Page 20 of Stay Awake
The system rejects my password. A security notification tells me that “unusual activity was noticed in your account.” It says a code has been texted to my cell phone to restore my account. The problem is that I don’t have my phone.
When I try to access my social media accounts, the same thing happens. After three passwords guesses are rejected, I get locked out of my social accounts as well as my email. I’ve been electronically cut off from my life.
The meeting room phone rings suddenly, startling me with its insistent peal.
“Hello?”
“Liv, this is Dee from reception. I have a call for you. Please hold while I transfer it through.”
There’s a single beep followed by a man’s voice. “Liv?”
Something about the muffled voice makes the hairs prickle on the back of my neck.
“Yes?” My throat is tight. I can barely raise my voice above a whisper.
“Where did you put it?”
“Put what?”
“The knife,” he hisses. “What did you do with the damn knife, Liv? You took the goddamn knife when I was in the bathroom, and you walked off with it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. This must be a wrong number.” I resist the urge to hang up the phone. I feel compelled to know more.
“Don’t tell me you fell asleep and forgot everything again?” he says.
He frightens me with the accuracy of his comment. “How do you know I woke up with no memory?”
“Because you lose your goddamn memory every time you fall asleep. Listen, here’s what I want you to do…”
The door opens with a rattle. I put my hand over the receiver as Josie pops her head through the doorway.
“The spring issue planning meeting is about to start,” she says. “We’d love for you to join. As the guest of honor. Everyone’s waiting for you.”
“Okay. Um, sure. That would be great. I’ll be there as soon as I’m done with this call,” I tell her.
“Sure,” Josie says, still hovering.
I hold the phone against my chest until Josie’s left the room.
“Who are you?” I whisper into the phone once she’s closed the door behind her.
There’s nobody on the line. All I hear is an engaged signal.
I put down the receiver with a click. A sickening dread creeps through me. Something terrible is going on and I don’t have the faintest idea what it is.
Chapter
Thirteen
Two Years Earlier
We spend the better part of an hour passing around mood boards and swatches of colors as we discuss plans for the December issue ofCultura. December is almost six months away, but the Christmas issue is always a blowout, which means months of extra planning, pages of extra content, and pullouts with glossy advertising.
After canvassing our opinions on the design colors and cover proposals, Frank, our editor, assigns us the articles he wants us to write in addition to our usual beats. For me, that’s food. For obvious reasons, food is always a big deal in the December issue. The other highlight isCultura’s signature year-end articles.
“I always like our end-of-year features to have a fresh perspective,” Frank reminds everyone. Naomi, who likes to think of herself as our resident arts writer, is visibly furious when Frank assigns me to write on the arts scene.
Naomi’s never liked me anyway, not since I complained about George, a photographer she was dating, who put his hand on my thigh and propositioned me while we drove to cover a music festival. He wassubsequently fired after it turned out that was his go-to move with young reporters. Naomi’s pretty much hated my guts since.
