The Imaginary Friend’s Obsession (Monster Research Facility #3)

Chapter One

I ’m halfway through the workday, listening to a customer scream obscenities, when a bird slams into the window beside my desk. I jump in my seat, nearly dropping the phone.

“Are you even listening to me?” the customer shouts.

I swallow, pressing my hand to my pounding heart. “Of course I am, sir.”

He resumes ranting about our TV plan’s increased price, as if that’s something I should be held personally accountable for. I stare at the smudged window and imagine the bird’s broken body on the sidewalk three stories below. I only caught a glimpse of black and white feathers, but I think it was a magpie. How’s that old rhyme go? One for sorrow…

It feels like a bad omen. And the others in the office are looking over at me. Whispering.

Noticing me.

I shrink down in my chair. It’s not me they’re staring at, I tell myself. It’s just the window. I’ve been doing so well this time, making myself bland and forgettable. I’ve been succeeding for nearly a year without incident.

Nothing has happened that will shatter that facade of normalcy. Yet there’s a strange prickling along the back of my neck, like someone is watching me. My stomach churns with dread. That bird…that bird bothers me.

The customer runs out of breath, and I take my chance to start talking about special loyalty discounts for valued customers. Still, feathers and blood linger in my mind.

I pull my coat tighter around myself. I’m always wearing it with winter approaching, even indoors with the heat on. Rainy Seattle is too far from the desert heat my body is accustomed to, and the cold always creeps in.

All around, the monotonous hum of the call center continues. A tedious symphony of ringing phones and customer service voices. Normally, I resent the company’s open floor plan, giving each of us only a tiny cubby of a desk rather than a full office. Yet right now it feels soothing to be nothing more than a cog in a machine. Nobody notices a cog.

I finish the call and stare at the phone on my desk, willing it to ring again so I can start up the script and forget about everything else.

Instead, I hear my name. My fake name, at least.

“Gwen?”

Recognizing my boss’s voice, I plaster on a smile before I turn my chair to face him. “Yes?”

Brad is always difficult to read with that perpetual, plasticky grin. But there’s a slight furrow between his bushy brows now.

“I’ve got a personal call for you in my office.”

It takes effort to maintain my smile. Alarm bells ring in the back of my mind. There is no one— no one —who would have any good reason to contact me here. I have no family. I keep my “friends” at arm’s length. None of them would call me at work, even for an emergency. But I can’t admit that to my boss without bringing up more questions. Nor can I run for the exit like my instincts are telling me to.

“Okay,” I chirp, and follow Brad to his office. He seems in a rush, probably annoyed about me receiving a personal call in the workplace. Little does he know, that phone is practically a shotgun aimed in my direction.

Brad stands by, arms folded over his barrel chest as he looks between me and the phone. He doesn’t even have the grace to give me privacy. I’m screaming internally, but there’s nothing to do except pick up the phone and hold it to my ear.

“Yes?” I ask.

“Daisy Dumont?”

My stomach plummets. I turn my back to my boss so he doesn’t see the blood drain from my face. My voice is suddenly gone, along with any hope that this is a mistake. It’s been years since I heard my real name.

“I think you have the wrong number,” I say, the words quavering despite my effort to maintain my chipper work facade. I should hang up. Hang up now. But if this call is coming from where I think it’s coming from, it’s too late. They’ve already found me. I was foolish to think I could shake them off my trail forever.

“My name is Ezra Bradford,” the man on the other side says, ignoring my attempt to disengage. “I’m calling from the Melsbach Research Facility.”

All of my worst fears realized. I squeeze my eyes shut. My throat is too tight to speak; I can barely suck in air. But after a stretch of uncomfortable silence on the line, I force myself to turn to my boss.

“Can I have a minute, please?”

Brad must notice the wobble in my lower lip, because his expression shifts from annoyance to discomfort. “All right,” he says, and leaves, shutting the door behind him.

I cup my hand around the receiver. “Listen. I did everything I was supposed to do. You said I would be left alone!” My voice cracks, and I stop.

“Daisy,” the man—Ezra—says, gentler than before. “You’re not in any trouble. I’m sorry, I should’ve led with that.”

The apology keeps me from hanging up the phone. No one else in that place has ever apologized to me for anything. But it still doesn’t quash the terror sending shards of ice through my chest.

“This is about Subject X-15,” Ezra continues. “I think you know him as Dorian.”

Dorian.

My heart cracks open. Even now, the name is enough to bring up a dangerous surge of emotions—pain, longing, loneliness. An ache that has never quite gone away lifts to the surface.

I swallow hard, wet my lips. “Dorian’s not real,” I whisper, forcing the words out through a tight throat.

There’s silence on the other end of the line. Then, “I know that’s what they told you to say. I’m sorry you’ve been forced to pretend it’s the truth. But we both know it’s not.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. This is a trap. A test. It must be. “Dorian was just a way for me to cope with the death of my parents,” I say. “He was my childhood imaginary friend.”

“Daisy…” Uncertainty leaks into the voice on the phone. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

I have to believe it. Because if I don’t, then…

Panic jolts through me, and I hang up.