Page 24 of Amethyst Flame
Staring at the face of my phone, I waited. Finally got a quick,Doing wardrobe consult for the big proposal can’t chat
She was avoiding the real issue of her showcase, so I made a face but sent her a thumbs up.
Since I wasn’t going out to the Freeze’s front counter and giving any ofthemthe satisfaction and privilege of my presence, I mulishly stared at my phone and felt pitiful. Bored.
Phone in hand, I remembered the vishing call. And my fingertips snapped and crackled with purple sparks.
You don’t know me, but I’m your sister.
Swann would have a take on that.
So would Mom, of course. But old people don’t like to text about serious things. Somehow they need face-to-face energy, which isn’t as good as text, IMO. In text I can say things that I wouldn’t be able to vocalize. Like my throat won’t let me speak the words. And with text, I can also pretend to suddenly have to go. But there is no easy out in a face-to-face, and a high danger of crying. I hate crying.
So I had to stew for a while with the sister mystery. Everyone knows that there’s some database in the sky with all sorts of information about each and every person. That was how politicians tried to sway only certain people and ignore others and why I could, for example, googlehow long after sex can you tell if you’re pregnantand suddenly get pummeled with all sorts of baby registry, maternity bra, and stretch mark remedy ads.
My file in the sky probably included the fact that I was from a broken family, as well as my mobile number. And that was how the vishing girl targeted me.
As if I’d be dumb enough to fall for it.
I’m so not that dumb.
But I stared at the number. A sister.
I’d always wanted siblings, and a sister was my first choice. When I was younger, I’d thought about my sperm donor (who didn’t deserve the labelfather) and whether or not he’d gone on to have a happy little family that didn’t include me, his firstborn.
Idea: I could call the number back and cuss that girl out for her shitty, low-down, dirty scheme. She probably wanted money. That was what they all wanted. Or to steal my identity. Crash my credit (not that I had any) for life. That was some fucking fraud right there.
I googledfraudto check the definition.
Yep. Fraud.
A horn beeped, and I lifted my gaze. Dane had driven around to the drive-thru and was staring at me, sunglasses off, stony expression on. “I’d like to place an order, please.”
I sauntered over and leaned on the window. “Would you dare to drink anything I’d prepare for you?”
He looked at me for a long moment. “Yes, Ms. Taylor, I would.”
I stared back at him for a longer moment. “Fine. What do you want?”
Some muscle in his brow tensed. “Are you okay?”
As if he cared. “I’m just dandy, thanks. Your order, please?”
“What happened?” Yeah, his brow had tensed. Seemed the man was capable of emotion. Or of faking it. Weird. “If something happened today at BantaMatrix, I can protect you. I can get you and your mom to a safe house.”
“Shh!” I glanced over toward the front counter, but Rique wasn’t there. He was outside chatting with Jacob. Oh, so the coast was clear. I came back to the window. “It’s nothing. Or nothing to do with…you know.” Banta. Bugs. Fake boyfriends.
“Then what?”
I debated for a second.Ugh.“Someone called me today saying that they’re my sister. Except I don’t have a sister. I hung up on them, but now I’m wondering.” I arched my eyebrows at him. Give it up, Secret Agent Man.
To his credit, he didn’t make me ask. “Do you have the number?”
I nodded and showed him the contact info…and had the belated thought that the girl might be some evil spy trying to get an in with me by playing the long-lost sister. Oh, that would be sneaky.
“I’ll verify it,” Dane said. “Don’t call her back yet.”
“Verify?” My voice went a little tight. “Like, what do you alreadyknow?”
