Feuds (22 page)

“But did they say anything when they called?” Davis pressed. “Look, I'm her friend. I'm not trying to be intrusive. I'm just worried.” The receptionist's expression softened.

“Look,” she said, “I have no idea what the reason is. I'd tell you. Maybe. Her parents just called and said she wouldn't be in anymore, and that they'd like to settle up.”

“Okay.” Still, Davis was reluctant to leave. She felt nauseated. Her pulse was fluttering, a feeling she was almost growing used to. “Okay, sure.” She turned to leave, then whirled back, desperate.

“Can you check on one more for me?” she asked. “Nadya Benedict?”

“
Nadya Benedict, Record Locator,
” the girl said into the machine. When it beeped a second later, she leaned closer, narrowing her eyes. “No locker sign-up today,” she said curtly, frowning again.

“Tomorrow?” Davis pressed.

“Look,” the receptionist said, avoiding Davis's eyes. “I've already given you enough information, okay? I'm really not supposed to reveal records. Confidentiality and all. You get it.” Her voice was firm, and Davis knew she'd pushed as far as possible.

“Thanks for your help.”

The heavy glass doors slid open to the manic, harried sidewalk scene that she felt certain she'd never get used to.

If Cole was right about the Priors and their brutality, couldn't he also be right about why they were all dying? Maybe it wasn't Imp rioting and violence and murders at all. Maybe they really
were
just getting sick. Maybe none of it was a coincidence.

Her trembling hands.

Her dizziness.

Her wan complexion.

Her
fear.

Nadya was missing and Emilie had been absent from school for a week. Davis knew she had to find out the truth. She hopped back on the monorail, but exited two stops sooner than she normally would have if she were heading home. Emilie lived on Temple Street, among the fanciest high-rises in all of Columbus. Still, as Davis registered her P-card at the entrance and stepped onto the imposing elevator within Emilie's building, she couldn't help reflecting on how different the atmosphere felt compared to the night of the party.

The building was eerie and cold rather than glamorous. Davis's footsteps echoed loudly in the marble-and-glass corridor as she exited the elevator at the penthouse floor—not the rooftop, this time—and walked toward Emilie's family's unit. A large indoor courtyard rose up just beyond an iron gate that bordered the corridor, and it spanned the distance between the elevator and the penthouse door. It boasted a tree house, a small pond, three willow trees lining the pond, and a variety of flowers bordering a grassy expanse with benches to recline on. Sunlight streamed through the glass ceiling above, and butterflies even fluttered around, alighting on hydrangeas. Despite its impressiveness, it looked so different now, in the light, as opposed to the night of the party. It was empty; where her friends had been, now there was no one.
No Cole.
She felt his absence as painfully as she might a physical blow. Every part of her wanted another kiss like the one they'd had that night. She'd replayed the memory so many times that it was almost as if she could conjure the actual feelings of his lips on her cheek, her jaw, her throat. But it wasn't quite enough; she needed more.

There was something eerie in the memory of the party, in the way she could practically picture everyone milling about. The night of the party, she realized, was the last time she felt oblivious, safe, and comfortable. She couldn't believe the worries that had occupied her thoughts that night—her outfit, her jealousy, her insecurity. It all seemed so trivial now.

It was too quiet in the courtyard. Frighteningly quiet.

Emilie's parents were involved in film and finance, and they were one of the most prominent families in Columbus. Davis had never been to their home without encountering a bustle of staff: cinematographers, personal assistants, trainers, chefs, maids. But now, as she rang the doorbell, the ringing sound wasn't covered by the din of chatter and business like usual. It was eerily silent. So silent that Davis thought maybe they'd gone on vacation, and she was flooded with relief for a brief second. That would explain everything. She felt her heart lifting and turned to leave, angling back toward the elevator through the courtyard rather than the marble path.

“Hey,” a tiny voice said just as she was passing the tree house. Davis looked around without seeing anyone; then a little girl dropped down from the tree house, bypassing the ladder altogether.

“Hi,” Davis said. “You must be Kira.” She'd heard Emilie talk about her little sister, but she'd never met her before now. Kira nodded in response, a solemn expression crossing her pretty features.

“Who are you? Are you my mom's new assistant?”

“No,” Davis said. “I'm a friend of Emilie's. Is she here?” Davis was confused—clearly the family wasn't on vacation, because they'd never have left Kira. So where was everyone?

“No,” Kira told her, looking at the ground. She looked like she was about to say more, but then she clamped her mouth shut.

“Well … what about your parents? Are they here? Do you know when Emilie will be back?” Davis could sense from the little girl's reluctance to talk that she knew
something,
and she was determined to figure out exactly what that something was.

“My dad's at work,” Kira said. “Mommy's resting. We're supposed to be quiet.”

“And Emilie?”

“She's … gone,” Kira said, then turned back toward the tree, putting one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. A jolt of familiar panic clawed its way up Davis's chest.
Gone where?

“Wait!” she said, more sharply than she'd intended. The little girl turned back toward her, her braids flopping from her shoulders to her back. Her face read both sadness and fear, two emotions Davis had never seen combined in a kid so young. Davis took a step toward Kira and knelt next to her, smiling. The girl reminded her a little bit of Fia, and Davis found herself tugging on one of her braids the way she might have with her sister. Kira smiled a little, but it wasn't enough to cover up her worried expression.

“Can you tell me where she went?” she asked. “Is she okay?”

“Mommy says I'm not supposed to talk about it,” the girl replied. She shook her head hard. “I've got to go. I'm not allowed to talk to you.” Then she clambered back up the ladder.

“Kira!” Davis called out again, but the little girl disappeared into the wooden structure. The front door to the penthouse cracked open at the same time.

“Kira, who's there?” a female voice called out, sounding strained. Davis didn't wait to hear Kira's answer. She strode toward the elevator bank and jabbed at the
down
button with her index finger. The doors slid open immediately and she stepped in, fighting a wave of dizziness as the elevator descended. She had to go to Nadya's next. She had to know that Nadya was okay.

The Benedicts lived about two and a half miles from Temple Street, and Davis ran the whole way there. When she arrived, she was sweaty and out of breath. It was the second time that day she'd felt out of breath, and it wasn't fun. She wasn't used to feeling that way—she was in perfect cardiovascular condition. She berated herself for not doing regular workouts that week. She'd obviously fallen out of shape. She'd just have to work harder. She was fine. She'd be perfect after a few extra workouts … at least she hoped. She wasn't certain of anything anymore. Nothing about her life resembled the way it had been just a few weeks ago … and everyone seemed to be ignoring that. The disappearances were happening, things were falling apart. If only she could dance, maybe she could hold everything together. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with her sleeve and retrieved a lip gloss from her ballet bag. She wanted to look presentable when approaching the house—not like some straggler from the streets. She slicked on some gloss and squared her shoulders, making her way toward the small gatehouse that was positioned at the end of the driveway of the modest, three-story house.

The Benedicts, both lawyers, lived in one of the historic neighborhoods in Columbus—on an actual tree-lined street with houses that were considered quaint but generally not highly sought after because they lacked staff and some of the more modern comforts of the luxury towers.

The house was small but pretty, fashioned in a British bungalow style, with a front balcony running across the perimeter of the second story. Davis knew where the security gate was from all the times she'd ridden home with Nadya when they were kids—playing in the backyard after ballet and eating snacks that her mom made for them. The guard on duty was an Imp. She stopped in her tracks, an automatic wave of fear rushing through her. Then she took a breath and kept going; he hadn't noticed.

“Hi,” Davis said to him in an even tone through the speaker unit on the side of the guardhouse. “I'm here to see Nadya Benedict, please. I'm Davis Morrow.”

“Ms. Benedict isn't available,” the guard said without looking up.

“Is she ill?” Davis asked. “I'd really like to see her.” Thinking fast, she added, “Her mother asked me to drop off the ballet slippers she left at the studio.” She gestured toward her ballet bag with what she hoped was a convincing manner.

“Ms. Benedict is not accepting visitors,” the guard said, his voice terser this time. “And I highly doubt she'll need whatever's in that bag,” he muttered to himself.

“Why is that?” Davis asked, challenging him. The guard looked up, meeting her eyes for the first time since they'd begun speaking. His eyes were blank, expressionless.

“Because she won't be coming back to ballet,” he said. Then he reached up and flipped a switch that turned off the microphone system. The tinted glass window turned a murky black, cutting off Davis entirely.

She walked back to the monorail in a daze.
She won't be coming back,
he'd told her.
I'm not supposed to talk about it,
Kira had said. Davis pictured the bodies she'd seen only a couple of days before. She pictured those bodies with Nadya's and Emilie's faces. She felt nausea roll through her, but she swallowed a few times and willed it to pass.

The monorail was bustling. The usual checkpoints were still being monitored by Prior volunteers, since most of the Imps were on strike. It hadn't been a problem that morning, when the crowds were thin—Davis had barely noticed—but now the Priors' lack of expertise was obvious, and people were getting impatient. Cars were coming in and out of the station half-f and the lines were mounting, since the volunteers were slower and less adept than the usual employees.

As the monorail wended its way past the river toward her neighborhood, she couldn't shake the feeling that a
lot
of gazes were directed at her. Some were curious, some derisive. A couple looked flat-out disgusted. Davis gripped the pole tighter, eager to get off. Maybe it was because she was sweating through her clothes? When she finally reached her stop at Columbus Avenue, Davis stepped from the monorail and started toward her apartment. It was a little chilly, and although she usually didn't feel affected by the chill, this time she had goose bumps. She also felt a bit weak and realized she hadn't eaten in hours. As she passed a newsstand kiosk, she noticed that a crowd had gathered around it. One person looked back and, noticing her, nudged his companion. The other guy turned and openly sneered. A mother walking by with her little boy quickened her pace. Everyone suddenly looked hostile, like an enemy. Like she was the only one on the outside of a secret. She felt herself giving in to the grips of terror, her palms cold and sweaty and her body lighter somehow, less grounded. Had Cole been right about the Priors? What were they hiding? How bad
was
it?

She was overcome by a mounting sense of dread. She edged closer to the newsstand in an effort to scan the digital images that were projected across the front of the counter. Something had to be going on. Was it something with her dad? Had something gone wrong with the campaign? She squinted, craning her neck around a few people in front of her. Then she saw it: her face and Cole's, in profile, as they were locked in an obvious embrace.

Half a dozen images of the same scene were plastered across every single one of the tabloid screens. Some of the images were of them hugging, some worse.

CPM Candidate's Daughter and the Imp
, read one headline.

Lady and the Tramp,
read another.

CPM's “Family Values”?, Prime Minister Candidate a Sham, CPM Candidate's Daughter Rocks Community.
Each of the headlines was more salacious and inflammatory than the last. Davis felt her cheeks heating up and she took a step back, edging out of the crowd. The whispers around her were growing louder and more intense, and several people were pointing at her. One woman spit at her, and flecks of her saliva sprayed Davis's arm.

Davis turned and ran.

She flew past the monorail checkpoint in the opposite direction of the house, her heart pounding and her breath ragged. She couldn't go home. She couldn't face her dad. He would be devastated and furious. Everywhere she looked, there were evil faces. Grimacing, leering, judging. But how had they gotten those pictures? Had Cole been setting her up? No, he couldn't have—this was suicide for him. What if he'd already been arrested? What if he was facing imprisonment or worse?

Davis felt sweat trickle down her forehead and along her breastbone. She felt her back dampen and her breathing grow shallower with every step. She felt sick now, truly sick, as though she could throw up even while running. What was wrong with her?

Davis didn't even think about where her feet were taking her until she reached the bank of the river. She'd been heading toward Cole all along, without even thinking about it—but, of course, it wasn't surprising. She needed answers. The urgency with which she felt she had to see him was overwhelming. All she wanted in the world was to let him know that she had forgiven him. It was time to stop fighting it—it wasn't even within her power. She'd forgiven him because somewhere inside, she knew none of this was his fault. She knew he was her only ally in all of this. She had to warn him; she couldn't
not
. If she didn't, she was as bad as they were, with their secrets and lies.