The Aberration of Eden Pruitt, page 15
“You okay?” Cass asked.
She nodded with a confidence that contradicted her nerves, then stepped inside and brought her eyes to the scanner. When Cass was through, he gave her elbow a squeeze, grabbed a random title from the nearest shelf, and settled into a cushy chair next to a drinking fountain while Eden made her way toward the meeting room.
The door was open.
Inside, a table had been pushed against the wall. It was filled with bottled waters, a variety of sodas, a pan of brownies, two bags of chips, plates, and napkins. Nearby, a pair of women spoke in hushed tones. One was small and mousy with red-rimmed eyes she dabbed with a crumpled tissue. The other was a head taller with long, bottle-blonde hair, dressed in a savvy-looking pant suit with cute boots. She held onto the mousy woman’s elbows like letting go would result in the lady’s collapse.
A man cleared his throat.
Eden moved out of the way as he stepped past her—as bald as an egg—and slogged toward the oblong circle of chairs. The blonde woman greeted him by name—Walter—then turned to Eden with a friendly smile.
“Are you here for the support group?”
Eden nodded in a way she hoped looked shy. All the while, her heart pounded in her ears. Because what if this woman recognized Eden as Subject 006? What if she had a device in her pocket like the device Mordecai had at the ball? A gun, too, which she would place in Eden’s hand and command her to finish the job she’d resisted on the roof of The Sapphire. Eden swallowed, forcing the thoughts away. “I wasn’t sure if you were meeting today.”
“I thought we’d need the support today more than ever.” The woman gave the mousy lady’s elbow a squeeze, then stepped forward to introduce herself. “I’m Bella.”
Short for Isabella.
Eden shook Bella’s hand in the way her father taught her not to. A limp fish, he would call it. But it fit the role she needed to play—a sad, shy girl in a new city with no family. The kind of girl a woman running a support group might take under her wing.
“I’m Jen,” Eden said.
“It’s wonderful to meet you, Jen. I’m glad you’re here.” The woman followed the welcome with such a warm smile, it was impossible to imagine her hurting anyone. Certainly not to the point of requiring a glass eye.
Eden returned the smile timidly and took a seat across the circle from Walter, who stared straight ahead, tapping his knee. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, a khaki flight jacket unzipped over a buttoned shirt the color of this morning’s oatmeal, a pair of tan trousers, and velcro walking shoes that matched his jacket. The man was very beige. He continued tapping his knee while the room filled and Eden felt increasingly conspicuous.
She was the youngest attendee by at least ten years.
When there was only one empty seat remaining, Bella checked the clock, closed the door, and turned to the circle with an encouraging, watery-eyed expression. She welcomed everyone with a warmth equal to her smile, then ran through a short list of reminders.
Everything said during the meeting was confidential.
Judgmental statements weren’t allowed.
This space was safe and sacred.
Nobody in the room was alone.
“Why don’t we go around and share with the group why we came today,” Bella said.
The mousy woman with the crumpled tissue went first. Her name was Georgia. She managed two wobbly sentences before bursting into tears. She couldn’t stop checking the list of confirmed casualties. So far, her son’s name wasn’t on any of them, but he wasn’t answering his phone and while he hadn’t won a ticket to the Prosperity Ball, how could she be certain he wasn’t trapped somewhere beneath the rubble?
As soon as she finished sharing her worst fears, a flood of others followed.
Family estrangement was always hard, Bella said. But extra so in the middle of a crisis. Georgia wasn’t the only one who cried. The tears flowed freely, occasionally interrupted by a bubble of laughter that would lighten the mood. It was a good mixture of sharing and listening. The group had chemistry. A culture that was almost certainly cultivated by their leader—Bella Bryson. An abusive foster mother.
When it was Eden’s turn, she kept her story brief.
Her name was Jen. She was eighteen. New to town. She hadn’t spoken to her parents in two years, so when she saw the flyer on the bulletin in the lobby, she decided to come. Everyone listened with dewy-eyed sympathy, and when she was done, Eden passed the tissue box to her left.
By the time the meeting ended, Eden knew Walter was estranged from his younger brother and Linda hadn’t spoken to her sister in over a decade and Georgia blamed her ex-husband for poisoning their son against her. But Eden didn’t know a thing about Bella other than how adept she was at leading the group. She knew when to pull people in and when to give them space. She knew how to steer the conversation back on track when it lost its way and how to tactfully interrupt when a member talked for too long.
Not once did she share her own heartache, whatever that might be.
As the room emptied, Eden wandered to the refreshment table and opened a bottle of water. She helped herself to a brownie she wasn’t hungry for while Bella gave hugs and said goodbyes and arranged a special coffee date with Georgia. She munched on some chips and took sips of her water until it was just the two of them.
Bella joined Eden by the table. “So, what did you think?”
“Everyone was very nice,” Eden said.
Bella smiled, her head tilting slightly. “Was this your first time attending a support group?”
“Was it that obvious?”
“No. Not at all. You’re just very … young.” Bella stared kindly—without any judgement—as though waiting for Eden to talk. She seemed so comfortable with the silence, Eden wondered if she wasn’t a therapist in another life.
“Are you doing okay?” Bella finally asked. “In the midst of all that’s happening.”
“I think so.” Eden twisted and untwisted the cap on her water. “What about you?”
“Oh, I’m hanging in there.”
“That’s good.” Eden made a show of fidgeting, the water bottle crinkling in her grip, when another searing pain came in the same spot as before, so sharp Eden hissed.
Bella reached out and took her elbow. “Are you okay?”
Eden held her temple, unsure if she was. Momentarily distracted from the mission. The ruse. The role she was playing. This was the second time today. Three altogether. The first had been that night in the shower, when she was trying to scrub the smell of smoke from her hair.
Bella dipped her chin. “Jen?”
“Sorry.” Eden released a nervous laugh. “I’ve been battling a headache. Ever since … well, you know.”
“It must be bad.”
“Yeah. They can get pretty bad. So, who are you estranged from?” She cringed inwardly at the awful segue. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
Bella didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she smiled a wistful smile. “My daughter.”
Eden nearly choked.
Her daughter.
Cleo had mentioned nothing about a daughter.
“She’s just a few years older than you,” Bella said.
This explained why she kept gazing at Eden in such a motherly way. Eden probably reminded Bella of her daughter.
“What’s her name?” Eden asked.
“Willow.”
“That’s pretty.”
“It is.” The moisture in Bella’s eyes thickened. Then she took a deep breath and painted on another smile—one that looked more brave than genuine. She gave Eden’s hand a squeeze. “I hope to see you next month, Jen.”
Cass sat at the library table pretending to read the book open in front of him, peeking at the conference room door. Every person who entered after Eden had left, including an extra woman with bloodshot eyes, who must have been in the room before Eden went in. He didn’t like this—not knowing who the enemy was. They no longer had a face or a name. Mordecai was dead and he hadn’t been operating alone. More enemies were out there. One of them might be in that conference room with Eden right now.
He turned a page as a tall woman carrying a box of items appeared.
Eden exited behind her.
Cass sat up straighter, overcome by a strong swell of relief. He cupped his forehead, watching from beneath his palm as the two exchanged friendly words by the conference room door. Eden gave the woman a shy wave, then ducked into the ladies’ room. The woman lingered, watching her go. The muscles in Cassian’s shoulders tightened. He came to the edge of his chair like some altercation might go down right here in the Wilmette Library.
After a beat, the woman turned and exited through the front entrance. The second she was gone, Eden reappeared from the ladies’ room and made a beeline for Cass, her expression bright and a little flustered.
She slid into the seat across from him. “She has a daughter. Her name is Willow. She’s a few years older than me.”
“Francesca’s age.”
Eden nodded.
Cass drummed his finger against the table and peered from the stacks to the study rooms to the computer bays. This wasn’t the place to talk or do any of the searching they needed to do. They weren’t going back to the silos, and he wasn’t bringing Eden to his apartment. This wasn’t the same as before—when Mordecai was still alive and Cass had been alone, trying to bait him.
Which only left one place he could think of.
Forty-five minutes later, Cass turned down the alley behind Lou’s training facility. He climbed off his bike. Told Eden to sit tight. Lou knew many people, and he heard a lot of things. He also had a loose tongue. If someone was out there looking for Eden, Cass didn’t want to walk inside Lou’s with her right next to him.
He punched in the code and let himself in the back.
Lou was in the main area, moving around behind the front desk.
“Hey,” Cass said.
With a jump, Lou whirled around, then set his hand against his chest as fear gave way to relief. “Hey-a Cass. It’s been a while. I was starting to think you mighta been downtown at the wrong time.”
“I was, actually.”
Lou’s eyes went wide.
“I made it out just fine.”
“Lucky guy,” Lou said, wiping the sweat from his upper lip. “Crazy times right now.”
Cass looked from him to the suitcase by the door. “You going somewhere?”
Lou patted his back pockets as though in search of a phone or wallet. “I, uh, gotta get out of town for a while.”
Lou didn’t leave town unless he was in trouble. Cass wondered which bookie had stepped in to fill Yukio’s shoes. Yukio had always extended Lou some leniency. Perhaps the new bookie on the block wasn’t as gracious.
“I can keep the place open while you’re gone,” Cass said.
Lou stopped patting his pockets.
“In exchange for room and board? If I have to take off before you’re back, I’ll lock up.”
The training facility was a moneymaker. Closing up shop meant shutting down a lucrative stream of income. If Lou was in trouble, he would need that income to get out of it.
The heavyset man glanced at his watch, then dragged his hands along his pants. “That would be swell, Cass. And-uh, if anybody shows up lookin’ for me, tell ‘em I’m visiting my sister in Scottsdale.”
As far as Cass knew, Lou had no sister in Scottsdale. As far as Cass knew, he had no sister, period.
Lou reached into the front pocket of his jacket and pulled out his keys. With a nervous nod at Cass, he picked up his suitcase and grabbed the door handle.
“Hey Lou?” Cass said.
Lou stopped.
“Mordecai’s dead.”
The man turned around, his face going sickly white. To Lou, Mordecai was a gambler. One of the biggest in Underground Fighting. If he was dead, it was because he didn’t pay up.
“Did you ever hear talk of him being associated with Interitus?” Cass asked.
“Interitus?” Lou gave his head a rattle. “Why would Mordecai be wrapped up with terrorists?”
“What about The Monarch?”
“What’s the Monarch?”
Cass considered. What was The Monarch? A gift could be given to a person. But a gift could also be given to a group or a cause or a place. He thought about the device in Dr. Norton’s cabin—the image of the butterfly spinning into a three-dimensional holographic map. “Something or someone Mordecai was involved with.”
Lou squinted, then shrugged. “I don’t know, Cass. The circles we operate in aren’t exactly legal. But Interitus? Whatever’s goin’ on, it doesn’t sound like the kinda thing a person should get wrapped up in.”
Too late.
Cass was inextricably wrapped.
And it wasn’t his safety he cared about.
Lou shot him a goodbye salute, then headed out the door. Cass waited a few beats, then went to the back to let the girl he did care about inside.
24
Eden sat in a basement bedroom of a training facility owned by a man named Lou who needed to get out of town for a while. Cassian brought her here, then left to get something from his apartment, which wasn’t far. He’d be back shortly. So here she was, trying not to crawl out of her skin as she watched Concordia on the small television perched on the dresser.
She was getting sharp pains in her head, and Isabella Bryson had a daughter. Her name was Willow. They were estranged. Eden itched for a phone, a computer—something that might allow her to research the girl or call Cleo so she could do the research for them.
But there was no computer or phone or metaverse headset. Just a bare desk and a chair. The television on the dresser. A monitor mounted in the far corner, recording the goings-on at the front door, which was nothing at the moment. And the full-sized bed she was currently sitting on.
Just one.
The implications left her feeling flustered and warm in the cold basement. A month and a half ago, she’d jumped on the back of a stranger’s bike and showed up at Cleo Ransom’s dorm room. Since that time—barring the seven-day stint he’d disappeared to track down Mordecai—Eden and Cassian had been together nearly twenty-four seven. And yet, it had never been just the two of them. At least, not at night.
First, there was Cleo. Then Dr. Norton and Jack Forrester and the famous neurosurgeon. Then her parents and Barrett Barr and Violet Winter and all those people living in the silos. Tonight, however, it would only be her. And him. And this one bed. Of all the things on Eden’s mind, this shouldn’t take precedence. But as Concordia’s news anchor talked about the necessity of closing their borders, and with no way for Willow Bryson to distract her, Eden had a hard time thinking about anything else.
The hinges on the door squeaked.
Cassian had returned.
He set his backpack on the desk and pulled a laptop out from inside.
“Where’d you get that?” Eden asked.
“Behind a slab of drywall in my apartment closet. Or I guess, my former apartment closet. Everything else was cleaned out.” He hung his jacket over the chair and sat down. He opened the computer, logged in, and pulled up the same strange browser Cleo used when they were researching Jack and Annette Forrester.
He typed Willow Bryson, Chicago into the search bar.
Three Perk accounts loaded at the top of the screen.
The government-approved social media site was back up and running.
Cassian clicked on the first account. It belonged to an acupuncturist living in Dayton, Ohio with three pet ferrets and a parakeet named Major Briggs. The second belonged to a retired schoolteacher who had only posted once, three years ago when she first created her account—a photograph of four toe-headed kids standing in front of an ice cream truck with the words living that grandma life joined in a hashtag.
The third Willow Bryson flipped off the camera in her profile picture. She had bleached hair streaked with faded pink, thick black eyeliner, and a dog collar choker.
“All alone in an F-Ed up world,” Eden read.
The only line in Willow Bryson’s bio.
Cassian scrolled through her account. She’d marked herself as “in a relationship” with Edgar Allan Poe. Most of her pictures featured a male cat named Morticia that liked to wrap himself around Willow’s neck like a black scarf. Most of her posts were written in free verse poetry.
There wasn’t a single photograph of Isabella Bryson or any mention at all of a family, which fit the story of estrangement. This had to be the right Willow—a hunch confirmed when Cassian reached the very first post on the account. A picture of a younger Willow with hair a more natural color, sitting between two similar aged girls atop a wooden sign that read The Orchard.
Francesca Burnoli stayed at The Orchard.
And here was Willow Bryson, sitting in front of The Orchard in a photograph without a caption.
“This has to be her,” Eden said.
Cassian scrolled to the top and clicked on the most recent post, dated Thursday, October third. It was a close-up of Willow’s face streaked with tears and black eyeliner, accompanied by the angstiest poem Eden had ever read.
There were only three likes and one comment—a fire emoji from someone who went by the handle @Love_Me_Pain. After looking at a few more posts, this seemed to be the only person who ever commented. Cassian followed the handle to @Love_Me_Pain’s Perk profile. Her real name was Anastasia Blaire. She had long bangs and wore the rest of her black-dyed hair in two buns at the top of her head, similar in style to Cleo’s Bantu knots. She had a tiny black heart tattooed beneath each of her eyes and owned a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop in Hyde Park.
Her most recent post was a picture of Willow. Dated Friday, the fourth of October at 8:26 pm. A half hour before The Sapphire exploded. In it, Willow sat on a stool in front of a microphone with her hands splayed, her face twisted in exaggerated sorrow, like she somehow knew what was coming.
