I am exhausted, seeing as what little sleep I did get was wracked by the nightmare and provided no rest. I am slow, sluggish, lethargic. Empty. Numb. As if by vomiting, I purged myself of any capacity to think or feel.
On autopilot, I dress myself. Black lingerie, because I do not own anything except lingerie. A simple dove-gray dress, A-line, knee-length, with a wide crimson belt and matching red pumps. I brush through my hair and leave it loose in glossy raven-wing waves. I do not know why I am getting dressed. I do not know where I intend to go, only that I cannot stay here any longer.
As I near the elevator, I trip in the darkness over a pile of cloth, and my toe kicks something hard, which skitters across the hardwood floor. I retrieve it.
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?”