Except the money had been real. The phone call had been real. Dr. Gabriel Mire's voice, cultured and amused and terrifyingly calm, had been real.
I googled him. Nothing. Googled the Mire Institute. Nothing. It was like they didn't exist outside of that folder and my bank account.
Seventy-one hours now.
I could run. Take what was left of the money, get on a bus, disappear somewhere. Become someone else. Leave Lilah West and her stupid decisions behind.
But something told me they'd find me. Anyone who could deposit a hundred grand without blinking, who could watch me for three months without me knowing, who could appear at my door at 3 AM like the world's most corporate boogeyman—they'd find me.
Besides, where would I go? I'd built a life here with their money. Signed a lease. Made commitments.
Made my bed, now I had to lie in it. Or be tied to it. Or whatever the fuck was waiting for me at the Mire Institute.
I picked up one of the scattered pages, smoothing out the wrinkles. At the bottom, below all the terrifying subclauses, was my signature. Confident. Cocky. Sure I was pulling one over on the universe.
The universe, it turned out, had a sense of humor. And a PhD in behavioral psychology.
Seventy hours, forty-three minutes.
I made another cup of coffee, sat back down with the contract, and started making a list of everything I'd agreed to. By the time the sun came up, the list covered three pages of notebook paper, and I'd progressed from fear through anger into a kind of numb fascination.
Identity restructuring. Regression therapy. Sensory deprivation. Sexual conditioning.
What kind of person came up with this stuff? What kind of person signed up for it?
The answer, apparently, was me. Desperate, cocky, too smart for my own good me.
My phone buzzed. Text from an unknown number:
Wear something comfortable for travel. Everything else will be provided.
I stared at the text until the screen went dark. Then I threw my phone across the room, where it landed on the pile of contract pages.
Sixty-seven hours, twelve minutes.
The countdown continued, and somewhere out there, Dr. Gabriel Mire was waiting. Observing. Planning whatever came next in his behavioral science experiment.
I'd walked into this trap with my eyes wide open and my hand out for the cash. Now all that was left was to see what kind of animal I'd become when the cage door closed.
The money sat in my account, minus what I'd spent on this life I'd built. This life I was about to lose. I thought about transferring it, hiding it, something. But I had a feeling that would violate some subclause I'd missed. Section 52-J: Participant shall not attempt to conceal or relocate Institute funds. Or something equally fucked.
So I sat. And I waited. And I wondered what kind of man spoke about attitude problems and working on my language in a voice that smooth.
Sixty-one hours.
The clock on my wall ticked forward, counting down to whatever came next. In the drawer, the business card with its disconnected number seemed to pulse with promise. Or threat. At this point, I couldn't tell the difference.
All I knew was that I'd signed my name on a line that said: All rights of refusal revoked upon activation.
And the activation had begun.
Taken
The thing about running from your own stupidity is that it follows you everywhere. Like a shadow. Or a hundred thousand dollar bank deposit that burns in your account like a neon sign screaming "SOLD."
I'd made it past the 72-hour mark by the brilliant strategy of simply not being home. Packed a bag, told my friend Mika I'd had a fight with my nonexistent boyfriend, and crashed on her couch. She didn't ask questions. That's why I loved her.
"You've been weird lately," she said on day three, passing me a beer while some reality show played in the background. "Like, weirder than usual."
