Free The Progeny by Tosca Lee Page A

country code has three digits instead of two . . .” I gesture toward the guest services binder.
    I’m trying to act normal, but I feel like he’s seeing right through me. If he is, though, he’s a better actor than I am.
    “You always were sharp,” he says, a faint smile turning the corner of his mouth. For the first time since leaving Maine, I do not find it reassuring. In fact, I find it unnerving—the smile and the way he talks about me as though he’s known me for years. “So we’ll wait for him to call back. Unless you can think of something else?” His brows lift slightly.
    But all I know is I must call that number back.
    I shake my head. “I can’t. I can’t even think straight.” I turn away, down half the Diet Pepsi.
    “You should get some sleep. I’ll wake you if he calls.”
    “Yeah. Okay,” I say, before looking around me as though lost and then wandering into the bedroom and quietly locking the door behind me.
    Inside, I set the glass on the desk, look around frantically.
    So he’s not a Watcher. Watchers don’t exist. Or was the mysterious Ivan lying? Clare gave me his number. If there was ever a question of whether that number came to me by mistake, it’s gone now.
    I walk into the bathroom, lock the door, and turn on the faucet full blast.
    Think. Think! Two men, both trying to appear helpful. Rolan, whom Ivan says is a liar. Ivan, whom Rolan would call a liar. One is a liar. Which means one must be telling the truth. And Ivan . . . Why did Clare leave me his number? What did she say? In case you find yourself in trouble.
    One thing I know for sure: Both Clare and Rolan are not who they claim to be.
    I lean down to the sink, rinse out my mouth. My stomach is knotted so tight I actually think I could puke.
    I turn off the water, grab a towel. According to Rolan, Luka’s out to kill me. According to Ivan, Rolan is poised to kill me.
    If he thinks for a second that you know or remember anything of value, he’ll kill you for it. This, about the man who claimed his only priority was my safety—and then spent two days driving me to Indiana to retrieve my past. I think back to the night I saw Rolan behind the Dropfly—was it only two nights ago?—arguing with Luka. Luka, who saw me, but hid it from Rolan before chasing us halfway to Kokadjo. In an effort to do what? Get me away from Rolan so he could kill me?
    And then I see them again, walking away, Luka’s arm draped over Rolan’s shoulders as if they were old fraternity brothers.
    Only then does it occur to me that they could have been working in tandem, that the chase up Lily Bay Road was all for show. If the endgame was to get me to return to the Center, it worked. And if what Ivan says is true and Rolan is a killer, I don’t dare return to the Center tonight. I don’t have that long either way; if Rolan’s phone doesn’t ring in a matter of hours, he’ll know something’s wrong.
    I tentatively open the bathroom door, half-expecting to find Rolan standing there, gun drawn. But the room is quiet and dark, the sun having long set so that the only light comes from under the door to the sitting room. I pause near the nightstand, fingers on the phone. But it’s one of those types with the light that comes on if a handset is lifted.
    I need to talk to Ivan. He’s the only one I seem to have placed as a contingency in my postprocedure life . . . which means he’s the only one I trust.
    I cross to the door, press an ear against it. Nothing but the faint sound of the television.
    I unlock the door and quietly push it open. Rolan is not only not dozing as I had hoped but sitting forward on the sofa, talking in low tones on his phone in a language I assume to be Romanian. I’ve hardly made a sound, but he glances up the moment I crack the door open and ends the call.
    He’s also shed his jacket. It lies folded on the coffee table, the pistol atop it. His eyes follow my gaze and return languidly to me. “Everything all