Page 22 of Regressive

“Stop.” He says. I gape for a moment, then swallow. “You shouldn’t feel shame about your mother. God, she’s probably the only person that lived here that I respect.”

“Excuse me?”

“She had the guts to stand up to my father. She fought for her beliefs.” He sets his eyes on me. “The only thing I blame her for is leaving you here.”

I stare at him, my heart thudding in my chest. No one has said anything positive about my mother in years. Her name is uttered as a curse—a warning, but here is the second most powerful man in Serendee telling me that he respects her. As much as he can respect any female.

As much as I’d like to bask in it, paranoia creeps up my spine. “We shouldn’t talk about this.”

“See,” he runs his hand through his fair hair, “that’s what they tell you to keep us from developing our own ideas. To keep us from the truth. If topics are forbidden then we won’t ask questions and look for answers.”

“What answer do you want?” I ask, feeling the edge of anxiety building. “What possibly can you want to know that involves my mother?”

He leans forward and I catch a hint of his warm, clean scent. It’s alluring and disarming. “I want to find her, Little Lamb, and I want you to help me.”

13

Imogene

Rex’s requesthangs over me like a cloak of paranoia as I go about my work. Part of living in Serendee is never feeling alone. We’re a community. We live together, eat together, work together. Eyes are always on us, but it’s for our own good. It’s how we work to Be Better, knowing someone else is keeping us accountable.

The other things: the training, the extra calories, the bras and panties I wear under my standard dresses, those happen behind closed doors. But looking for my mother’s contact information? That requires stealth and sneakiness.

Rex doesn’t tell me where to look, but I have a good idea of a place to start: The Center.

I arrive early. The only other business open is the coffee shop two doors down. I keep my chin level, forcing myself not to look at the ground or appear suspicious in any way. It’s silly, because no one notices me, but my heart still rattles in my chest as I open the front door and disengage the alarm.

I lock the door behind me, but don’t turn on the light, then carry my belongings to my desk, putting everything away like normal.

I’m obeying my husband, I remind myself.

I am acting at his request.

I am fulfilling my duties as a mate.

This is what I tell myself as I walk down the back hallway to the records room. This room isn’t a secret—the words are written on a plaque outside the door. Records. About every person that walks into this facility. Every person that lives in Serendee.

If there’s information about Beatrice or my mother, it’ll be in this room.

The problem is that no one is allowed in here without permission. I’ve only been in here twice, under the guidance of a male instructor who is tight in Anex’s inner circle. I watched him punch in the code that day, and I stand before the keypad now, hoping it hasn’t changed. Terrified that a slip up will alert someone to my presence.

I am fulfilling my duties as a mate.

I punch in the string of numbers I memorized. Why did I memorize them? Because that is who I am on a basic level, right? Tip toeing in the edge of Regressive. Defiant. Rebellious.

Inhaling sharply, I enter the last number and the keypad lights up, flashing green before the sound of the lock echoes in the empty hall. I enter before I can talk myself out of it and step into the room. It’s the size of a classroom, each wall filled with file cabinets and four rows in between. I walk to the nearest one and pull out the drawer. Just as I remembered it is filled with file folders. Some thicker than others, but each with a name typed across the tab.

I pull out one and see the name Maribel Ashwood. Inside is a single sheet that has her age (19) Residence (Wittmore University) and the date she came in the Center. She took two classes but never returned. There’s a picture of her stapled to the top, along with a few other details like her father’s occupation, net worth and notes jotted by her instructor.

Looks like standard follow up methods were taken, but no one could get her to return. Right before I put her file away, I notice that her first meetings were two years ago. The last documentation on her though was three weeks ago. People are keeping tabs on her long after she lost interest.

The truth is that most people that walk into the Center don’t join our ranks. They take a few classes, learn about Enlightenment but either can’t afford to continue classes, or it’s not a good fit. Not everyone is ready for this lifestyle.

I shut the cabinet door and move down the row, stopping at ‘M.’ I pull the drawer open and pick through the files. My stomach feels like a stampede of elephants is running through it, nausea rolling over me in waves. Once I open this wound, there’s no going back. Not for Rex, not for me.

I am fulfilling my duties as a mate.

I stop at her name. Montgomery. There are three of us, my dad, my mom and me. My father’s file is average for a man who has lived here his whole life. A history of his classes, job service, dedication. I don’t waste time looking into it. Not now. My file is thick—twice the size of my father’s which would have been surprising to me before my Ordering but not now. Anex would have documented every moment of my life once he found out his son wanted me for his mate.

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