Page 29 of The Puppetmaster

She smiles again and walks off without any further comment, seemingly oblivious to my awkward stuttering. This woman may be the closest to a humanoid robot I’ve ever met. There was nothing in her facial expression that could tell me anything about how she really felt about me or this whole endeavor.

Does she know who I am and where I’m going? Is she working for him or for a private jet company?

Oh my God, I feel so stupid for asking these questions, even if it’s just in my head.

I still can’t believe I’m here. I feel so out of place and have been gawking like a little kid ever since the driver picked me up from my apartment. It’s no secret that the Puppetmaster is loaded, though no one knows what he does for a living. But I had no idea he could be this rich…private-jet rich.

It’s by far the smallest plane I have ever been on. Sixteen seats—I counted—and an extra seating area that consists of a sofa with a bar right next to it. I’m the only passenger, which makes it extra awkward, but it allowed me to choose the best seat of all, right next to an unusually large window. It’s so huge that it takes up the space reserved for two or three seats on a regular plane, and it’s so freaking soft that it feels as if I’m being hugged by leathery clouds as we make our way to NYC.

Thank God I wasn’t too shy to accept the stewardess’s offer for some champagne, even though that kind of turned awkward, too. She didn’t just bring me a glass but an entire bottle, which has been resting in an ice bucket right next to me for the entire flight. I was so nervous that I refilled the glass quickly after emptying it, but I soon reached a point when I could feel the booze going to my head—and the bottle reached an embarrassingly low level.

Would they tell him how much I drank? Would anyone accuse me of being an alcoholic and tell the Puppetmaster to reconsider his choice? Do they all work for him and are here to watch me and report back?

Or am I being paranoid?

My pulse speeds when I see the familiar skyscrapers of Manhattan appear out the window. Even from this far away one can see the sparkling tower of the One World Trade Center, peaking above everything else south of the gigantic green lung that is Central Park.

My heart warms at the sight, though I was never aware of harboring any warm feelings toward my hometown. I haven’t been here in years, and that was by choice.

Then again, I’m headed to Manhattan, not Brooklyn. Manhattan was always considered the golden island, the place where people work but don’t live because no one can afford the rent there.

And now I’m not just headed for Manhattan, but for the Upper East Side. I shake my head, as if to say no to the notion, even though it’s true.

I want to free myself of the idea that I don’t belong there, that I don’t deserve to be treated like a princess for even a little bit. But I can’t.

We touch ground and the bump as the plane lands feels like a wakeup punch, allowing for no further daydreaming and pondering as I make my way to meet up with the man who has been haunting my dreams, good and bad.

“Ready?” the stewardess returns to my seat after the plane has come to a halt.

I nod silently, following her gesture to get up and out of the most comfortable seat I have ever had on a flight in my life. I’m a sentimental and grateful person, so I can’t help hesitating before I deplane, caressing the soft leather one more time and glancing around the beautiful plane interior before I follow her outside.

There’s a car waiting for me, another black limousine similar to the one that picked me up from my apartment in Boston. I feel a soft sting in my chest as I think of my sister who had hoped to get to Boston before I left, so we could see each other before I vanish for God knows how long. She couldn’t make it in time because there was still too much for her to take care of before she could leave her old life behind. It’s funny how we both decided to put an unexpected bend in our calm lives at the very same time—and I’m not sure which one of us is the most reckless.

The driver opens the limousine door for me, displaying the same friendly but discreet smile that I saw on the stewardess. It really is the exact same kind of expression, making me wonder whether there’s a training course that teaches that skill.

I slide into the back seat of the limousine, sitting stiff and motionless as the driver takes his seat and starts the engine.

And suddenly, it feels like there really is no way to turn back.

Chapter 19

Raad

I wouldn’t say that I’m nervous waiting for my new puppet to arrive, but there’s an unrest this time that trumps any previous arrangement.

The house feels significantly emptier when Dorota is not around. That’s something I notice every single time, and every single time the impact of her absence baffles me anew. It always comes with mixed feelings at the expression she gives me when I tell her that her services won’t be needed for a while and she can retreat to her own apartment and enjoy a paid vacation until I need her to oversee running the house again.

That’s the excuse I use, a simple necessity for her presence, because I’m either too busy or not around enough to maintain the place. The townhouse has been in my family’s possession since my parents got married. They bought it to make a home here, to build a family and a life together. A life that was cut short by my mother’s sudden death. How my father’s second wife, Nate’s mother, could ever tolerate living here when it was so obvious that my father never got over my mother’s death and thus was unable to leave this place behind is beyond me.

This house has always been theirs—and mine. It’s a constant in my life that remained solid, no matter what was happening to me or my family. The only thing that changed over time was a feline companion I agreed to adopt upon Dorota’s wish. It’s been about five years since she convinced me to take in an abandoned kitten who was meant as a Christmas present for her spoiled niece. The kid had no interest in the cat after it turned out that it was rather aversive to being handled like a dress-up doll.

Dorota took it upon herself to take care of the cat before consulting with me. She brought it to my house, which is also her home for most of the year, and despite my admittedly half-hearted protest, the cat stayed. I’m pretty sure Dorota picked a name for it, but I never bothered to ask. It’s a huge, fat, white Persian cat, and the only reason I was willing to tolerate its company was the fact that it usually keeps to itself and constantly has this aloof, somewhat grumpy-looking expression on its face.

Dorota loves that little fucker, but she still leaves it alone with me whenever I send her on one of her vacations, arguing that the cat’s routine should not be messed up by being taken away from its home.

It trailed off into the garden a while ago, and for all I know, it could be a day or two before I see it again, which is perfectly fine with me.

The time of Alena’s arrival is drawing closer, and with each minute that passes, I find myself moving closer to the front of the house. I leave my usual spot on the terrace, first to retreat to the kitchen, which I then leave to plant myself in the sitting room right next to the main door. I want to know of her arrival before the doorbell announces it.

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