Chapter Sixty-Nine. Riley, Present Day
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
RILEY, PRESENT DAY
There’s no way I can participate in whatever experiment Sandra has planned right now. My brain is so fuzzy from the sedative that even forming coherent sentences is difficult. I nod off, then abruptly awaken as my head jerks back up.
“You can sleep for a few hours,” Sandra decides. “Then we’ll begin. I have a few things to take care of anyway.”
She handcuffs one of my wrists to the metal headboard of the bed in the room off the kitchen. The last thing I see before Sandra closes the door is Betty mouthing something to me. But my eyelids are so heavy they drift shut before I can understand her message.
When I awaken, it’s like surfacing from a dark, muddy well. My throat is so parched it hurts. I squint as my eyes adjust to the sudden brightness of the lamp on the nightstand next to me. It takes me a beat to remember where I am, then my stomach plummets.
As I inhale a deep breath to try to steady myself, I smell fresh coffee. Sandra walks through the doorway, holding a white mug with Lennox Grief Counseling printed on it in flowing blue script.
“Drink this.” Sandra puts the mug in my free hand.
When I hesitate, she shakes her head. “Don’t be stupid. If I wanted you gone, you’d be gone by now. The only drug that’s in it is caffeine.”
She walks to the door. “I’ll back in a few minutes.”
The coffee is lukewarm—maybe because Sandra feared I’d try to throw the mug at her and she’d get scalded—and I gulp it down, feeling more mentally lucid almost instantly.
I can’t reach the wicker nightstand from my position, so I set the empty mug on the bed.
Perhaps I can find a way to break it and use a shard to defend myself.
I study the room, taking in the small table with two straight-back chairs, the high ceiling, the mirror on the wall, and the door that probably leads to a closet.
If I get free, I could hide behind the door and hit Sandra with a chair when she comes back.
I pull as hard as I can, trying to make the headboard yield.
My wrist is raw and aching and I’ve made no progress when Sandra returns. This time she has her gun—and Betty. Betty looks as rough as I feel and she’s moving so slowly it’s as if she has aged a decade. I wince as I shift positions to better see them.
“What’s wrong?” Betty asks.
“My arm hurts from being above my head for so long,” I answer truthfully.
“Her results may be compromised if she’s physically uncomfortable and can’t concentrate,” Betty tells Sandra.
Sandra digs the handcuff key out of the pocket of her jeans and hands it to Betty. “Secure the handcuffs around both of her wrists.” She backs away, training the gun on us.
It takes Betty a minute, but she figures out how to unlock me.
I curl onto my side and Betty cuffs my wrists together.
“There, dear,” she says, gently patting my sore arm.
I feel something press against my elbow and realize Betty has moved the coffee mug closer to me.
I drape my arm over it, instinctively hiding it.
“Betty tells me you’re extremely telepathic,” Sandra says. “It’s why she hired you.”
I nod. I know Betty is stalling to keep me alive, but it’s futile. Even if someone were looking for us, they’d never guess we were here.
“We’ll start with a basic telepathy test.” Sandra walks over to the small door and opens it. Inside the closet is a tall file cabinet. Sandra keeps one eye on us as she selects a file from the top drawer.
“Can Riley transmit first?” Betty asks. “She seems to do better that way.”
“Fine,” Sandra says. “This is just practice anyway.”
I don’t have any of the intuition Betty credits me with. And in a few minutes, Sandra’s going to know we tricked her.
Sandra instructs Betty to turn her chair around so her back is to me. Any hope I had that I might’ve been able to convey visual clues to Betty are gone; she won’t be able to see my face.
Sandra hands me the folder, then takes one of the straight-backed chairs, angling it so she can see both our faces. She’s maybe six feet from us—too far away for me to lunge for the gun.
“Go ahead,” Sandra tells us.
I stare at the back of Betty’s head.
“Riley, do you remember what I said about a time for logic and a time for trust? I need your trust now,” Betty says. “We have to work together to make this successful.”
“Enough,” Sandra snaps. “Begin.”
It’s awkward with my hands cuffed together, but I manage to open the folder and look at the first image. It’s a simple one of a black pentagon on a white background. I stare at the symbol for a long moment, unsure of what to do. Then Betty begins to speak.
“I’m seeing a color, or perhaps the absence of color. It could be … white. There’s a shape. It’s a very familiar shape, one we see every morning…”
My body feels electrified. Is Betty actually able to discern what I’m seeing? Pentagons are everywhere—from street signs to the tile design in Betty’s bathroom. From her angle, Sandra can see the paper I’m holding, too. I sense the hitch in her energy.
A moment later, my logical brain takes over. Betty’s words seem deliberately vague—a color or absence of color covers the entire spectrum. And doesn’t everything have a shape?
“Go to the next image,” Sandra instructs me after Betty falls silent.
The next picture is of a motorboat cutting through a body of water surrounded by green trees.
“Action,” Betty says immediately. “Something is happening … I see movement. A sweeping motion, like a powerful arc.”
Goosebumps rise on my skin. Her words could be stretched to fit the exact image I’m seeing. Either Betty is exceptionally telepathic or she’s equally gifted in conjuring visions that sound specific while being deliberately vague, like a sham street corner palm reader.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sandra lean forward, the gun in her hand gleaming. Her expression is hungry.
“Speed. Quickness,” Betty says, enunciating each word. “That’s my vision, Riley.”
“Keep going,” Sandra breathes. She looks like she’s buying it. Betty’s plan is actually working—so far. Betty’s wheelchair inches forward slowly. Sandra doesn’t notice.
I quickly flip to the next image. It’s a man and woman who seem to be having an argument in a parking lot, with their arms captured in angry gestures and their faces frowning.
“This one is more complex,” Betty says. Then she falls silent. I grow nervous; Betty’s streak of luck must be running out.
“Riley, I’m sensing you’re blocked,” Betty says. “Don’t doubt yourself. You can do this. Use what I’ve given you.”
As I absorb her words, time shudders to a stop.
Barely a heartbeat passes, but tiny details come into sharp focus: Betty reaching for the empty chair by the table, her fingers wrapping around its top. The white mug—a shape I see every morning—that Betty has given me next to my arm. Sandra’s index finger now relaxed, off the trigger of the gun.
Betty is barely finished speaking when she lifts up the chair and swings it around, smashing Sandra in the face with the heavy wood, her movements shockingly nimble and forceful.
The second the chair makes contact I scramble out of bed, holding the coffee mug by the handle and swinging it in a powerful arc to connect with Sandra’s temple.
Sandra slumps forward and I manage to pull the gun out of her hand. She’s dazed and bleeding; she doesn’t even put up a fight.
I back away, training the gun on Sandra, breathing hard. I’m not going to make the mistake Sandra did of letting down my guard for a second.
“You received my message,” Betty says to me.