Figment (12 page)

I nodded him on, not trusting myself to speak.

“So I used some of the money to pay off a reporter and the girl who writes the obituaries for the paper. After I got out of the hospital, I hacked into their computer and changed my status from Released to DOA. It wasn’t as hard as you’d think—actually, it was kind of scary, how easy it was.” Davis picked up the printed-out obituary. “See? It says that just a memorial service was held. No coffin, no body. I got on a plane right away and came over here to you.” He fell silent, watching my face tensely.

“Oh my God,” I whispered. “I cannot believe it. Davis, you’re
. . .” I put my face down on my drawn-up knees. “You’re blowing my mind.” Everything he’d told me was whirling in my head. Like I was riding the Gravitron at the school fair, I felt pinned against some invisible wall, unable to move except very slowly. Then the pieces started falling together in my mind, one by one, each fitting into its place with a glassy, metallic click. Davis wasn’t dead. But the obituary was real. My parents thought he was dead because they’d been told he was. So they weren’t lying to me. But I wasn’t crazy either—not at all.

I lifted my face, tears streaking my cheeks and falling into my lap. I flung my arms around Davis. I felt euphoric, drunk. My life felt whole again—I could trust my own thoughts. “I’m so happy!” I cried, kissing Davis all over his face. “I’m so happy!”

He hugged me back, smiling, and kissed me, too. “You’re not mad?”

“Mad? Why would I be mad? You’re alive!” I put my face into his neck and breathed deeply, trying to get a hold of myself. I raised my head. “Everything is wonderful now. Don’t you see? We’re together, and we’ve been through the worst. Nothing can touch us now, and we’re here, in London, the best city in the world.”

Davis rose abruptly and went to stand by the window. He stared out at the skyline, which was rapidly darkening as the sun set over the Thames. Flocks of pigeons flew across the rose-and-gray-streaked sky. Davis smoothed the wood of the windowsill with his fingers. He seemed to be working up to something. I stayed quiet.

“I’m not really out of the woods yet, Zo.” Davis looked fixedly through the window. Behind us, the sheets of plastic draped from the rafters rustled in an unseen breeze. “There’s something else I haven’t told you. The head guys, the ones in Dubai, they’re not too happy about how this has turned out. For one thing, their money is frozen now—and it’s in an account only I can access. They want the money, but I can’t give it to them. The FBI is watching the account. Any activity on it, and they’ll find me. Anyway, we need that money—you and me. It’s for us. I wouldn’t go through all this hell just for myself.”

“I know you wouldn’t.” I got up finally and went to stand beside him. I put my arm around his waist and laid my head on his shoulder.

Davis looked down at me. “I heard some stuff, too, recently—the guys in Dubai have big plans for this money. Eli let it slip that they’re trying to support terrorist training with it.”

“Seriously?”

“You see how messed-up this is? There’s no way I could let them have the money now.” Davis turned abruptly and paced up and down the big echoing space. “I don’t want to get you into trouble, Zo. That’s the last thing I want, and they know you’re with me. That guy we saw at the Secret Cinema thing and at the beach—I’m pretty sure he’s from the Dubai ring. I need to disappear for a few days. I’ll just lie low somewhere, kind of put them off the scent.
That’ll take you off their radar.”

For the first time, a little frisson of fear worked its way into my stomach. “Davis, is it really as bad as that?”

He turned around and came back over, looking into my face. He hesitated. “I think so. I never should’ve gotten mixed up with them. I was so stupid.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and thumbed it rapidly. “Look, there’s a train to Dover tonight. I’ll hide out up there for a few days, sleep on the beach—something like that. I’ll come back for you as soon as it’s safe.”

I clutched at him, suddenly panicked. “Don’t. Don’t leave.” I knew I wasn’t being reasonable—it was obviously the best solution. But I had the sense of being set adrift, bobbing about aimlessly, without him there by my side.

He caressed the side of my face with his hand, stroking my cheek with his thumb. “Do you really need me to stay? Because if you do, I will.” His eyes searched mine.

I took a deep breath, then shook my head. “No. I mean, I don’t want you to go, but I do. Does that make sense?” I held his hand to my face. “You have to stay safe.” I stooped and swept the obituary up from the floor. “I lost you once, apparently.” I gave him a little smile. “I’d really go over the edge if I lost you again.”

“
A fine romance, with no kisses. A fine romance, my friend, this is. We should be like a couple of hot tomatoes . . . ” Billie Holiday rasped from the speakers on my desk as I sat cross-legged on my bed. I peered into the tiny mirror in my powder compact and carefully drew a thick line of black across one eyelid. The light by my dresser mirror wasn’t very good, especially at night.

“
But you’re as cold as yesterday’s mashed potatoes . . .” My hand slipped, leaving a jagged black slash like a wound at the corner of my eye. I sighed and put the eyeliner down. Oliver’s gallery opening was tonight, Davis had been gone for two days, and I hadn’t slept in thirty-two hours. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my boyfriend getting shivved on a Dover dock.

I dabbed a little makeup remover on a cotton ball and wiped off the screwy eyeliner, then smoothed some shimmery powder onto my shoulders and slicked on some deep berry lip stain, moving mechanically through the familiar motions of getting ready to go out. There was no point in trying to look pretty, really, since Davis was gone, but Oliver had asked me and my parents to the opening, so the least I could do was show up, and not in my pajamas. I unzipped my jewelry case and ran my fingers along the earrings tucked into individual velvet pockets. I stopped at a pair of delicate silver twists Davis had gotten for me at one of the little beach shops in Brighton and bit my lip.
He’s okay. He’s safe up there
, I told myself. Right. Say it a hundred times, and it will come true.

“Zoe? It’s almost eight.” My mother’s voice came through the door.

I jumped a little, startled out of my train of morbid thoughts. “Be right there.” I slipped the twists into my ears and pulled a simple black silk dress over my head. I kissed my infinity charm and started to fasten it around my neck. But then I thought about it and put it into my clutch. It was one way, at least, that I could keep Davis both close and private.

I clicked Billie off and opened the door to my room. My parents were in the living room, holding icy highball glasses and looking out the window at the lights. They both turned as I
walked in.

“Well, is this lovely young lady my date for this evening?” My father was smiling at me for the first time since
. . . well, almost since last spring, when the hacking scandal had blown apart at school.

I made myself smile back. He was trying to be nice. Now that I knew they genuinely thought Davis was dead, I was willing to put our arguments aside. “You look nice, too, Dad,” I told him.

He put his hand into his pocket and drew out a small silver phone. “We thought you might like to have this—so you can be in touch with your friends a little more.”

“Seriously?” I looked from one to the other.

My mother smiled. “I know losing your phone was hard. You’ve made a lot of progress in the last few weeks.”

“Yeah.”
But not the kind of progress you think.
I took the phone. The sleek, dense weight felt like a precious jewel. My fingers itched to turn it on and see if there was any message from Davis, but I didn’t dare start messing with it now. Instead, I dropped it into my clutch.

The big iron gates of
Regent’s Park loomed to our right half an hour later as we hurried down the empty sidewalk near the gallery. I glanced into the park, which looked so dark and forbidding at night, and thought back to the soft summer evening Davis and I had spent there, watching
Romeo and Juliet
and holding hands. A tiny sigh escaped me, and my mother looked over.

“Feeling all right?” she asked.

“Fine. Just . . . remembering something.”
He’s okay. He’s okay.
I fixed the thought firmly in my mind.

The gallery was fully lit, the only one on the street of darkened storefronts, and the big front doors were propped open welcomingly. As we approached from the dark street, it looked like a gorgeous jewel box, with brightly dressed people instead of jewels. A stark black-and-white banner over the door read
london recreated oliver downing
in the same type as the flier I’d seen on Oliver’s drafting table.

I ran my fingers through my hair as we neared the door. The low murmur of the crowd reached us on the sidewalk, backed by the heavy beat of techno music. Beyond the people’s heads, I could see black-and-white sketches hung on the walls—Oliver’s charcoals.

“Mary, Charles!” A large woman with curly red hair and a significant bust strode toward us, trailing a purple crushed-silk dress. “So glad you could join us.” She kissed my mother on both cheeks and shook hands with my father.

“Zoe, this is Oliver’s mother, Rita,” my mother introduced me.

I was swept into a smothering embrace and squished against her large bosom. “So this is Zoe! Oliver has told me what a lovely girl you are.”

I extricated myself as tactfully as I could. “Thank you. Oliver’s been a good friend.” The idea that this woman was slim, elegant Oliver’s mother was stunning.

Rita led my parents off to get drinks, leaving me blessedly alone. I smoothed down my dress and took a look around me. The crowd was full of girls in funky vintage blazers or gorgeously destroyed dresses that looked like something you might dig up from a Victorian house fire. The guys had ironic eyeglasses or early-frontier facial hair. At one end of the room, a long table was crowded with gallon jugs of wine, red plastic cups, and cheese and crackers. The heavy bass beat of the music pounded in my head.

I looked around for anyone I knew—some of the group from the Enterprise. Oliver was nowhere in sight, and my parents were huddled in a corner with Rita, exchanging news of their teenage children, no doubt.

I slowly started walking around the room, examining Oliver’s sketches. The phone sat in my purse like a delicious secret. The crowd was thick, and I had to crane my neck to see past people. Most of the drawings from Oliver’s room were there, matted on white now. I heard approving murmurings as I walked past. Some of the drawings already had little orange
sold
stickers on the lower right corners. The drawing of the man from the fish market was there, and the buskers in the Chalk Farm Tube station.

I had made my way to the drinks table and paused to regard it. Probably best not to drink wine with my parents right there. I spotted a big bottle of seltzer down at one end. A tall guy was standing in front of it, talking to a girl with her arm in a cast. “Excuse me,” I said to the guy. “Can you pass the seltzer?”

“Sure.” He was wearing a dark suit and a purple shirt. “You want ice?”

“Yeah, okay.” I watched the water fizz up as I filled my glass.

The guy dropped in two ice cubes with a pair of tongs. “I’m Will, by the way.” He had an extraordinary beaky nose, like a toucan’s, and spiky hair gelled straight up.

“Zoe.” I looked at him over my glass. “Do you know Oliver?”

“Is that who this party is for?” Will laughed. “My friend Edith brought me here.” He indicated the girl with the cast, who was talking with someone beside her now. He studied me for a second. “Hey, you know who you look just like?”

“Who?” I flushed a little under his sharp gaze and focused on my drink.

“The girl in that picture over there.” He gestured to the far wall, where a particularly thick crowd was gathered in front of a sketch.

“Really?” I craned to see the picture, but the crowd was blocking it.

“Yeah. You should check it out.”

“Will!” The girl with the cast took his arm and gave me a significant look.

“Well, nice meeting you,” I said as innocently as possible, and I walked over to the mystery drawing.

I could see that this one was larger than the others and framed in simple black, but I couldn’t tell anything more. I hovered on the outskirts of the group who stood studying it.

“Pretty cool,” I heard one guy say to the other next to him.

“Do you know who she is?” the other one asked.

“No. Nice expression, though.”

They moved off, and I slipped into their space. Then I saw it—a sketch of a girl leaning on a railing, her hair blowing back from her face. She was gazing at a wide river that had to be the Thames, but her eyes were half-closed and distant. The lines of her body were delicate, graceful, as if she were a dancer resting on a barre.

It was me. Preserved in charcoal on the wall, looking like a lost Ophelia. I stood stock-still, gazing at it. Oliver had been drawing me. Again. Not just at the Enterprise but as he sat in his room, crouched over his drafting table.

I looked more closely. He’d drawn my body leaning forward and my hands curled tightly around the metal bar. It was almost as if I were trapped behind the railing and yearning to escape. Which, in a sense, I was, I realized with a start.