It’s then that I remember James’s unhackable phone in my back pocket. I pull it out and stare at its blank black face. “James Blackwood,” I whisper. “Who are you?”
In a flat, computerized voice, the phone responds. “James Blackwood is an American-born artist specializing in portraiture.”
I scream and hurl the phone across the room.
It lands on the carpet next to the door and lies there, smirking at me.
After a moment when I get the pandemonium in my body under control, I move warily toward the phone and pick it up again. Curse my damn overactive imagination, because I could swear the thing has a pulse that’s beating against my palm.
I say to it, “Sure he is.”
The blasted thing stays silent. Time for a different approach. “Who is Sir Elton John?”
The phone immediately provides me with the Wikipedia entry for the musician, including details about his birth, education, early career, and awards and accolades.
Okay, so it’s got some advanced version of Siri onboard. Let’s take this thing for a spin.“Show me a picture of James Blackwood.”
The screen lights up. Photographs begin to fly past at warp speed. Young men, old men, babies, graduation photos, driver’s licenses, birth announcements, obituaries, and finally a Wanted poster circa 1832 featuring a grinning, gap-toothed cowboy with a huge handlebar moustache.
This phone is a fucking smartass.
“Show me a picture of James Blackwood the American-born artist specializing in portraiture.”
The screen goes dark. After a brief pause, the electronic voice speaks again. “No known photographs of James Blackwood the American-born artist specializing in portraiture exist.”
The plot thickens.
“What’s your name?”
“I am James Blackwood’s phone.”
“Hello, James Blackwood’s phone. I’m Olivia.”
“Greetings, Olivia.”
I can’t believe I’m having this conversation, but as my life is utterly insane lately, I’m going with it. “Phone, who is your manufacturer?” James said he had a friend who made it for the government, but I’m not inclined to believe a word from him anymore.
But the phone is playing coy. “That information is classified.”
Shit. Not only is this thing a smartass, it’s smart.“Is there anything you can tell me about yourself?”
“I am an Aquarius.”
“Funny.”
“And you are a Scorpio.”
My breath catches. My heartbeat kicks up a notch. I have to swallow before I can speak. “How do you know that?”
“Your birthday is October twenty-seventh.”
I try not to lose my shit. After all, I’ve got a Wikipedia page of my own. If this thing has some glorified version of Google in its operating system, it knows all about me.
But wait—I only told it my first name. There must be a million Olivias in the world. Ten million. More.
Gooseflesh rises on my arms. I whisper, “How do you know who I am?”
“Your voice matches the sample from the data file James Blackwood requested on 9 July, 2019 at 15:12.”
July ninth was the day I met James at Café Blanc.
As for the time, 15:12 is military parlance for twelve minutes after three in the afternoon. I don’t know what time it was when I first spotted him. Did he request the data file after I left the café…or before?
Oh God. Did he already know about me before I arrived? Did he know my face? Was he waiting for me?
Was he sent for me?
Is that the reason he owns all those guns?
My mind starts to fray around the edges like a piece of fabric unraveling. A fragile thread unwinding quickly from a spool. “What else is in the data file?”
I sit and listen in growing shock as the phone recites a detailed biography of me, including things not found on my Wikipedia page. Birth place, town where I grew up, parents’ names, siblings’ names, education, occupation, novel titles and dates of publication, hobbies, volunteer work, favorite foods, known allergies, list of current medications, marriage and divorce dates, and dozens of other specifics.
Last but not least—children.
“Emerson Luna Ridgewell, only child, born September ten, 2012. Deceased April eight, 2017. Cause of death: catastrophic injury to the heart from penetrating gunshot wound suffered at an outdoor political rally in Washington DC organized by her father, then a congressman from New York. Shots were fired into the crowd from a speeding vehicle, striking Emerson, the lone victim.”
The electronic voice pauses for a beat. “Congressman Ridgewell was the assassin’s intended target.”
My breath whooshes out of my lungs as if I’ve been kicked in the gut.
I drop the phone in horror and clap my hands over my mouth, backing up until I bump into the wall. I stand there shaking until my knees give out, then I slide to the floor, blind and deaf to everything, drowning in terrible memories.
The most recent of which is from only hours ago when Chris was sobbing in the restroom at the café and telling me the bullet that killed our daughter was meant for someone else.
I think this phone and my ex-husband both know it was meant for him.
Here’s another one plus one equals two moment: James also knows.
And if James and Chris have met before, as I suspected, not a single thing either one of them has told me is true.
I’m still sitting against the wall deep in shock sometime later when James bursts through the hotel room door.