Page 112 of Love What's Left
And why did I change my clothing before I came home that night and waltzed past our home security cameras like there was nothing wrong? Why did I wear my lucky hat to vandalize my own lab?
Without warning, Gabriel jolts upright and scrambles to his feet, nearly knocking the rolling table beside him over. “Where’s my phone? Dammit, Sydney, don’t do this,” he says.
He lowers himself back to the bed and drops his head into his hands, the picture of desolation. I lay my palm on his back and pass his phone around his arm.
He spins around, stares for long moments, then pulls me against him, his hand cupping my head and pressing his face into my neck. “I thought you left me.”
“I didn’t.”
He lifts his head and searches my eyes. “Why am I in a hospital with the hangover from hell?”
38
Sydney
Four Days Later
Anxiety crackles through my synapses as Gabriel, Dave, and I step off the elevator and head down the corridor toward the lab where I used to work. When we turn the corner, I stop short at the sight of the kitten mural on the wall.
Despite everything, it makes me smile a little. I remember the first time I ever laid eyes on it. I’d come to a screeching halt, my sneakers squeaking on the shiny black composite flooring.
Rob had been with me at the time and immediately cursed under his breath. “What the hell, Syd?”
I’d shaken my head and protested, “It wasn’t me.”
But I’d had to force myself not to laugh. I’d turned to look directly into the security camera, given it my best “Be so for real” face. Then I’d dialed Gabriel’s number.
It’s a good memory in a place I suspect may hold at least one pretty bad one.
Today, Gabriel is the one beside me. And he’s even more tense than I am.
“Not too late to turn around,” he mutters.
I shoot him a sidelong glance. He’s more than willing to go the illegal route by breaking into my co-worker’s homes and hacking into their computers and records to find out what we need to know if it spares me some suffering. He’s a good guy, but he’s not always a “good” guy. I wouldn’t have him any other way.
“I need to do it. For me,” I say.
“Be careful. You’re not trained for this,” he grumbles.
“But you and Dave are, and you’re here.”
He scowls.
“I’ll be careful. I promise. I’ll maintain a reasonable distance.” I try to lighten the mood by bringing his attention to the art on the wall, adjusting my stance and standing with my hands behind my back, as though the mural is a masterpiece in the Louvre.
Combined with my long hair in a low ponytail, a knee-length black skirt suit, sensible black pumps, and white blouse, I could be an executive or a tour guide, which isn’t typical for me. I wanted my appearance to be disconcerting. Like I was there in some official capacity to make heads roll.
Most of the time, my workwear consisted of a pair of loose jeans and a fitted long-sleeved T-shirt worn under a lab coat or baggy cardigan.
Something about the clothing I wore to work has been niggling at me for weeks now, like a word on the tip of my tongue or a memory just out of reach. I can’t figure out why my clothes matter, but they do.
I wore the red dress the Saturday I disappeared. My calendar had “brunch” at eleven and the name of a restaurant I never showed up to and didn’t have reservations for. Meanwhile, Gabriel was on a flight back from Tokyo.
With the time zones nearly reversed, according to him, the two of us hadn’t had more than a single groggy conversation with each other in thirty-six hours. I’d planned to meet him at the airport when he got home that night. At least, I had it in my calendar and had made arrangements with my driver, so I looked like I expected to see him.
Dave moves to my right flank to protect me should anyone emerge from one of the three blue doors lining the hallway, but I highly doubt protection is necessary. No one who works here knew we were coming ahead of time.
“What do you think of your mural?” Gabriel asks.
