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This can’t be.
My head spins. I sink back into my squat.
There’s a bang behind me as the door smashes against the
wall. I spin in my squat and end up on my ass facing the door.
Pilot’s there looking wide-eyed and furious.
“
Shane
?”
I look up at him from my sad spot on the floor.
“What the fuck is going on? Did you set this up?” he yells.
I’m lost. I blink. “Set what up?”
His arms flail about. “What is this? Are you insane? Is this
like some weird set-up you thought would be cute? Did you
knock me out?”
I shake my head. “I— What?”
“Did you pay someone to recreate the flat? What the
fuck?” His eyes bulge. He’s scared. He looks up at the ceiling
and takes two steps to collapse on the leather couch against the
wall with his head in his hands.
“I don’t understand,” is all I manage.
He looks up at me, still wide-eyed. “I can’t believe you
called Atticus in on this!”
I shake my head again. “What are you talking about? What
is
this
? I don’t know what this is, Pilot. What the hell are you
saying?”
“This!” He gestures around the room. “This creepy replica
of the London flat, Shane!”
Why is he yelling at me? My eyes sting.
No crying.
“I don’t know what this is! Why the fudge and how on
earth would I even go about getting a replica of a flat made?
Christ, listen to yourself, you sound insane!”
I’m still on the floor, legs stretched in front of me like a rag
doll. Pilot’s expression clouds.
“What do you mean, Atticus?” I ask hesitantly.
“Atticus is here, he’s in ‘my’”—he holds up air quotes
—“room.”
How can Atticus be here?
“Did we get drugged?” I ask, my voice is ten pitches
higher than normal. “Do you feel drugged?”
Pilot runs a hand down his face. “I … I don’t really feel
drugged … You mean at the café?”
“
Yes.
We were in a café.” I grasp at the words. That
happened.
“You only had a few sips of your tea, and I didn’t even
drink mine.” His voice raises a few octaves. “Are you serious?
You don’t know what’s going on right now?” His wild,
panicked eyes search mine.
“
I don’t know what’s going on right now!
” I didn’t mean to
yell, but I’m having trouble staying calm.
My hands tangle up into my hair, smooshing it up and
away from my face. I feel dizzy. I fold forward, letting my
head hang between my legs.
“Shane?”
I stare hard at the ground.
You’re fine, you’re okay.
“I’ll be
okay in a second. Hold on,” I mumble. A moment later, I feel
Pilot’s hand on my back.
“Here, get off the floor and sit on the couch,” he says.
I lift my head to find his hand hovering in front of my face.
I grab it. He pulls me off the floor. I drop his hand and fall to
the couch. He sits three feet away from me on the other end of
it. I’m trying to get a grip on the panic soaring around inside
me, but it feels like a losing battle.
I pull my legs up and clutch them to my chest. “Someone
changed my clothes.”
His eyes expand as he looks down at his own clothes.
“Mine too,” he says, surprised. I watch his throat bob as he
swallows his fear. “Maybe we should go talk to Atticus.”
I bob my head okay. He bobs his head back, and we rise
from the couch.
“Wait!” I say abruptly before we open the door. “We’re
unarmed, maybe we should be armed.”
“Armed?” he says skeptically.
I run over to the utensil drawer near the sink and yank it
open.
“Pilot,” I say as I rifle through it and grab two steak
knives, “what if someone knocked us out and brought us
here?”
I pivot around, gingerly holding the utensils, and shove the
drawer closed with my butt. Pain shoots through me.
Ow,
butt
bruise.
“Okay,” he concedes. He carefully takes a knife, holds it
down by his side. I grip mine tightly and point it out in front of
me.
I creep behind Pilot as he strides down the hall. The hall.
It’s just like the hall from London. This is the hall.
“Oh god.” I stare dumbstruck at the two doors at the end of
the corridor.
This can’t be happening.
Pilot moves toward the
left door, puts his hand on the knob, and twists.
He frowns. “Shit, I don’t have a key.” He instinctively
drops his free hand to his pocket. A second later he pulls out a
set of keys. He gapes at them, eyebrows pulled low.
“I don’t know how I got these.”
And then the door in front of him just swings open. Atticus
stands there wearing his familiar goofy smile. “Hey, you lose
your key?” He catches sight of the keys in Pilot’s hand and
laughs. “Apparently not.” His gaze falls to me and he laughs
again. “Are you cooking?”
I stare at him, confused. Why would I be cooking?
“What?” I ask.
“You’re holding a knife…”
I gaze down at my hand, remembering. Oh yeah. I drop my
knife hand so that it dangles by my side.
“Where are we, Atticus?” Pilot demands.
Atticus’s expression screws up, and he turns to me, as if to
share a look of bewilderment, but I just glare angrily. He
brings his eyes back to Pilot.
“Uh … London,” he says, not without sass. “What’s with
the theatrics?” He smiles expectantly, like he’s waiting for the
punch line of a joke.
Pilot and I share a look. Atticus takes this moment to walk
back over to his bed where he’s unpacking a suitcase full of
clothes.
No
…
“What do you mean, we’re in London?” I demand.
Atticus turns around holding a folded shirt in his hand.
“Uh. London, like the city? London, England.”
“How did you get us here?” Pilot asks in shock.
“What?” He whirls around with a laugh and sets down the
item of clothing he’s holding. “We met this morning. I’m
pretty sure you both took separate planes of your own
volition.”
My head starts to spin again. I feel the knife fall out of my
hand and thump mutedly against the carpet.
“Cut the crap, Atticus. Tell us what’s going on; this isn’t
funny,” Pilot says. He drops an arm to the doorframe, leaning
against it for support. Atticus stands in the center of their
room, now with his hands on his hips.
“Look, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he
states simply.
“How can you not know what I’m—” Pilot’s words muffle.
I turn and look at the door across the hall. Head for it. A roar’s
building in my ears. It only takes a few steps and I’m
knocking. The door creaks as someone opens it from the other
side. Sahra’s face appears in front of me. My jaw’s gone slack.
“You misplace your key already?” she asks.
“Hey, Pilot,” Sahra shoots over my shoulder. Darkness
creeps at the edges of my vision.
Shit.
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