“Obviously,” he says in a tone that says he’s enjoying my discomfort way too much. “What are you drinking?”
“I’m holding a rum and Coke. I’m not actually drinking anything. You want?” I offer it up and he takes it with a shrug.
“Sure. Thanks.” He takes it and sips delicately. We lean back against the bar shoulder to shoulder and face the crowd. “How are you?” he asks without looking at me. “Captain America tells me troublesome things.”
Troublesome. Yes. “I’m …” My eyes well but I blink furiously. It’s far too crowded, too exposed. A flashbulb goes off in my face and I wince.
“What the hell, man?” Obadiah takes a step forward and the offending photographer shrinks away.
“Sorry,” the guy mutters.
“No flash photography until the show,” Obadiah yells after him. He turns to me. “Sorry. You all right?”
“Yeah I’m fine. I just … I wish I could get out more. I miss the orphans.”
If he notices the hitch in my voice, he doesn’t comment. We go back to scanning the crowd. “I know. But we all appreciate you being careful. And we understand when you have to stay away.”
“I don’t know if staying away is still the best option,” I say.
Something in my voice finally alerts him. He shifts his gaze to me and his eyes narrow. “Oh, Lord. I know that look.”
“What look?”
“The look of imbecile determination that always precedes you putting yourself at risk,” he says.
“I do not … Always,” I amend when he send me a withering look. “We’re all at risk. Just getting out of bed every morning is a risk.” Ida shouldered my risk. I bite back the urge to cry.
“I don’t know.” Obadiah winks, an attempt to humor me. “I would think with a security guard boyfriend like yours, even lying in bed is a pretty naughty risk.”
My cheeks flame pink. For a mortifying moment, I wonder if he knows something. He just laughs and shakes his head at me. “You’re way too easy to heckle.”
I mumble at him to shut up again and then stare at the room until my blush fades.
We watch the dancers for a while. Dresses and skirts in an array of colors swirl and spin until the entire dance floor looks like a moving tie-dyed painting. It’s pretty—if you don’t know what sort of evil and uncaring lies underneath the layers of fabric.
Beyond the dance floor, there is movement on the stage. The orchestra fills only one side of the raised platform. On the other side, several important-looking men have gathered in a circle, all with snifters in hand. Their expensive suits and matching shoes shine underneath the bright stage lights. I recognize one of them as Senator Whitcomb, Obadiah’s father. I’m fairly certain the others are all members of some cabinet or another. As I watch, Titus climbs the side stairs and joins them, patting Senator Whitcomb on the back as he smiles a predator’s greeting to them all.
The entire thing makes my skin crawl. “Who’s that man?” I ask, pointing to the man beside Obadiah’s father. He is handsome in that same polished way Titus has. His salt and pepper hair is combed back in a slick and charming sort of way. His expression is open and when he smiles, it’s a disarming sort of welcome. I can see it in the response of the other men. They gravitate toward him.
“Are you serious?” Obadiah asks. “That’s Jeremiah Douglas. How do you not know that by now?”
“Douglas?” I frown. “That’s Taylor’s dad.”
“Duh. Are you living under a rock? Oh, right, yes. Yes you are.”
He’s right, I should’ve known Taylor’s dad by now. But Titus has me so cocooned away that I don’t. I stare at the men on the stage with a strange, unsettled feeling in my gut. “Things are changing, Obadiah,” I say quietly.
“Of course they are. It’s the circle of life.” His joke falls flat when he sees my face. I don’t turn away from the group of men. It’s too riveting. I don’t know what they’re planning, but it feels important. This entire night feels important. A crossroads. A gathering storm.
Obadiah’s eyes are on me, searching. “What is it? What happened?”
“What did your dad tell you about tonight? About why all the reporters are here?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He shrugs. “It’s a Presidential campaign party. I just figured it was normal.”
“Is anything normal anymore?” I say, forcing my eyes away from the stage. His face is familiar and gentle and a reminder that he is unconditionally on my side.
“What is it, Ven? What happened?” he asks again.
The words die in my throat. I can’t explain without also hurting him. “It’s nothing,” I say finally. The bartender catches my eye. I nod once to signal for a second drink. Obadiah is clearly unconvinced but he lets it go. I exhale and when the next drink is placed in my hand, I set to work draining it.
It seems pain is the theme of all human interaction. For once in my life, I don’t want it.
By the third drink, Obadiah convinces me to dance. He’s asked me a hundred times to tell him what’s wrong but I don’t. I won’t. Not when it will cause only more pain. But I will dance. And continue the ruse. Until there’s an end.
We’ve just made it to the edges of the dance floor when the orchestra stops. Instruments in hand, they leave their seats and exit the stage.
“Showtime,” Obadiah mutters. I scan until I find where he’s looking. The huddle of men Titus was speaking to when we left are now dispersed. Two of them remain on the stage, facing the crowd. One of them holds a microphone and seems to be waiting for the room to quiet.
I scan the faces below the stage and find Titus among a small crowd standing near the stairs. His head is bent toward Taylor’s dad in some private conversation. Lines crease the edges of his mouth in a decided frown. His shoulders are set and his hands are fisted at his sides. I’ve never seen him show such outward aggression in public.
Obadiah’s hand slips under my arm, guiding me away. He leans close. “Let’s find somewhere more discreet to observe,” he whispers.
I let him lead me, unsteady on my own feet. At the back of the room, he holds out a chair at one of the empty dining tables. Both the table and chairs are draped in heavy white covers. I scoot in close, using the tablecloth as a blanket covering for my bared legs.
I twist the lace on the hem of my dress nervously and wait.
The man with the microphone taps it twice and raises it to his mouth. “If I could have your attention, please? Thank you for your patience while we wait for some technical difficulties to be sorted with some members of the media.” He smiles a plastic politician smile.
Murmurs of hushed conversations circulate.
Anxiety builds, a tower of blocks being stacked in the center of my abdomen. I look at Obadiah. He smiles tightly back at me.
I scan the room for Linc but he’s nowhere to be found. Probably huddled behind some shrub or another. I can feel him here somewhere and that puts me slightly more at ease. Although, I have a feeling whatever’s coming next is something even he can’t shield me from.
I try to breathe normally and avert my gaze from any curious glances. A waiter approaches with a tray of filled champagne flutes. “A drink, miss?” he asks.
“Yes, thank you.” I take the offered glass and sip the fizzy liquid.
The speakers buzz with low feedback and then abruptly go silent. The man onstage leans down to speak with someone below. He nods and raises the microphone again. “I think we’re ready,” he announces.
The crowd claps—out of impatience, I think.
“Who is that man?” I ask Obadiah.
“The one with the mic?” Obadiah asks. I nod. “Lucas Snidd. Executive assistant and press secretary to the President. Also, world’s biggest brown-noser.”
“What’s a brown-noser?” I ask.
“A suck-up.” At my blank look, he shakes his head. “Never mind.”
The clapping dies away and the man onstage, Lucas Snidd, raises his microphone and continues. “I want to thank you all for coming tonight. We’re very excited to share our announcement with you. But first, we’re honored to hear from a very important man. Please welcome the Director of Homeland Security, Mr. David Bruno.”
Everyone claps as the microphone is handed to the second man on stage. He smiles, revealing two front crooked teeth, and raises a hand in acknowledgment of the applause. It dies off faster than before. People are antsy.
“Thank you all and welcome. As Mr. Snidd said, we are excited to share our announcement with you, but first, I’d like to talk to you about the security of your personal identity. It’s an issue that bears a larger look and, at Homeland Security, we’re all about the big picture. Security for the whole of our nation.”
Obadiah snorts.
Mr. Bruno continues, “As many of you know, over the past eighteen months, identity fraud on a person-to-person basis has become one of the most prolific crimes leading up to the financial crash. A trigger, if you will. It became not only more prevalent in those years leading up, but also more high-tech and more complex to circumvent. Our nation, as well as many others, has been a hard-hit target. Even after the crash, identity theft is still a major problem in our society. Some of the culprits are foreign, but more and more often since the crash and subsequent financial rebuild, many of these crimes have been committed domestically.
“We’ve been unable to track many of the perpetrators simply due to their own financial ineptitude. To be frank, most of these perpetrators are homeless to begin with, making it harder to track them down.” His top lip curls slightly when he says this and a ripple of nasty agreement makes its way across the crowd. My mouth tightens and I force my expression to remain blank.
Amid the voices he booms into the microphone, “It has to stop.”
The crowd hushes, waiting to hear what he’ll say next. The thread of worry that has been weaving its way through my organs and deeper into my gut tightens.
“Twenty-six months ago, a group was formed. It was an unofficial meeting of like-minded men. All of whom are in a position and with resources at their disposal to help forward our mission. As a unit and a government, we understand we can’t hope to stamp out any and all threats—at least not yet. The collective mission and immediate goal of the group formed is to eradicate
opportunity
. By making it more difficult for these perpetrators to successfully steal identities, we increase their chances of mistakes, thereby increasing our opportunities for capture. It is with great satisfaction that I stand before you tonight and tell you, we believe we’ve found a way to do that, thanks to the help of Titus Rogen.”
Mr. Bruno steps back and hands the microphone to Mr. Snidd. The crowd erupts in applause. Through the haze of my own growing dread, I hear a few whistles near the front. Probably the media. The rest of this group is too stiff to whistle.
A few reporters turn and point their camera in my direction. I smile and wave with a dainty twist of my wrist, averting my eyes against the flashes.
Segregation. Is this what Taylor was talking about? Is it happening now?
A hand closes over mine and I smile at Obadiah. “You okay?” he asks for the millionth time.
I nod absently and sip my drink.
Obadiah doesn’t buy it. I didn’t expect him to. He leans closer, his voice hushed. “Look, it’s government. I’ve been neck-deep in it my whole life. If there’s one thing I know about government, it’s that it takes forever,” he says, drawing out the last word. “Stop worrying. We’ll beat them to the punch and they won’t know what hit ‘em.” He pats my hand and slides away before I can argue.
I tell myself he’s right. To calm down. To breathe.
I scan for Linc again—it would be better if I could see him—but I can’t find him anywhere.
On the stage, Mr. Snidd takes his place in the spotlight and speaks into the microphone. “Thank you very much, Mr. Director.” He tosses an approving smile at Mr. Bruno and returns his attention to the group near the base of the stage. “Now, before we reveal our action plan, we’ll open the floor up for just a few questions.”
Dozens of hands shoot into the air and wriggle back and forth. It reminds me of clips of music concerts I saw once on television. Mr. Snidd points at one of them and the hands go down.
“Do you have a name for this group?” the reporter asks.
“Yes,”Mr. Snidd answers, looking pleased someone asked. “It’s called the AIP. The Alliance for Identity Protection. Next question?”
Mr. Snidd moves on to the next reporter with a quick arm and Obadiah snorts.
“What?” I ask.
“They call themselves AIPs? Seriously?” He shakes his head. “They make it way too easy.” At my blank expression he adds, “AIPs … As in, monkeys? Get it?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
Obadiah clucks his tongue. “They left a sense of humor out of the made-to-order DNA request, huh?”
“I have a sense of humor,” I shoot back, my chin rising at the insult. The urge to be Raven is strong; the jabs come easy with her. Obadiah’s brow shoots up and I can’t help myself. “For example, I think your haircut is hilarious.”
He reaches up to smooth his shiny onyx hair. “What’s wrong with my haircut?”
Guilt washes over me and my mouth twitches at the easy way he flusters. Just like Ida. A lump forms in my chest. “Nothing. Now, whose sense of humor is missing?” I say, but the bite has gone out of my voice.
Obadiah scowls and turns back to the show.
“… and these are just a few of the cases in which high-traffic identity theft has become commonplace in our society. We’re committed to stopping it by whatever means necessary. Otherwise, our entire population could be infiltrated by imposters and we wouldn’t even know it.”
Behind me someone snorts before it turns quickly to a cough. I search for the person who made it and almost miss him. He’s leaning against the wall between a large, leafy shrub in a pot bigger than my dresser and a serving cart overflowing with dirty dishes and empty champagne flutes. His white shirt almost makes him look like the help. Almost.
And even though I can’t see his eyes through the shadows of where he’s hiding, I know he’s watching me. My skin tingles with awareness.
“All right, hold your questions for now. There will be more time for that in a few moments.” Mr. Snidd smiles at the groans uttered by the media and gestures to someone off stage. “I’d like to introduce the man responsible for the solution we’re all proposing tonight. This is a man who has dedicated his life and career to improving the human condition and life span through science and, well, through his own God-given genius. We wouldn’t be where we are today without him. And so it’s only fitting that he be the one to share the details of this new program with you. Mr. Rogen, if you’ll come.”
Mr. Snidd moves aside and Titus makes his way up the stairs and onto the stage. He takes the microphone in his hand, his knuckles folding around the object in a way that makes my breath hitch. I can’t think past what he did to Ida. All I see are his hands closing over my throat. Or Ida’s. Or the throat of anyone who tries to thwart him. Obadiah, Linc, Lonnie. We’re all dangling so close to the precipice of his wrath with nowhere else to go, no one else—
“Ven?” Linc’s appearance at my side is surprising enough to snap me out of it.
He’s crouched beside my chair, his brows knitting in concern. He’s dropped his hands near his lap but his arm presses lightly against my hip and I’m glad for the contact. “Yes, I’m—I’m fine.”
But he’s not here to check on me. Not really. “They’re calling for you backstage,” he says.
“Oh.”
I rise, wobbly but managing, and follow him out. The crowd parts and then thins until we’re in a narrow hallway far from the glitzy lights and glimmering dresses. Up ahead, I spot men with suits surrounded by more men in black jackets and wired earpieces. Linc stops me before we can reach them. “You’re shaking,” he says.
“Am I?” I bite my lip and tune back into the speech Titus is giving. His voice is muffled by whatever thin walls separate us but the words are clear enough. The second they reach me, every molecule in me jerks to attention.
“The mark we’ve developed is a six-digit code that will be imprinted on the skin. It will identify you and match to a digital file that will include your medical history, your financial records, and countless other records that will make your identity much harder to copy or steal.” Titus pauses to smile. Flashes go off, a picture of smugness. “This is a process and design we’ve spent many months refining. We’ve had the top fashion experts give input toward the design, so don’t worry,” he says, sprinkling laughter into his voice, “It will be as trendy as the spring line, I can assure you.”
There is a pause and Titus allows a question. Despite all the urgings in me to run, I inch closer, needing to hear more.