The Girl Who Wasn't Page 3

  The hallway is bright—too bright after the dimness of the car and the elevator. I blink furiously and keep my chin down, so my hair creates a curtain, a shield between me and whatever is waiting. It helps warm my neck but does nothing for the gooseflesh raised along my arms.

  Though I have yet to look up, I know exactly when the hallway ends because the tile just in front of my feet cuts off and becomes a wall. To my left I see carpet. Plush, thick threads that look as if my toes might disappear were I to remove my shoes. It is the color of honey—a sticky treat I’ve had on toast exactly twice in my whole existence.

  I think it is my favorite food but I don’t know for sure since I’m positive there are more foods like it out there being kept from us in Twig City.

  Someone with fat fingers taps me on the shoulder. “This way,” grunts the gray-haired man.

  I follow him into the carpeted room on the right, keeping my hair around my face. Through my curtain of hair, I see the edge of a couch as I make my way.

  “Wait here,” the man says.

  He disappears the way we came, and I stand and wait. A minute passes. I count the seconds on a mantel clock, staring at it until I can’t see anything but the ticking arm.

  I am not alone.

  I sense it before I see him. Goosebumps break out along my neck and trail down my back, and I stand straighter without consciously deciding to do so. Still, I do not turn. I am trying to identify the reason for my anxiety when the gray-haired man returns. With a nudge of his hand against my back, I am ushered forward and ordered to stop directly in front of an ornate brick fireplace. There is a man standing before it. He is the reason for my body panicking inside my skin, though he hasn’t yet moved or spoken.

  “Thank you, Gus,” he says when my feet are still.

  “Sir.” The gray-haired man—Gus—shuffles to the edge of the room with barely a sound against the plush rug.

  I wiggle my toes inside my shoes to distract myself. In Twig City, the only carpet is the flat lime-green stuff in the shower area. It’s scratchy underfoot and smells of mold. I never walk barefoot there if I can help it.

  The man before me clears his throat. “Thank you for being so cooperative on such short notice.”

  When he speaks, I shiver, and a matching tremor runs through my insides. There is something about the sharp-edged tenor of his voice, some familiarity that echoes somewhere I cannot reach. A mental picture flashes in my mind, too hazy to be real or remembered. It’s bottled far back in my memory. I don’t know what it means or why his voice has triggered it. All I know is it makes me afraid. Of him.

  “Are you feeling all right?” he asks.

  I tell myself I’m being ridiculous. There is no possible way I’ve met this man before, nor do I have a reason to fear him. I blink, forcing it away. He watches me, likely waiting for a response.

  “It’s been an eventful day,” I say, my voice just above a whisper.

  “Yes, well, I’m sure this is more excitement than you’re used to, but you’d do well to acclimate quickly. Things move much faster here than they do in the City. I trust you can keep up?”

  I whisper an agreement and he continues. “The staff—with the exception of Gus here—believes you to be my daughter. You will act accordingly, even within the privacy of your new home.” There is a pause and then his expression contorts. “Child,” he snaps, clearly losing patience with my lack of response. “Have you heard anything I’ve said?”

  “Yes, sir,” I mumble.

  He throws a glance over my shoulder at Gus. “Leave us.”

  He doesn’t speak again until we’re alone. I know we’re alone because my heart bangs against my chest like a kettle drum. Something in me wants to hate this man. I’ve never hated a person at first impression before. It feels unfair. Then he is in my face and when he speaks, the malice behind his words removes any guilt I feel at my unexplainable reaction.

  “My name is Titus Rogen, but you will call me ‘Father,’ do you understand me?”

  I nod. He is so close, my nose almost brushes his.

  “There is a lot to go over but first and foremost, you are here because there is a threat against my daughter, your Authentic. Until that threat is neutralized, you are her. You will walk, talk, and act like her. You will attend all of her functions and fulfill all of her obligations. You’ll have a couple of days to get up to speed and then we will begin the process of drawing them out.”

  I say nothing.

  “I know you go by Ven in Twig City. That will not be tolerated here. Henceforth, your name is Raven Rogen and you will answer to only that name. Am I clear?”

  I nod a second time and manage, “Yes, sir.”

  It’s all I can do. My mission is clear. They want me to draw out the killers. They are unconcerned what happens to me as a result. Only that they apprehend the guilty parties so life can resume as it always was.

  I know as a trained Imitation, I should show more initiative, a willingness to integrate myself as Raven Rogen and do what I can to eliminate the danger against her. It’s what I was made to do. But I cannot stop thinking how my own existence matters so little to the very beings who should value life so much.

  He sighs. “Look at me.”

  I do as he asks, raising my head and letting my hair swing away from my face. He is surprisingly average in stature considering the fear he evokes from the mere sound of his voice. Slight and bald, his head shines like the granite walls in the lobby. I think if I catch just the right angle, I will see my own reflection in his cranium. A panicked laugh bubbles inside me, lodging in my chest and sticking there. I cannot laugh.

  “Do you speak coherently at all or do they manufacture them mute now?” He speaks with an edge that makes me want to back away.

  “I speak very well, sir,” I say. My voice is small. I feel like Ida.

  “Good damn thing. Would’ve been ironic, me of all people getting a defective piece of equipment.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about, so I remain silent and drop my attention back to the floor.

  “Gus!” he shouts, and I jump.

  “Boss?” a gruff voice says behind me.

  “Show Raven to her room. She’s had a long day.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Titus looks at me once more and then turns on his heel and leaves through a side door. It shuts behind him before I can see where it leads. I turn to Gus. He is waiting for me, an impatient expression on his already scowling face. “Come on, then,” he says.

  I feel mildly better with him than I did with Titus. Not much, but some.

  We take a curving hallway and I wonder if this apartment is rounded. If there’s a room somewhere that makes a circle instead of cornered walls. I wonder if I’ll be allowed to see it or if this place will be just as much a prison as the home I’ve left behind.

  Gus wears boots that clomp against the flattened carpet of the hallway, so even with my head down, I hear when he stops. He turns the knob on a blue door and shoves it inward, flicking a switch before stepping aside. I stop, one foot in the doorway, one foot on the honey-colored carpet, and stare at my new accommodations. I was right to assume my Authentic is accustomed to niceties.

  The room is almost as big as the sleeping room back in Twig City—a space that holds twenty bunks, sixty girls. There are no fluorescent lights here, no pipes humming with power, feeding Imitations as they slumber in incubators underneath heat lamps and microscopes. The sleeping room in Twig City is drafty and above all, loud. Other than my own intake of breath and Gus’s impatient huffing, there is no sound here.

  The room has the same plush carpeting as the one where I met Titus. Only this carpet is a rich brown, like chocolate—a luxury item I’ve only heard of, never tasted. The thick rug sweeps in all directions, uninterrupted until it disappears underneath a bed with wooden columns rising from each of its four corners.

  The furniture is similarly colored and cut, a matching suit. Above me, illuminating the entire space
is a chandelier dripping with what looks like icicles, though I’m almost positive they can’t be made of real ice, since the temperature in the room is comfortably warm compared to the air outside.

  I’ve never seen amenities so luxurious. It takes me a full minute to realize it is meant for only me. I will sleep in a room alone for the first time since I awoke from the incubator. I’m awed and nervous at the thought. For a second, I miss the humming pipes and the room full of even breathing and sleepy mutterings.

  “Is there a problem?” Gus asks when I don’t move.

  “No—no problem,” I say.

  “Good. Someone will come get you in the morning. Sleep tight.” He shuts the door and there is a decided click as a lock only accessible from the outside is turned.

  I am a prisoner.

  I am Raven Rogen.

  I am here to die.

  Chapter Three

  A maid brings me dinner on a rolling tray. Other than her, I see no one. I hear nothing outside the door of my room. I can only assume that means they have some device set up to monitor me from inside. I’m not surprised. Or deterred. Being watched is inevitable in Twig City; it’s no different here.

  After eating, I spend a full hour reveling in the silkiness of the sheets on the bed that I’m sure would sleep five comfortably. When I sit up, a carving made in one of the posts catches my eye. I lean closer and run my fingers over it, trying to identify the shape. The lines are rough and jagged close up, as if they’ve been carved by hand with a dull knife or some other blunt instrument. Small shavings come away when I brush my hand over it, and I wonder how recently this cut was made. It looks like a version of my own mark but this tree is different, with branches sprouting into the trunk instead of around it.

  I change into the pajamas laid out—a silky, smooth fabric that feels amazing against my abdomen and arms. I am reminded of the chafing cotton I wore just last night and try to take comfort in the benefits, small as they are, of my new life.

  The luxuries of this place, combined with the utter silence that rings in my ears, has me wide awake. I decide to explore my expensive prison. I find a refrigerator stocked with bubbly water that sighs when you twist open the lid and some sort of creamy frozen treat in the freezer. The box says “ice cream,” though it tastes nothing like any ice I’ve ever had. It’s sweet and milky, competing with honey for my favorite taste.

  After eating the entire container of pecan ice cream, I lie down and pretend with all my might that I really am Raven Rogen and there is no danger here. It doesn’t work but I succeed in sleeping.

  The morning comes too fast.

  I feel sluggish and slow when the lock clicks and the door opens. I don’t bother raising my head as Gus pokes his head into the room. He is already frowning.

  “Get dressed. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  In Twig City, ten minutes is twice the time we’re expected to take for showering and dressing, but here, where nothing is familiar, I’m almost positive I should demand longer. He is gone before I can argue.

  I scavenge the dresser and closet—and discover the latter is large enough to stand inside and stretch my arms out to both sides and still not touch the clothes hanging on the racks around me. This makes me almost smile. I pass by silk gowns and chiffon skirts and gawk at the shelves of shoes that I can only hope I’ll live long enough to wear. Ida would love this.

  Near the back, I find tailored pants and a blouse. Not exactly the bland jeans and T-shirt look that we all share in Twig City, but then I don’t expect Raven Rogen owns a pair of jeans, especially ones with holes in the knees. I used to fuss at Lonnie for purposely ripping her pants but after a while, I caught myself doing it too. In a sea of sameness, I needed to do something to feel individual. I suspect that was Lonnie’s reason also, although she would say she just liked the ventilation. Twig City’s lower levels can be stuffy.

  Upon mirror inspection, I find that my blond locks have graduated from bedhead to zoo animal. I do my best to smooth and braid it and then decide I don’t care. According to Titus, no one but staff is going to see me today. While I’m still playing a part, the pressure feels lessened within the confines of these walls.

  Gus is waiting for me when I emerge from the bathroom. I follow him out, refusing to allow myself to be afraid of Titus this morning. I am prepared this time. I tell myself that makes a difference.

  I follow Gus down the circular hallway and find myself once more in the plush room with the fireplace. Someone has lit a fire and it roars and crackles, giving a sharp cheerfulness to the place that feels forced. Titus stands off to the side so I don’t see him until I’m almost in front of him. I feel the same jolt and then crawling of my skin as I did the night before.

  “Raven,” Titus says and gives me a look that demands response.

  “Father.” I shove the word out of my mouth. I feel funny for saying it, not just to him, but to anyone. Imitations don’t have mothers and fathers. We don’t have family. We just are.

  Until we’re not.

  “How did you sleep?” he asks.

  “Very well,” I say.

  “Good. We need to discuss this arrangement if it’s to work out. Sit.”

  I lower myself to a leather couch that seems miniature compared to the ones at home. Home. My chest hurts because this is my home now. With this man.

  “First, Rogen Tower is your home now,” he says.

  The words, an echo of my own thoughts, jar me so that I jerk my eyes up to his. His are sparkling with something—laughter? No. Challenge.

  He continues. “You can go anywhere you like except my private offices. Those are off limits even to my daughter.”

  “Where is she? Your daughter?” I ask before I can stop the words from leaving my mouth. That is not a question a trained Imitation should ask.

  His cheeks harden. “You do not get to ask me questions,” he snaps. Then his features smooth out and he is the charming viper once again. “I would like this arrangement to be mutually beneficial. For that to happen, there are certain rules that must be followed. Boundaries, if you will.”

  “Mutually beneficial?” I echo. I am thoroughly confused as to how I can benefit from dying for someone I’ve never met.

  “I get to end the threat against my daughter and you get to experience life as it exists in the outside world. All of the luxury and extravagance your genetic makeup craves. For however long your experience lasts,” he adds.

  I can only stare at him. Did he really just say that my payment for dying is to sleep in a nice bed?

  In that moment I hate him. And her. The girl I’m supposed to be. The girl I’m supposed to die for. I would give all of the pecan ice cream in the world to be back in Twig City, playing tennis with Ida and Lonnie. In that moment I decide that no matter what happens, I will hate Titus and Raven Rogen. Until the day I die.

  ***

  My lunch in Rogen Tower is served in a dining hall so ornate and hollow, I think my voice will echo if I so much as whisper. The food set in front of me by a silent maid with white streaks in her brown hair is succulent. I know this by the smell alone. Even before I bite into the chicken breast covered in cream, I know it will be the most delicious chicken I have ever tasted. I am not wrong.

  The food makes me think of the vitamin-infused fruits and green vegetables Lonnie and Ida are eating without me.

  I eat alone and am full long before the food is gone. Before I’ve finished wiping my mouth with the linen napkin, the maid retrieves my plate and Gus reappears in the doorway. I think he’s been waiting outside, not wanting the pressure of making conversation if he stayed in sight.

  After lunch, I am led to a room Gus calls the parlor. Heavy curtains obscure the sunlight that presses against the glass behind them. I imagine warmth in the light. It feels cold in the shadows and deep cushions inside this room. There is a bookcase on one wall, laden with large albums. Gus retrieves a stack and sets them on the floor next to me.

  “What are the
se?” I ask.

  “Your history,” he says.

  “What are they for?”

  “They will show you the names and faces of the people Raven knows.”

  I gape at the stack of albums that reaches past my knee. “You want me to memorize all of them?”

  “Yes.”

  Before I can protest, he walks out.

  I sink down to the floor, wondering how in the world I’m supposed to teach myself all the faces these albums contain. I peel open the cover on the first album and blink at a face that is so exactly like mine, I wonder if it’s me and I’ve simply forgotten the memory captured on film. But it’s her. I see the difference in the eyes, and the smile that is entirely too free for someone who grew up in Twig City. It’s slightly crooked on one side and already I distrust her. Already I hate her.

  There is movement in the doorway. I look up, expecting Gus or even Titus. Instead, it is a boy I’ve never seen before. He is close to my age, twenty at most. His light hair is cropped close to his head and lays flat. I peg him for a soldier, though he doesn’t wear any uniform. I take in the curve of his biceps and the subtle planes of his chest and abs through the white tee he wears. My pulse jumps erratically and I forget to exhale. The sight of his expression, the stiffness in his stance, snaps me out of my daydreaming. His hands are tucked deep in his corduroy pockets and he is scowling.

  My voice gets stuck in my throat. Partly because he is a boy and I have almost zero experience conversing with males. And partly because he is so beautiful and Authentic and one hundred percent untouchable that it makes my cheeks burn.

  “Um, can I help you?” I ask when he doesn’t speak.

  He gives me a disbelieving look and then shakes his head. “I think you have it backwards.”

  “Have what—”

  “The helping part,” he cuts in. “I’m apparently the one giving the help.” He doesn’t sound happy about it.

  “I’m sorry, who are you?” I ask, my irritation pricking at his tone.