I turned to Adrianne.
On button?
My mind circled back to the morning, my walk-through, the prototype. PrydeTek’s technological advances put to use…
The skin on my arms tingled. Only the bottom half of Emily’s glowing amber irises, edged in deep brown, showed beneath the sweep of her lashes—but I couldn’t help feeling like the doll was watching me.
This woman could walk and talk? And what else? And why?
Mrs. Blake answered the question that had begun to shape in my mind before I could ask. I didn’t want to ask.
“That’s right, Lana. She can do everything a real woman can.”
She nodded at the disbelief in my face and stretched out the syllables in the next word she spoke:
“Everything.”
Chapter 7
My mind still buzzing with questions, I didn’t realize how hungry I was until my mouth watered at a bouquet of sizzling burgers, caramelized onions, and sautéed peppers.
After about all the technology my mind could process in one day, I had decided to take Kat up on her offer to meet for dinner at Mr. Bartley’s Burger Cottage in Harvard Square. I skimmed through an almost overwhelming variety of seven-ounce burgers with names that were puns, heavy on the blue cheese and loaded with artery-clogging toppings, and settled on the “Fiscal Cliff,” with onion rings.
“How did you make out today, Kat?”
Katherine sighed and settled back into her chair, sipping soda from a cafeteria-style plastic tumbler.
“I’m just not getting much of anywhere on the murders,” she answered.
“Still nothing new from police?” I debated whether, or even how, to tell her about my adventures.
“No,” she answered. “Talked to Davies today. They’re looking at connections between the victims, potential money trails. Nothing noteworthy has turned up.”
“Nothing at all?”
Then Kat grinned.
“Oh, yeah. One noteworthy item to report.”
I waited and then gestured for her to keep going. “Well, what?”
“He asked me about you.”
I laughed. “You tease.”
I waited until we’d both enjoyed the first few juicy bites of burger before I went back to the murders.
“I made a little progress today, digging around on Eric Blake.” I threw it out there, eyeing my friend for her reaction.
“Did you?”
She looked excited. Thank God.
“Who did you call?” she asked me.
“I went to his company’s headquarters, and then his home—well, his former home. He and his wife had split.”
“Look at you, knocking on doors. I told Tim you were a go-getter.”
I couldn’t hold back a wide smile. That was a compliment, from someone like Kat.
“What did you find?”
I told her about the little guy from this morning at PrydeTek—and the doll at my last stop.
“This is bizarre—I know—but I got the feeling she was watching me,” I said, still processing the experience myself. “And I don’t think she liked what she saw.”
Kat’s mouth dropped.
“Wait, wait, wait.” She shook her head. “First, of all, who the hell wouldn’t like you? And second, you mean—like—a sex doll?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“I guess,” I answered, lowering my voice. “That’s what the wife meant, right? What else does a forty-something businessman need with a life-sized, naked doll sprawled out on a chaise longue, surrounded by lingerie?”
“Wow, talk about a skeleton in the closet.” Kat couldn’t resist the joke.
I chuckled, and Kat watched my face for a second.
“Had to be a weird day for you,” she said.
“Weird, creepy, and maybe a little…sad, too,” I said. “I know that sounds silly.”
“No, it doesn’t. Little Alex sounds lovable.”
“I guess that’s what they were going for—or ‘likable,’” I said, thinking back to the engineer’s description. “But can’t they do the shoving-around testing on models that don’t have emotions built in yet?”
“No kidding,” Kat said. “That and the sex doll tell a lot about Eric Blake’s character. What a hog. His wife wasn’t enough. The other women weren’t enough, so what does he do? He makes his own woman—one who can’t say no.”
We were quiet for a minute, people-watching. It was mostly students around us—groups of four or five sharing stories and a few solo, reading and sucking down iced tea or lemonade.
“So…did Emily spook you enough to get you to stop chasing down robots?” Kat asked.
“Hell, no. I think I’m getting somewhere,” I answered, examining Kat’s reaction for any hint of offense. “I just don’t know where yet.”
I finished the last of my onion rings, worry still gnawing at me.
Just ask her.
“Kat, are you okay with me poking around on this story? I don’t want to be wandering too far into your territory.”
Kat gave me a “come on, girlfriend” look.
“We’ve got to get this story nailed down,” she said. “This could be a good breakthrough story for you here. And somebody’s got to keep the guys in the office on their toes. I’d prefer if it were my shadow for the week—my new partner in crime.”
With a toast of our sodas, I had the green light.
Chapter 8
Sandra
As soon as she heard the key turn in the lock, Sandra slipped from the king-sized comforter’s satin squares in a frantic race for the door. She straightened her powder-blue teddy over her hips and smoothed her hair in a full-length mirror near the entryway, ready to greet the person whose return she anticipated every day.
Allen was home from work.
Sandra was in her place, primped and pretty.
And he shoved right past her.
“Allen, you’re home.”
Trying to adjust to his mood, Sandra spoke cautiously to his broad shoulders.
“No shit.” It was almost a grunt.
Allen slipped off his coat and tie, throwing them over the arm of a settee. He walked toward a liquor cabinet in the kitchen as he unbuttoned his shirt. Ice clinked in a glass as he poured a drink.
“You can give this to me.” Sandra walked up beside him, carefully taking his shirt to hang in the closet and then picking up the coat and tie along the way.
She was standing by oversized windows when Allen came into the bedroom in his undershirt. He sank into a chair with a tumbler of scotch and polished off the last few swigs while Sandra stared outside, eyelids heavy with longing.
Behind the skyscrapers, the harbor shimmered in the pink-orange hues of dusk. She focused on the buildings and what she could see of the busy streets below. People looked like little dots, rushing down sidewalks. Cars and taxis lined up and zipped through streets like toys.
“Allen,” she said, sweetly. “What’s that building? The one with the gold shapes around the top?”
Allen grunted again, exasperated.
“Do we have to do this every single time?” he said. “You already know. Work was hell. This isn’t what I’m supposed to come home to. I’m not up for this game of yours today.”
“Yes, I know, but I want you to tell me what people do in there.” She pressed both hands against the window.
Slamming his glass onto the dresser, Allen stood furiously. His belt buckle made a thud as it hit the thick carpet.
He grabbed one of her arms by the elbow, but Sandra yanked it back, not ready yet to let go of the pictures in her mind of women and men talking to each other, calling home and packing up from work to enjoy their families. She saw them in her mind on their way home, hurrying to gather around tables in TV commercial perfection—soaking up spilled juice with brand-name paper towels or slicing into chicken seasoned with a blend of Italian spices.
She’d been charging in bed for the past four hours so she could be ready for h
im, for what Allen wanted.
Maybe he would give her five more minutes at her favorite spot. Behind her, Sandra felt the swift kick against her knees. It knocked her flat on her back.
“I told you I’m not in the mood for this game today,” Allen said, his face over hers. “You forget what you are. Go ahead and try to get up yourself, dumbass bitch.”
Sandra didn’t move. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of watching her struggle to pull her body off the floor. Even if she could cry, she wouldn’t have let him see it.
He jerked her up by both her arms until she was tottering on her feet, knees still bent.
Allen stood back, cleared his throat, and enunciated a command: “Sandra, hot talk.”
It was the first time he’d said her name since he came home. It made her head shake, slightly, but activated the response Allen expected.
Sandra rose to standing, slowly. She turned her head to him with a sly smile, batting blue eyes under a headful of loose blond waves.
She pursed her lips in a small pout.
“That’s what you want, baby.” She walked a few steps toward him. “You want me to tell you how bad I want you?”
“Fuck, yes.” His voice was more a rumble now.
Sandra put a hand on each of his shoulders and leaned in like she was going to kiss him.
Instead she gave him a little shove onto the edge of the bed.
“I’ve been thinking about you undressing me all day,” her voice dipped to a whisper as she put her arms around his shoulders, her breasts hovering around his mouth.
“I want you to bend me over and peel my panties off,” she whispered in his ear, then stood, teasing him with flashes of skin and brushes of silk. His breathing became audible.
“Look, Allen, I even picked your favorite color.”
She spun away from him, her bottom level with his face.
Greedily, Allen slipped up the lace edge of her teddy.
“There’s my good girl.”
Sandra gave a little shake of her bare behind. She faced the window again—the world had grown darker now, almost night.
Allen groped and squeezed, and Sandra slapped his hands.
“No, Allen,” she said, pulling away. “You have to unwrap the rest of me first.”
He wrestled her to the bed.
This was the game he wanted to play. She let him win, again.
Chapter 9
Sandra
She waited until Allen’s snoring reached a steady rhythm.
She pulled off a sleep mask and looked around her at the bedroom lit sporadically with flashes from the flat-screen. Allen was out. Her job was finished. She had enough battery left for at least three hours.
She could do anything she wanted, as long as it was within the 1,300 square feet of the condo.
Her first stop was the kitchen. She pulled a spray bottle from a cabinet and gave a healthy prayer plant several mists, touching each of the leaves as she went and cooing words of encouragement.
“I think you’ve grown a little.”
“That feels nice, doesn’t it?”
“Did you miss me?”
She smiled. The night was the best part of her day.
As silently as she could manage, she sneaked back into the bedroom.
The window view was wide open and she was in her favorite perch, though the city was dark and mostly quiet now. Headlights moved below, but it was hard to make out the shapes of any people. She could see them in her mind, though.
Allen’s magazines were piled on a chair nearby. By moonlight, she turned to the advertisements, studying the models’ expressions and their paused interactions.
She lingered, examining the glossy pages and looking out over the city, until the moon had started its descent again.
It was time to go back to bed, and recharge.
Propped against pillows, Sandra closed her eyes and let her mind slip back to a video stream of her most precious memory: the day she made it outside. It was the one she replayed most often, even though she knew the ending. She couldn’t help herself.
It was the middle of the day. She had made it to a lobby, where a wall of glass was the only obstacle between her and life outside. She fell in line with a group of five or six headed out the lobby doors.
She escaped unnoticed—no Allen, no Elliott. No one was behind her. She was anonymous. Not Sandra the doll or Sandra the robot. Not even Sandra. Just another woman on the street, doing errands, going to work or just walking.
The sidewalks were magical, teeming with people.
Sunshine glowed around her and all the other people on the city street—most of them in a rush, brushing past her and talking into phones, and a few others moving more leisurely in pairs. A cool breeze tempered heat rising from the pavement, and sounds came from every direction.
In the crowd, Sandra caught the eye of a little girl, dressed in a yellow top with scalloped sleeves, and recognized curiosity in her face, a sense of wonder. It was the first time Sandra had ever seen a child in person. This one was barely four years old, leaning against her mother’s jeans and holding one of her hands.
Staring at Sandra, the girl brushed whispers of hair from her forehead with a dimpled hand and gave a chubby-cheeked smile.
She felt something—Is that envy?—looking at the mother, mindlessly pulling her daughter’s hand, urging her to hurry. They passed Sandra, and she turned around, following a few steps behind them. Sandra didn’t know where they were going, where she was going. Just anywhere.
Sandra tried to soak in as much as she could as they walked a few blocks to a green space, one where a few other toddler-aged children were loose while mothers sat on park benches. Most of them looked at their phones. Why would you watch anything besides these children’s faces? Like Sandra, the little girl in yellow was drawn instantly to the flowers—baby pink impatiens and clusters of pansies in white, velvety purple, and golden yellow—in a landscaped barrier along the edge of the park.
The girl’s mother kept warning her to keep away from the flowers. Don’t touch.
If I were her mother, we’d touch every one, the petals and the leaves. That’s how we’d spend our days. We’d grow a whole garden full of them, every kind.
It was there, lost in the moment—the joy of children playing and rows of growing, blossoming plants—that Sandra must have gone wrong. She stayed in one place too long.
This is where Sandra wanted to shut down the recording.
But the panic sneaked up on her so quickly. She felt like all she could do was ride it out. She kept telling herself it wasn’t real, it wasn’t happening now. But it felt so real. All the same responses snapped through her body.
It started with the sound of steps.
She recognized the pang of alarm, one that told her legs to run when she heard the urgent footsteps. She had started moving as soon as she’d turned her head and seen them. Behind her were Allen, a man she knew as Elliott, and other men she didn’t recognize, but she knew exactly why they were sprinting.
They had come for her.
The mothers on the benches looked up as she raced past. Cars honked and screeched as she dashed across a busy street, and then another, and another. Soon she was cornered, surrounded on all sides. Pushing hard, she tried to fight back, knew she was stronger. But she was outnumbered. The stampede created such confusion in a mind programmed for survival that she couldn’t tell how many.
She swung her arms, tried to break free from their grip, but it only made it worse. They were so angry.
One blow.
A second.
A third.
Even after she was on her back, they struck her with their hands and feet. It kept going until the world of flowers and sunshine was nothing but brick walls and the shadow of furious men obstructing most of the sky—and then absolute darkness.
That was the end.
Clenching her hands in fists, Sandra forced her eyes open.
She was still in bed, Allen
beside her. She was charging, but it felt like pulsing, something throbbing inside her. Of all the emotions she’d been programmed to learn, this one was the most palpable, the most real: fear.
Chapter 10
At the last door in a long, polished granite corridor, I hesitated.
The high-rise hallway, deserted during the workday, made me feel almost claustrophobic. This was different from knocking on a door in broad daylight—and I was beginning to distrust anyone connected to PrydeTek.
But I’d come this far, had pried this address from an Internet deep dive on PrydeTek’s employees and some public records I hoped were up to date. And I only had about forty-five minutes left of my lunch break left for snooping.
I knocked.
No answer.
I tried again. Nothing.
This might have been a stupid idea anyway.
For the satisfaction of knowing I’d done all I could, I gave a final tap. I’d just started to step away, almost relieved that I was unsuccessful, when I heard the door open, inch by inch.
Behind it, a woman—a knockout blonde—stood, head tilted.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” I said. “I’m just looking for Allen Green.”
The woman clearly wasn’t ready for a visitor, dressed in almost nothing. Her slip barely covered the tops of her hips, or her full bust.
But she didn’t look embarrassed, just puzzled. She said nothing.
I tried another question.
“Is this the home of Allen Green?” I asked. “I have a second address for him. Maybe this isn’t the right one.”
“Allen lives here sometimes,” she spoke. “He’s not here right now.”
She opened the door wider and gestured behind her.
“I understand. I can come back. Do you know when might be a good time to talk to him?”
She frowned.
“The evenings are when he’s home,” she said. “But he doesn’t like to talk.”
A strange thing to say.
“Well, my name is Lana Wallace,” I said, extending my hand and taking a step forward. “I’m interested in talking to him about PrydeTek. If you could let him know—”