Chapter Five

August 20X6, Pittsburgh

I take him to my place. Once we’re certain we’ve lost Kyran, we ditch the moped in an alley about a block away. Huddled together under the scrambrella, we enter the old brick building on Railroad Street through the long-forgotten underground parking garage. Once we make it into the third-floor loft that has been my home for the last couple of weeks without incident, I collapse on the low gray couch and close my eyes. My limbs are shaking from the adrenaline dump of having made it to safety and I pinch the bridge of my nose, breathing myself calm.

If I were alone, I’d calm down and get to work cleaning the apartment, disposing of the evidence of my presence. I’d shower and change into my disguise for my trip back to California in a couple of hours.

But I’m not alone.

My eyes flutter open. Garrett is hunting around the room, feeling over smooth stone walls, examining light pods, and turning over chairs. A tingling sensation that starts in my tummy travels upward until it expands in my chest.

I can’t believe he’s here—that this is happening. The last time we were alone together in a safehouse post-heist pops into my mind, and my cheeks burn.

But it’s not the same. The distance from five months without contact stretches between us. I don’t know where he’s been or who sent him. I don’t know if he still feels the same way—everything could have changed. My instincts are telling me I can trust him, but they are frustratingly noncommittal when it comes to “he loves me, he loves me not.”

“What are you doing?” I break the silence. “The walls can’t hear us. This place is so old, Quinn couldn’t have been built into them. Besides, didn’t we recently successfully complete a heist that took her offline?” Quinn is the AI developed by Simon Technologies almost every household on earth relies on for news, information, and personal decision–making analysis. She’s ingrained herself as a member of everyone’s family and she’s always listening. “Not that it matters. I haven’t had anyone to talk to anyway.”

“Pittsburgh is a really progressive city—on the forefront of connectivity—you can’t be sure they didn’t bring it up to code. And with Simon, he’s not going to let access like Quinn had die. He’s got teams working around the clock to bring her back. Even if this place has outdated tech someone out there could still tap into it. You never know who’s listening.” He presses his index finger to his lips, silently telling me to watch what I say. “This isn’t a normal safehouse,” he whispers.

“It’s not?” I mouth.

He shakes his head, his eyes sweeping the coffee table that is covered with dust and glue, remnants of Tyson’s fingerprint duplication. Finding the notepad and pencil I used to map the Warhol, he writes, “Who set this up?”

Unsure if I should tell him, I chew my lip and ultimately decide it’s not a secret. Of course, the professors at Keystone want the tape. He must know that. Who else would hire me? They’re supposed to be the only people in the world who know I exist. The bigger question is who sent him?

I pat the couch to indicate he join me, then push up the scrambrella as an extra layer of protection that will jumble our conversation in case any devices are listening—not that I think there are any. I conducted a thorough search of the loft when I moved in, but I want Garrett to be comfortable speaking freely. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Smirking, he crosses the room and sits next to me. He bends under the umbrella and scoots over until he’s so close, his knee presses against mine. I thrill at the pressure.

Our faces are inches from each other and images from that night—the last couch we were on, the warmth of the fire—assault me. Heat creeps up my spine and I push my lips together, attempting to appear unaffected though my cheeks are probably beyond pink—hot pink is more likely.

Garrett blessedly creates some space, leaning over and picking up one of the discarded glue molds of Tyson’s fingerprint from the coffee table. He studies it.

“You’re the real deal, Ellie.”

“I didn’t have much to do besides study for the last few months, you know, since you left me stranded in a tree house and kept all the glory for yourself.” I shrug, aggravated by the burst of pleasure his compliment arouses in my belly.

He frowns and sets the mold back on the table. “I probably owe you an explanation.”

“You think?”

He sighs. “You were still sleeping when the Morse code message from Professor Abignail came in, but you wouldn’t have been able to come with me even if you were awake.”

“Why?”

“He ordered me to go alone. The police were looking for two of us. Even though he was positive nobody had figured out our identities, it made sense to separate, to keep you hidden. I hated to leave you, but the heist had to come first. And I knew you were safer in the tree house than on the streets of San Francisco. Believe me, I wanted to stay. You looked so peaceful…”

My eyes widen that he would remotely reference what happened that night beyond us stealing an algorithm, and I want to slam my hand over his mouth to make him shut up. I much prefer to dance around the subject, thank you very much. As much as I’ve thought about him the last five months, now that I’m face-to-face with him, it all feels like a silly fantasy. Was any of it real? I can’t imagine hooking up with him again—I mean, I can, but I don’t know how we’d cross the distance between us. He feels a little bit like a stranger, having been gone almost as long as I knew him.

“Where did Abignail send you?” I keep us on topic, hopefully sending a message that discussing that night’s extracurriculars is off-limits.

Fortunately, he complies. For now.

“To a coffee shop in the city. I met Faye there and handed everything off to her—the algorithm, the ring, the jewelry box—then I took Nicki out for breakfast. Abignail thought it would be smart to show my face, to keep up appearances so nobody would suspect you and I were after the ring all along. He wanted me to hide in plain sight.”

I nod. “I thought that might have been where you were.”

“I hoped you knew I wouldn’t ditch you on purpose.” He lowers his voice, and his fingers circle my wrist as he touches his forehead to mine. “Did you figure out my message?”

His nearness makes my head spin, but I manage to mumble, “T-R-U-S-T-M-E.”

“I meant it.”

My heart thuds and my brain short-circuits. I want to ask him about the rest of the message, what “we’re just getting started” means—me and him? Us and the Disconnects?—but the words won’t come. Besides, he’s after the tape, too. Even though my instincts are telling me I can trust him, I don’t trust myself around him. As ever, something about him knocks me off my game, and I slide back so I won’t give in to the desire to tilt my face up to his.

Breaking our connection, I detangle his fingers from my wrist. “Where have you been since then?” You didn’t write, you didn’t send a pigeon…

He straightens, respecting my space, but his eyes never leave my face. “I ended up staying undercover with Nicki for a couple months. I pretended to get a message that delayed my internship and told her you went home to the islands to rest.”

I cringe at the thought of Nicki and Garrett together. Even though he told me there was nothing between them—no falling for the target—I don’t like the idea of them spending months alone. I know I shouldn’t be jealous. He’s a professional and if I’m honest, deep down I’m pretty sure he would rather have spent all those months with me. But the moment I start to believe that, my brain goes all code red and doubt creeps in. Maybe my instincts are trying to tell me something. Or maybe they aren’t. Being around him is like having a live wire flailing around in my brain and I don’t know what to think.

“Nicki kept wanting to talk to you, though,” he continues. “I had to make up all sorts of stories about why you were M.I.A., like how you were in Montreal training to be a mermaid so Dad could use you for entertainment at his resorts.”

“Seriously?” I pout. “That’s a thing?”

“Oh yeah. It’s an intense program, and we were so happy you finally had a goal in life, we wanted to make sure you could concentrate. So, no distractions, no contact.” The twinkling light in his eyes transforms from his usual knowing glint to Beau’s—his cover character from our last heist—earnest mirth. He laughs Beau’s hearty belly laugh and I’m reminded he’s a chameleon. I need to stay on my toes if I’m going to protect the tape.

“Apparently, Nash was on our side all along.” Just like that he’s back to being Garrett. “He’s been keeping close to Simon to get intel—but Abignail wanted to keep me around, too, to make sure Nash was telling us everything. I still don’t trust that guy.”

“Was he telling us everything?” I know I should tell Garrett about Nash, that he asked me to run away with him, that he left me a note I’ve yet to decode, but something tells me to keep it to myself.

“It seemed like it, but I can’t be sure. He’s weirdly close with Simon. I got to know Simon a little bit through Nicki, but Nash and Simon have a bond I can’t replicate. Nash is protective of Simon. He does his best to keep that relationship for himself.”

I frown. “Do you think Nash is secretly working for Simon?”

“I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

“Me, neither.” I wrinkle my nose, thinking of how Nash played me in my previous life. Allard insists he’s on our side, but I’ve done a lot of soul-searching trying to figure out what the note he slipped to me meant, what he wants with me, and part of me can’t get past that first betrayal. It still sits under my skin, poisoning me against him. My instinct is to tread lightly where he’s involved.

“Nash is Simon’s right hand at Stanford. I’m in the internship program there now, undercover as an engineering student studying Super Brain science.” Garrett’s fingers drum against his knee and his eyes are faraway like he’s figuring out the solution to a math problem in his head. “It’s where one of the Simulation headquarters is. Simon is working to bring a new, improved Quinn online and re-earn the world’s trust. Operation Mind Upload will be back on track soon, unless we can do something about it.”

Remembering what my friend Stewart told me about the Super Brain—that it could go beyond turning humans into brainwashed robots living inside a Simulation, that the AI could take on a life of its own and end humanity as we know it—I shudder.

“It sounds like you have an important job at Stanford. What made you leave?” I ask, hoping to connect the dots as to why he’s here. “Did Abignail send you to get the tape from the Warhol?”

Pressing his lips together, he shakes his head. “No.”

“Do you think the Warhol tape has something to do with the Mind Uploads?”

His shoulders lift. “I don’t know.”

“Why are you after it, then?” I gape at him. “Why are you here?”

“I’m not actually after the tape.” Tipping his head to the side, he scans my face, sending hot chills through me. My brain buzzes with connectivity and it’s like I’m glued to him. I can’t look away. I also can’t fully believe he’s not after the tape.

“What are you after, then?” I narrow my eyes.

“My parents sent me to protect you, to make sure you got the tape without any hiccups.” He chooses his words carefully.

I smile a bitter smile. “Like a secret partner?”

“Sort of.” His eyebrows pull down.

Ugh. My throat constricts and I stare at the couch. Discouraged my teachers don’t think I’m ready to handle a heist on my own, I absently twirl the umbrella.

“I wasn’t supposed to have contact with you unless absolutely necessary, like in a Kyran-showing-up-out-of-the-blue situation.” He pats my thigh as if that could comfort me. “But when I saw you, I couldn’t help myself. I hadn’t been able to get you out of my head for months, and you looked like such a badass—you totally had that Tyson guy wrapped around your finger—I had to say hi.”

Refusing to be charmed, I squelch the tickle that flutters through me, square my shoulders, and bury my disappointment. “Did your parents think Kyran would be there?” I dare a glance up at him.

“No.” He prolongs a blink. “He was a total surprise. I don’t know who sent him. Whoever it was isn’t interested in the tape. They’re interested in you. Maybe Kyran knows about your special talents.”

My pulse pumps tentacles of terror I’ve yet to let myself feel through my veins. “Who would have told him?” Only a handful of people know about my supposed quantum intuition and I trust all of them. Except for Nash… I grimace. “Besides, I’m not that special.” Even though I’ve seen my brain scans and have been practicing trusting my intuition, I still have trouble believing there’s anything quantum about my abilities.

“Give yourself some credit, Ellie. You just robbed the Warhol. By yourself.”

“But you had to save me.” I scrunch up my face. “I can’t believe you stood up to Kyran like that.”

“I’d never let anything happen to you.” His eyes stay trained on mine. “But I knew he wouldn’t shoot.”

“How?”

Licking his lips, he takes a deep breath, like he’s deciding how to explain. “I ran a probability analysis and decided the odds were in our favor. Between accidentally having shot his sister when he was a kid and his terrible aim, I decided he wouldn’t pull the trigger. He’s a pickpocket, not a marksman.”

“A probability analysis?” I raise my eyebrows.

He shrugs. “It’s a hobby.”

There’s something he’s not telling me. I can feel it. But I have no idea what I’m missing. I’m not a hundred percent certain he’s not after the tape, that he’s not trying to manipulate me to get it. I don’t know what to think, so I let it go, filing his weird hobby away for later.

“So, if you’re not after the tape, now what? Is your job done? Are you leaving?”

“Not if you don’t want me to. I’m supposed to go back to Stanford, but I could probably stay undercover for a little while.” His gaze dips to my lips and he leans toward me.

My heart skips a beat. “I need to catch a Hyperloop at six.”

He glances at his watch. “That gives us a few hours—”

“—Maybe we should listen to the tape,” I interject before he can voice any ideas about the best use of our time. Lifting the hem of my dress, I expose my thigh garter and slip the cassette out of its hiding place.

“I like the way you think.” He surveys the length of my body from my thigh to my face, and I shiver. “Do you have a way to play it?”

“No…”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “In that case, are you up for a little breaking and entering?”

His expression almost does me in. My insides hum. The energy sucks in around us and it’s like that night in Simon’s closet when we stole the algorithm. An ache grows deep within me and electricity crackles in the air just like it did the first time he kissed me. The hurricane is coming. The space between us throbs with an unseen force that tows our centers toward each other. His eyes are locked on mine and the current builds, drawing us together with such power, I wouldn’t be surprised if the windows imploded and showered us with glass. My lungs heaving, I clench my stomach muscles against his gravity and it takes everything I’ve got not to tip my face up to his.

His jaw is taut, and I know he feels it, too—but we’re both fighting it. Hot pink. It’s too much. But we have to resist.

“That night, the last time we saw each other,” he whispers. Glancing up at the scrambrella, he thumps his hand over his chest before again meeting my eyes. “It was intense. There was a lot of adrenaline.”

My breath catches in my throat. Oh, boy. Are we really going to talk about this?

“Too much adrenaline.” I nod and I must not be getting enough oxygen to my brain because the room takes on a surreal, overly bright tint. “It was overwhelming.” Certain my cheeks are fluorescent, I dig my fingernails into my palm, hoping the pain will prompt my blood to rush elsewhere. “We can pretend nothing happened.”

For a split second his shoulders visibly tense but they relax so quickly it’s possible I imagined it. “I was going to say, maybe we should slow down—”

“Seriously, we don’t need to talk about it,” I cut him off, so uncomfortable I want to crawl out of my skin. “You don’t need to bring it up. Ever.”

He considers me, his intense stare trying to burn through my layers.

My body temperature spikes, but I keep my guard up, keep my chin tilted toward his, willing him to read my unspoken message and forget the past.

“If that’s what you want.” Leaning back a little, he finally relents.

“It never happened.” I bite my bottom lip, pleading.

His mouth twists and he doesn’t let me off the hook. “But it did.”

“Not anymore.” Holding out my hand, I beg him to seal our agreement, to release the pressure mounting between us.

He clenches his jaw like he doesn’t want to give in, but he grips my hand. His fingers are strong around mine and for a moment I think he’s going to tug me toward him, but then he sighs. “To starting over.”

Even though I realize this might be the last time we touch, I squash the longing to entwine my fingers in his and instead snatch my hand away. I shoot to my feet and cross the room, putting as much distance between us as possible, though the physical space does little to still the humming vibration that envelops us.

Audibly exhaling, he stands and walks to the floor-to-ceiling windows where he peers down at the Allegheny River. “I think we’re close to the Maker District. There’s probably an antique store or junk shop nearby where we can find a tape player. And we should get out of here before Kyran tracks you down. We’ve probably stayed too long already.”

Some of the potential energy dissipates, and happy for the distraction, I smile. Opening the closet, I pull out my catsuit. “How should we break in?”