Claudia Gabel - Elusion

“Good.” Patrick peers around the lobby as he lowers his voice. “How’s your mom handling it all?”

“No idea. She hasn’t even shown up yet. And of course, I can’t call her in here . . .” I shrug, frustrated.

“Did you ask the manager to use their emergency phone line?”

“I don’t want to go through all that,” I reply. “Maybe she got stuck on the Traxx or something. There’s construction everywhere.”

“Yeah, I’m sure it’s something simple like that.”

“Or maybe she just blew me off. It wouldn’t be the first time,” I say, my voice tinged with irritation.

It isn’t fair of me to be angry. Mom is doing the best she can.

Patrick squeezes my hands gently. “It’s going to be okay, I promise.”

“How? This place is about to shut down for the day and I’m not authorized to receive my own father’s . . .” I swallow hard and slip my hands away from Patrick’s. “Maybe we should just leave and forget this whole thing.”

“Give me a second. I’m going to talk to the manager,” he says.

I roll my eyes. “Don’t even bother. He has a Mrs. Thackeroy attitude.”

“I have no clue what that means, so I’m going to talk to him anyway.” Patrick gives my hand a quick squeeze before letting go. “Be right back.”

I keep my gaze trained on him as he wanders into the clerks’ area, waving at Mr. Burton through the glass door of his cubicle. The man’s face lights up when he recognizes that Patrick, Detroit’s most famous resident, is standing in front of him. Patrick shakes the assistant manager’s hand and chats with him like he has known the guy for years. It takes less than a minute for Mr. Burton to nod his head in affirmation and begin finger-pounding the screen of his tablet. Patrick looks out at me and gives me a thumbs-up.

It’s official. Patrick has just advanced to hero status.

Once Mr. Burton and Patrick emerge from the glass cubicle, an announcement sounds over the loudspeaker.

“Ladies and gentleman, Morton and Wexley will be closing in five minutes, so please complete your transactions. Thank you for your business.”

I expect Mr. Burton to quicken his step, since he was so conscious of the time, but his stride is just as leisurely as Patrick’s, who doesn’t even try to hide his self-satisfied grin.

“Miss Welch, I’ll take you to security block G now,” the assistant manager says as he gestures toward a corridor off to the right, which leads to a large elevator bank.

“But aren’t you closing up?” I ask.

“That shouldn’t concern you, Ms. Welch.” Mr. Burton pats me on the hand. “We are more than delighted to extend you and your family every courtesy.”

I glance at Patrick, who just smiles at me innocently and shrugs.

What the hell did he do?

“Thank you, Mr. Burton. That is very nice of you.”

As we follow Mr. Burton toward a foyer filled with industrial-size elevator, Patrick and I nudge each other playfully. The assistant manager halts in front of the elevator marked SBG and pushes a button labeled 28. Once the doors whoosh open, Patrick and I file in behind Mr. Burton.

“This block is subterranean, so it takes a little while to descend. Are either of you claustrophobic?” the man asks.

I shake my head. “No, I’m not.”

“Neither am I,” replies Patrick.

“Good. Then enjoy the ride,” Mr. Burton says.

Patrick waits a minute before pulling his tab out of his interior suit-jacket pocket and typing on it. He’s probably trying to get some work done; he’s such an overachiever. But then I feel my rear pocket vibrating. I reach back and pull out my tab, noticing I have an IM.

At first, I’m a little bewildered—how can I be receiving a message inside the depository? But then I remember just how advanced Patrick’s hacking skills are. He probably found some kind of back door in their security system and glommed onto an admin network, making a signal available to both of us while we’re in the elevator.

I drag my thumb and pointer finger across the screen so I can zoom in and read his note.

How awesome am I? Go on tell me, I can take it. ;-)

When I laugh out loud, Mr. Burton cranes his neck and stares at me like I’m nuts. I mutter “sorry” under my breath, and thankfully he spins back around.

I quickly type a message back to Patrick.

Your awesomeness can’t be measured. What did you say to him?!?!

I said you were my illegitimate sister.

Ha-ha, very funny. Now tell me or I’ll drop-kick you.

I love it when you make empty threats.

TELL. ME!

Fine! I promised I’d open a huge account here if he gave you access to your dad’s box.

My cheeks flush. Since Dad’s accident, Patrick has been making grand gestures like this for me, and each time he does, I feel a little more embarrassed. His intentions are good, no doubt about that, but as the months rack up, I just . . . I just can’t help but feel like I owe him a million and one favors—and have no way of paying him back.

Thank you. For everything.

Thank you–for coming to Orexis today. I know that couldn’t have been easy.

Well, you were GREAT! Did you create that demo?

Me and my nerd army. We are invincible.

Can’t say the same for Avery. ;-) She had a lot of nerve, spreading lies like that. What an attention whore!!!

You totally shot her down! I can’t believe he missed it.

A breath catches in my throat, but luckily it only hurts for a second.

I know. My dad would have been really proud of how I remembered all that stuff about Elusion. You were his protégé and all :-p

The elevator comes to such a soft stop that I barely even feel it. When the doors slide open, Mr. Burton exits and waves at Patrick and me.

“Follow me, please,” he says.

We tuck our tabs away, and Patrick puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder. Obviously, he senses the sudden tension that has taken hold of me once we walk out of the elevator and into a long, narrow corridor that looks like it belongs in a morgue. The dimly lit hallway extends in both directions for what seems like a thousand yards, and there are multiple sets of steep metal staircases leading to other floors filled with windowless rooms.

“Don’t worry, I’m right here,” he whispers.

I take Patrick’s hand, locking fingers with him. “I’m fine,” I lie.

Mr. Burton guides us to the left and ahead a few feet before pausing in front of a set of stairs and offering me an orange passcard.

“Your father’s security box is waiting for you in chamber twenty-eight. It’s on the middle level and you’ll have complete privacy there. Feel free to take your time. I’ll wait to escort you back up to the main floor when you’re done,” he says.

“Thank you, Mr. Burton,” I say.

Patrick and I walk up the steps to chamber 28, still hand in hand. I let go to swipe the passcard in front of the code reader, and the door whooshes upward, barely giving us enough time to enter before swooshing back down again, closing us inside. Inside is a large, brightly lit, gray cement room with a tall aluminum table surrounded by several black high-backed stools. On the table is a square metallic box affixed with an electronic lock.