Worried
Faith gota cab and told the driver to cruise aimlessly through the city, worried that someone had seen her leave her home and followed her.
“I’m working on a problem,” she told the driver. “Riding in the car helps me think.”
“What kind of problem? Maybe I can help.”
Faith sucked on the inside of her cheek, unsure what lie to conjure. “Patient confidentiality,” she said. “I’m a therapist.” She wished she was a therapist at that moment and not a scientist with a murderer on her tail.
After riding for an hour, she told the driver to drop her off at a Hilton. She debated calling her parents or her sister, but then thought it best not to worry them.
She unpacked the few clothes and items the police had allowed her to grab. An old bra left in the back of a drawer. A dress she didn’t like and kept stuffed at the far side of her closet. She could barely think straight and hoped she’d grabbed everything she’d need to lay low for a few days: glasses, toothpaste, shaving gel… she was too tired to worry about it now. Luckily, the intruder hadn’t turned over her toiletries and she could grab simple things, like shampoo. She took out her contacts and collapsed onto the bed. She set the card Roberts had given her on the nightstand. She was used to a security detail; Flux assigned private security when she had to transport live viruses and bacteria across country for trials and coordinated development projects. But a personal bodyguard, that would be new. She turned off the lamp and closed her eyes, though all she could hear in the silent room was the sound of the gun in Courtney’s apartment, the “bang” echoing in her ears over and over. She needed to sleep, but her body was too wired with stress and adrenaline.
The ceiling above her swirled as sleep eluded her. She sat up and switched on the bedside lamp. She picked up the card again, and dialed.
