Page 23 of Violet Spark
Ihadkinda bragged about the number of my followers, but if he checked, then he’d know that I was full of shit. I had maybe a hundred now, although I was sure most had clickedfollowin the hopes that my towel would fall off next time.
There couldn’t be a next time. I hadn’t been thinking before, when Dane had showed up at my work and sparked my stupid stubbornness.
But I seriously had to think now.
First thing first, get in touch with Brayden and find out what this was all about.
Through my phone I messaged him on Discord, left a snap, sent a message to BuggyBear27 just in case the kid had a way to contact SunSummoner IRL. But Arjun was probably in AP Calc or something, so I didn’t expect an immediate response.
I called BantaMatrix’s main number and was forwarded to Brayden’s voicemail. I left a message there too. Felt pointless to do so, but what the hell.
He’d said he was going on a business trip. Which meant that his company would know where he was and how to get ahold of him. I just needed the admin assistant who’d made Brayden’s travel arrangements.
I touched BantaMatrix’s address on my phone, and it mapped immediately for me. Forty-seven minutes via the 202 to the 10.
Dane had broken into my house and he may have ransacked Brayden’s. I had to dosomething.
Now that I knew what Dane was capable of, I couldn’t leave the gloves here. Darting my hand under the mattress, I groped around… Oh shit, what if he’d—Got em!
I dropped the right glove on my bed and stuffed the crumpled fabric of the left into my back pocket. It better not blow up in there.
Creeping out of my bedroom and down the hall, I waited until I was at the front door to holler, “Mom! I’m going back to work.”
“Imogen—”
“See you tonight.” I ducked out without waiting for her to make her way toward me.
On the drive, I called Swann. We never left voice messages for each other—only old people do that—but this time I made an exception. I began with, “In the event that I should disappear or die, it was not an accident.” And it went downhill from there as I relayed the convo with Black Suit Guy, aka Raymon Dane. It all sounded dramatic as hell. Too dramatic to be real. Saying it out loud made the whole thing sound stupid.
Whatever. Swann and I could laugh about it later.
BantaMatrix looked like any boring, three-story business in white stucco, with a big, flat parking lot exposed to the sun. Lucky people—C suite multimillionaires, probably—got the few covered spots near the entrance.
But inside, whoa. The all-white atrium was tall and glossy-modern with a wall of falling water that seemed to come from the sky. The space was wide, but sound didn’t echo. In fact, it seemed to hush. Made me feel like I was in a church.
The receptionist at a long, white knife of a desk smiled at me. She had gauges in her lobes, a headset in an ear, and her shiny black hair was in some anime-styled knots on top of her head. “Can I help you?”
“Uh. Yeah,” I said, stepping up. I had my story ready this time. “I’m trying to contact Brayden Price, who works here. I know he’s on a business trip, but there’s been a family emergency and I can’t seem to get through to his phone. I was hoping you could give me the name of his hotel or if you can’t do that, get someone from here to reach him and tell him to call me on an urgent matter.”
“I’d be happy to help,” she said. “Give me a moment to contact his team and I’ll see what I can find out for you. Can I have your name?”
“Imogen Taylor,” I said.
“And you are…family?”
“I’m his girlfriend.” BSG had pushed me way past any kind of humiliation saying so would bring.
She touched her headset. “I’ll be just a moment.”
I nodded and stepped away. A flatscreen was doing some kind of silent commercial with smiling families, a young kid clasping hands with an old man, a gay couple, then a basket of calico kittens. Cuter than Gwumpki, even before the tail scorch. But I had no idea what the fuck they were selling. The image dissolved to reveal a video of a middle-aged woman boldly staring into a super blue sky. Her dark gray pixie cut looked too polished to be anything but dyed.
“Adley Ruskin is a visionary,” a male voice said behind me.
I turned, startled.
The man smiling at me exuded health and youth, but the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes said he was older. He wore slim-cut pants and a shirt cut to look like a conventional tee but was way nicer than any tee I’d ever seen.
“Our founder, she’s going to revolutionize nanotechnology,” he continued, gesturing toward the flatscreen. “Her work will create a lasting legacy of global sustainability and renewable energy, and I am honored to be a part of it.” He held out his hand to me. “Greg Alling, Brayden’s team leader.”
