Zoe Cannon: The Torturer's Daughter

She and Heather were safe for now. No one was around to spot them.

There would be no convenient interruptions to save her this time.

What if Heather asked about her parents again?

Heather raised her head, revealing her puffy eyes and smeared makeup. “I can’t do this.”

Becca put an arm around her shoulders. “You did great.”

“Last night Aunt Lydia kept tiptoeing past the door of the guest room, like she thought she was going to catch me calling my dissident friends or something. Every time I heard her footsteps, I thought it was Enforcement. When I tried to go downstairs to get a glass of water, the door was locked. She didn’t unlock it until morning. And then I came here, and everyone…”

Becca’s shoulders tightened at the memory of Laine’s stiff hostility and Anna’s eagerness for a juicy story. “They don’t know anything.”

Heather stared down at the concrete. “They’re my friends. I’ve known Laine and Anna since junior high, and they acted like I was just some dissident. ” She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Everyone thinks I’m a dissident now.”

“I don’t.” She wouldn’t allow herself to doubt Heather. She couldn’t. Not when everyone else, from their friends to Becca’s mom, had turned against her. Besides, she knew Heather too well to think she could be a dissident. So what if her parents were dissidents? Heather wasn’t, any more than Becca wanted to work in Processing like her mom.

“And if people can’t even see that I’m a good citizen, what about my parents?” Heather continued as though Becca hadn’t spoken. “I thought Internal had to realize they’d made a mistake eventually. But if my own friends think I’m a dissident… maybe Internal won’t figure it out after all. Not until it’s too late.”

Becca kept her mouth shut. What could she say? That Internal had been right about Heather’s parents? That they had confessed to passing information to other dissidents? Besides, maybe there was still some other explanation. Couldn’t her mom have… misheard them or something?

Heather stood up. She looked down at Becca, but it was like she was staring through her. “I have to do something.”

Becca motioned her back down. “There’s nothing you can do. If it’s a mistake…” She paused, afraid of the damage even that small amount of doubt could do. “…and it has to be a mistake… Internal will figure it out.” She hated lying. But if she told the truth, she would become just another vulture in Heather’s eyes, and Heather would lose the only friend she had left.

Right. She was just trying to keep from hurting Heather. It had nothing to do with her fear of how Heather might react. What Heather might think of her.

She believed that about as much as she believed Anna and Laine had only wanted to help.

“Do you think you could talk to your mom for me?” Heather’s voice was thready. Her eyes pleaded with Becca. “She’d listen to you. And Internal listens to her. If you can get her to understand that my parents are innocent, they’ll have to do something.”

Now was the time to tell Heather about the conversation she’d already had with her mom. No matter how much it would hurt.

She looked away. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” Coward.

Heather’s face was white, like all her blood had spilled out of her along with her tears. “Then I have to do it.” She turned around and started walking toward the pristine grass.

Becca rushed after her. “Do what?”

Heather didn’t look back. “Make them understand. Tell them they got it wrong.” She didn’t sound like she was talking to Becca anymore.

Becca grabbed Heather’s shoulder and spun her around. “Tell who?” she demanded. “Internal?”

Heather’s eyes were directed toward Becca, but she wasn’t looking at her. “Then they’ll know none of us are dissidents. Not my parents. Not me.”

It had been hard enough for Becca to get in to see Heather—the receptionist had been ready to treat her as a potential threat until she had mentioned her last name. If Heather went to Internal and demanded that they release her parents… after her parents had already confessed to dissident activity… “They’ll arrest you. And then whatever happens to your parents will happen to you. Why would they believe you if they don’t even trust your parents?”

Heather jerked away. She started walking again, quicker this time. “I have to try.”

Becca tried to grab Heather’s shoulder again, but Heather twisted away from her and took off running toward the road.

“Wait!” Becca shouted.

Heather kept running.

There was only one thing that might stop her.

“I’ll talk to my mom,” she called.

Heather stopped.

She made her way back to Becca, step by tentative step. “You’ll make her understand?”

“I’ll do whatever I can.” And she would—no matter how unlikely it was that her mom would listen. Because if this didn’t work, Becca didn’t know what else she could do to keep Heather from going to 117.

She held her breath as Heather considered her offer.

The tension went out of Heather’s shoulders all at once. “Okay. Talk to her.”

“Promise me you won’t go to 117 until I talk to her.”

Another long hesitation. Finally, Heather nodded. “I promise.”

Becca didn’t see her mom that night, or the night after that. She went to bed in an empty apartment, and woke up to find her mom’s sheets rumpled and a frozen dinner missing from the freezer. Same old routine.

A few years ago, her mom had made it home for dinner most nights. But over the years, she had helped make 117 the best processing center in the country—or had done it singlehandedly, the way some people told it. Now, in addition to local dissidents, 117 processed the worst dissidents from all across the country. They came in on windowless trucks in the middle of the night, and disappeared into the underground levels before morning.

Everyone knew about 117. Everyone who worked in Processing wanted the prestige of being assigned there. And the busier the processing center became, the less time Becca’s mom had for anything but work.

On the third night, Becca didn’t bother to wait for her mom before microwaving a frozen dinner for herself. She picked at the rubbery pot roast as she flipped through channels. Some stupid sitcom. That TV movie about the woman who finds out her husband is a dissident. Executions. A cartoon about a talking dog.

The door clicked open.

Her mom stumbled inside, her face tinged with gray. She gave Becca a tired smile. “Becca. It’s so good to see you. You wouldn’t believe how busy they’ve been keeping us.” She collapsed onto the couch beside Becca.

Her mom looked much too tired to discuss Heather’s parents. Heather would understand if Becca had to wait another day. Becca could even say her mom had stayed at work all night.

No. She had promised. And if she waited too long, Heather might get impatient and go to 117 anyway. This conversation had to happen now. Becca sighed in resignation.

“What’s wrong?” Her mom watched her through half-closed eyes, her head resting against the back of the couch.

Becca ignored the temptation to say “nothing,” escape to her bedroom, and forget her promise to Heather. Her mom wouldn’t believe her if she said nothing was wrong, anyway. “I need to talk to you about Heather’s parents. I know what you said before, but isn’t there still some chance you got it wrong?”

Her mom closed her eyes all the way. Her frown lines grew more pronounced. “We had this conversation, Becca.”

“Can’t you at least look into it? Look at the evidence. Look at who turned them in.” The image of Heather striding into 117 demanding her parents’ release haunted Becca, giving her voice urgency. “If you don’t find anything, you’re not any worse off, and if you do, you’ll have saved two innocent people.”