I head toward the back of the suite, where the bed is. On the way, I pause to flip on the light in the bathroom, feeling foolish but unable to stop myself.
When I step in the bathroom to take a quick look, the same pristine white walls shine back at me, the old-fashioned soaking tub as empty and unoccupied as when Kane and I searched in here thefirst time. The same array of grooming supplies—makeup, hair products, and styling devices, several of which I don’t even recognize—lie scattered on the floor, where they fell when the gravity came back on.
I hadn’t expected anything different. Not exactly.
I make a face at myself, my reflection in the mirror over the gold-fauceted sink mimicking in reverse simultaneously. Which makes me feel better somehow. Like the rules of the universe are still in operation.
Also? I look like shit. Dark circles under my eyes, strands of dark blond hair stuck to my forehead and standing up in spikes from my hastily constructed and reconstructed slightly-too-short ponytail.
And yet, Kane didn’t seem to mind.
I jerk my head in a reflexive “no,” heat rising in my cheeks.
I run a lingering finger over the faucet and matching handles. Even if everything were normal with me—which it obviously isn’t—there’s too much at stake to take that chance. This is freedom. The chance to make my own choices. The chance for everyone else on my team to have that as well.
Besides, Kane has a child and a life on Earth that he’d probably like to have once the money comes in from our “find.” That will never be an option for me.
I start to turn away from the mirror when I hear Lourdes laugh. “I can’t hear you, TL,” she calls from the front of the suite. “What did you say?”
Frowning, I stop for a second, then I step out from the bathroom, to find her coming toward me, a lavish, ruffled creation in purple draped around her and dragging the floor at her feet, her boots just peeking out. The hanger is still in place at the back of her neck.
“I couldn’t hear you,” she says, beaming at me. She’s a little kid playing in her mother’s closet.
Herdeadmother’s closet.
Instantly my mind flashes back to the hab module that my mother and I shared at Ferris, her white coats hanging ghostlike in the small storage enclosure, like discarded, empty shells.
Exasperation with myself and that lingering discomfort rises up in me, making my tone a little sharper. “I didn’t say anything,” I tell Lourdes.
Uncertainty flashes across her face, her smile faltering slightly, as if she thinks I’m teasing her but isn’t quite sure why. “Yes, you did. I heard you whispering. You said to be careful, then I couldn’t make out the rest of it.”
Was I talking out loud? I automatically glance back toward the mirror, as if that would provide answers. But my position now is such that my reflection is gone, and it wouldn’t tell me anything anyway.
I’m fairly sure I wasn’t talking to myself. It’s a habit I broke myself of years ago, living in such close quarters with others who might not appreciate the constant muttered commentary. But anything is possible.
Except why wouldn’t I remember it? I was staring at myself in the mirror, and I have no memory of seeing my mouth move, my lips forming any words, let alone telling Lourdes or even myself to “be careful.”
Unless, once again, I’m not completely in touch with reality. Or, at least, not the same reality as everyone else.
Again.
An icy spike of fear pierces my stomach, and it’s hard not to gasp at the punch of it.
Lourdes is now staring at me, and I fumble for a reassuring smile. “You gotta check out this bathroom. Look at the size of it,” I say to Lourdes.
Obligingly, she glances past me, to the sink and the tub. “Wow,” she says, her eyebrows going up, a measure of her previous enthusiasm returning. “This is bigger than my room at my parents’.”
“Told you,” I say, trying to match her tone. I mean, it’s possible that I was talking to myself and I just wasn’t paying enough attention. Overtired, maxed out on stress. That is the most likely scenario.
Sixty-three hours and some change to go. I can do this. I have to do this.
“As much as I would love for you to continue working this fashion show”—I gesture to the oversized gown hanging off her shoulders, and Lourdes laughs, seemingly relieved of her concern—“we need sleep.”
The king-sized bed is made in a flawless, snowy comforter several inches thick and tucked in on all sides. Though the surface is also partially covered with more clothing that must have been circulating in the space above it at one point.
Lourdes and I work to clear it, me handing off to her. Silky scarves, a heavy fur coat, an assemblage of interconnected rubber straps and small fabric rectangles that might have been a torture device, a sex play aid, or, possibly, a bathing suit. I really don’t know fashion.
Lourdes takes everything to the sitting area, handling each item as if it were made of frost-thin glass.
