perceptible nod indicating I pass his inspection and then presses the button for the metal box that will take us out of here.
My heart thumps wildly and it’s more than my nerves at seeing Titus. I am leaving my prison. Even if it’s only to be transported from one cage to another, the idea of being outside for any length of time is too appealing to ignore. The idea of riding in an automobile again, even sandwiched between Gus and Titus, has adrenaline pumping through me. I am caught up in thinking words like “freedom” and “fresh air” when I hear Gus speaking to Titus in a low voice.
“… Assessed the threat level for the vicinity. There are vulnerabilities—”
“That’s exactly what we want,” Titus cuts in. “The more vulnerabilities, the quicker they’ll try again. Just have the men ready to counter. I want them alive. I want names.”
Gus’s mouth tightens. “Yes, sir.”
They glance my way, but I pretend to be fully engaged in adjusting my shoe. The elevator bell dings and the doors slide open. I step inside behind them and stare straight ahead without a sound. I am no longer thinking about fresh air and getting outside. I am thinking about how my dress will look stained with my blood. And whether satin sheets are worth whatever—or whoever—is coming for me.
The entire car ride over, Titus’s mood is heavy, a reminder of what is expected when the car stops and the doors open. Neither of us speaks. There’s nothing more to say unless I live.
Our journey is made up of short bursts of speed and frequent stops at red lights. By the time we arrive, the excitement of being inside a car—even a car as nice as this one—has dulled. I pile out between Titus and Gus and follow them to the main entrance.
Streetlights illuminate every corner of the otherwise darkened sidewalks. There is a fair amount of hustle and bustle on the sidewalk, though this group is dressed more extravagantly than any I saw on my trip into the city. I suspect it must have something to do with evening apparel being fancier than daywear.
When I reach the entrance, a man in a gray jacket holds the door and nods as I pass through. “Miss Rogen,” he says.
“Thank you,” I murmur, trying hard to sound like I don’t mean it.
Titus and Gus walk behind me and I am so focused on being her that I do not see them coming until they’ve almost reached me. A boy and a girl, both redheads, approach me at a speed that has me pulling up short. Terror grips me. Gus is at my elbow in an instant, tugging me back a step.
When I catch sight of the girl, an instant of recognition sweeps over me. She reminds me of Lonnie, the way she moves, the way she carries herself with utter confidence. But then I focus on her features and the resemblance dissolves. Her hair, the freckles on her cheeks—it is not like Lonnie at all.
“Hi there,” the girl says with a bright smile. “You’re Raven Rogen, right?” Her attention shifts from me to Gus to Titus and back again. She pushes on without waiting for confirmation. “My cousin lives in this building and I heard you might come tonight. I would just love to get your autograph and maybe your picture. I mean, I follow your fundraising projects. That orphanage rebuild you did? Amazing. I am such a huge fan. Would you mind signing this for me?”
She shoves a pen and paper at me expectantly. The boy she is with hangs back. His hands are stuffed into his pockets and he is staring at some spot on the wall. Gus wanders away, clearly not considering the young couple a threat. Titus has already pushed the button for the elevator. I look to him for direction but he isn’t paying attention any longer.
When I look back at the girl, she is still smiling and waiting. On impulse, I grab the pen and scribble Raven Rogen on the paper and shove it back at her. As if taking a cue, the boy straightens and lifts a small camera. The girl wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close, and the camera clicks. It’s over before I can even pose.
“Thank you so much,” she gushes, folding the paper carefully around my name.
I try for haughty or at least impatient when I say, “No problem,” and walk away.
Across the lobby, the elevator dings, and I hurry to catch it. Gus holds the door while Titus waits inside, his foot tapping. Once inside, I turn around and look for the two teens but the lobby is empty. They are already gone.
The elevator ride is silent. I focus on who I am—her, not me—and when the doors open I smile widely, donning the mask.
The first thing I notice is the music. I cannot see where it comes from but it is floaty and wistful in a way that makes my heart ache. Music in Twig City is rare, mostly children’s songs and lullabies. Nothing like this.
I wander toward the sound, smiling and nodding at men and women in dark suits who do the same for me. No one approaches and I have the sense this is more Titus’s crowd than mine. No one here is my age.
I am disappointed to realize after two laps around the apartment that the music is only being poured in through overhead speakers. Instead of turning back, I choose an empty hallway, taking in the sight of the expensive art mixed among fancy molding. Muted conversations float up from the party I’ve left behind. It’s an almost enjoyable atmosphere, being here but being apart somehow. The doors I pass are mostly closed but a few are cracked, inviting those who seek privacy. I am curious to find out what goes on in those rooms but too scared at what I’d find if I looked.
Female laughter bubbles out of a room as I pass, light and airy and Authentic. Before I can turn toward the sound, someone grabs me from behind. I spin quickly, terror and surprise mingling. Any noise I could’ve made sticks in my throat at the sight of Linc. He is dressed in black slacks and a pressed white shirt. It is more formal than yesterday’s ensemble of denim and cotton. I suppose he is trying to blend in here.
“What are you doing back here?” he demands.
“I was … looking for the music,” I say. He is standing close enough that I catch the scent of something man-made, some sort of cologne on him. Mixed with the outdoorsy smell that seems to be his signature, it distracts me. I feel my face heat when I realize he’s begun to notice my reaction.
He drops my elbow. “It’s not safe to wander alone.”
“I’m not alone. There are people everywhere,” I say.
“Exactly.”
I pause, understanding his meaning. Someone here—even in this elite crowd—could have it out for me. Before I can form a response, the trilling laughter comes again from the room behind me, followed by my name.
“Raven! There you are!”
A petite blond appears in the doorway and I feel Linc move away from me. She is smiling brightly at me and completely ignoring him. I recognize her from the albums. Taylor. She is Raven’s—my—best friend.
“Taylor,” I say. It comes out breathy because I am relieved to remember something this important when I am still reeling about the danger I must be in even now.
She inspects me critically and I freeze. “You look … better than I expected. How’s your head? I didn’t expect you out so soon.”
“My head’s fine. Sore,” I amend, knowing I should be feeling something from whatever injury I’ve sustained.
“I should’ve known it wouldn’t keep you away from a good party,” she says. “Did Daniel come with you?”
Daniel. I recall a face from the photos. A senator’s son. Titus’s right-hand man. The way Linc spoke of him, this boy is being groomed to take over Titus’s business someday. Linc didn’t mention a connection between Daniel and me so I’m not sure what to say to Taylor’s expectant expression. “Um …”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t talked to him yet,” she says. “The paparazzi have been driving him crazy from what I hear, trying to get the dish on what you two were doing together that night.”
Paparazzi. I remember Linc saying the word when we paged through those albums. Men with cameras, always angling for gossip or secrets or something to sell. As if Raven’s private business is a commodity.
I stare at Taylor, trying to understand what she’s not saying. Was I with this Daniel the night I—Raven—was injured? Is he special to me—to her?
“I’ve been so busy with doctor appointments, I guess I haven’t had time,” I say with a careless shrug. “I’ll call him tomorrow.”
She smiles and the way her lips curl is insinuating. “I bet you will. Come on, let’s make the rounds and then find the bottle the maid stashed for us.”
She loops her slender arm through mine and I let her lead me toward the party. Linc falls back and soon I don’t see him anymore. We wander from gathering to gathering. Taylor does most of the talking, her tinkling laughter cutting through even the most serious conversations. Taylor knows everyone and everyone knows Taylor. She is a master at small talk and compliments and leaving everyone smiling in our wake. I wonder if I am usually just as talkative but she doesn’t seem to mind my silence.
More than once, I feel eyes on me from across the room. I turn, expecting a glower from Titus or Gus’s unsmiling watchfulness. Instead, I find Linc studying me with a careful stare that seems to see everything all at once though he only looks at me. Despite his judgmental treatment, I feel safe with Linc watching.
When we’ve done a full lap and spoken with everyone present at least once, Taylor leads me through a side door and into a dimly lit room containing rows and rows of coats. Small aisles span right and left, too narrow to walk through without my shoulders brushing the jackets hanging on either side.
“Shut the door, will you?” Taylor goes to the nearest rack and begins searching pockets.
I push the door until it latches and then wait while she continues patting down jackets. “What are you doing?”
“I had the maid leave a stash for us. Should be right around … here!” She pulls her hand free from the pocket of a fur wrap, grinning triumphantly. From her fist dangles a clear glass bottle with blue lettering.
She motions me over and pulls me down beside her. We sit on the carpet with our legs tucked under us. I try to read the label on the bottle but Taylor uncaps and upends it before I can make out anything beyond the word vodka. She takes a quick swig, grins, and holds it out for me. I take it, trying to seem sure, like I’ve done this a million times.
I wrap my lips around the opening and tip it back. The moment the liquid hits my mouth, it burns. I wrench the bottle away and squeeze my eyes shut to block out the fire ripping a trail down my insides. I swallow and then cough hard enough to rack my shoulders.
Taylor laughs. “Damn, Rav. Did hitting your head affect your ability to hold your liquor?”
I grunt something that isn’t really an answer. She grabs the bottle and takes another swig. All too soon it is my turn again. Like before, I cough and sputter as the liquid cuts a molten path down my esophagus. By the third swallow, the burning lessens and I feel … looser. Taylor is laughing, though neither one of us has said anything remotely funny. For some reason, this makes me laugh too.
When the door opens, we fall abruptly silent, but that just makes the whole thing funnier and sound erupts around my closed lips.
I recognize Linc’s shoes before I see his face and I manage to shut up, although I can’t help the brilliant smile that remains. This relaxed version of me is elated to see him again. He appears around the aisle of coats, glaring when he spots Taylor beside me—and the bottle between us. Only then do I realize neither of us bothered to try and hide it.
“Your father is looking for you,” Linc says.
His voice is low and deeper than usual. His brows are drawn and I can’t tell if he’s angry because I don’t feel the least bit disturbed by his expression. Or by anything else, thanks to the drink. Then I realize who he means by “father” and the image of Titus wipes the smile from my face in an instant.
I jump up and mumble something to Taylor about seeing her later.
“Call me!” Taylor says as I hurry out. I can tell by the sound of her voice she is not the least bit disturbed by the interruption and has every intention of continuing the party on her own.
I follow Linc out the door and he whirls on me before I can leave the shadowy alcove that shields us from the rest of the party. “That was monumentally stupid disappearing like that,” he says.
“I didn’t—I thought you were watching,” I say, stumbling over words that feel thick in my mouth.
“It doesn’t matter. You should be more careful. You can’t rely on me to be everywhere, to see everything.”
“Why not?” I ask, cocking my head in genuine puzzlement. “You’ll protect me. And it was just Taylor.”
“How do you know? There could’ve been someone waiting for you in that room, and I wouldn’t have gotten there in time.”
I hadn’t thought of that. Now that I have, I am afraid—and angry with myself for being so stupid. I try to think of some flippant remark, some quick comeback to hide my fear or the fact that he is right, but my thoughts are cloudy.
“And to top it off, you’re drinking?” He throws up his hands. “Do you want to die?”
“No,” I whisper, but he ignores me and keeps on.
“How am I supposed to protect you if you won’t even protect yourself? I can’t save an idiot. You’re already dead if you keep this up.”
I step back, feeling as if I’ve been struck.
Before I can answer, Gus appears. He seems oblivious to the tension between Linc and me as he says, “We’re leaving. Meet us downstairs in five.”
I reach for the door behind me but Linc shakes his head and steps around me. “Wait here. I’ll get your things.”
He disappears inside the coatroom before I can argue. The sound of his voice lingers in my ears, an accusing loop of his harsh words. Somehow I know that if Linc has given up protecting me, I don’t stand a chance. But more than that, I hate that I will never, ever earn his respect.
It takes me all of three seconds to come to a decision. I head for the elevator with quick steps and a fixed stare. I hope my expression is determined and detached enough that no one will question me. And that I don’t run into Titus or Gus. I am sure there are other security officers here watching but none have approached me. I’m counting on them remaining far enough back they won’t notice my intention until it is too late.
When I reach the foyer, I push the button that will call the elevator and glance around. A few partygoers wander this way but they are wrapped up in their own conversations. I sidestep and slip out the door into the stairwell. It is seventeen flights down but I do not go that way.
It is three flights to the roof. Even so, I am winded when I reach the door marked “Exit” in glowing red letters. I pause to catch my breath—and curse myself for that third swig of vodka. So far, I’ve heard no sounds behind me, no indication I am being followed.
I shove the door open. The chilled air sobers me and the tingly feeling in my fingertips and toes lessens. I scan side to side and spot a ladder extending up and over the edge of the roof. My shoes click loudly as I break into a run. For a fleeting moment, I believe I have escaped and it is exhilarating. The liquid fire in my belly burns through my veins, charging me with energy. I increase my speed.
I’ve never actually allowed myself to imagine something like this. It’s too far-fetched, too impossible. And too dangerous. If I’m caught trying to leave, I will be terminated for sure. If I succeed in escaping, I have nowhere to go and will probably succumb to the elements or starvation anyway. My plan is crazy, ridiculous. Forbidden. But I don’t stop. I would much rather die on my own terms than according to the plans of someone like Titus Rogen.
I am two steps from the edge when a hand closes over my wrist and wrenches me sideways.
I scream and then my head hits the brick wall and I am abruptly silent. The pain is instant and overwhelming and I cannot see past the blackness that closes in like a widening funnel around my pupils. My knees buckle and the hand on my wrist is not enough to keep me upright. As I slide to the ground, the hand releases me. I hear a grunt and am not sure whether it belongs to me or my assailant.
Someone yells. A door slams. Feet pound against concrete, the sound coming closer and closer until I feel someone standing directly over me. I blink but I can no longer see anything around the blackness.
I hear another grunt—this time I know it’s not mine—and then the sound of someone gagging. It makes my stomach roil and I wonder if I’m capable of vomiting since it would require moving. I cannot make a single muscle work.
A blur of movement enters my sight line. I blink furiously and through the darkness I see faces. Blurred, angry, contorted. Bleeding.
Then everything goes black.