Zoe Cannon - The Torturer's Daughter

Beccas steps slowed as she approached Processing 117. The floodlights of the parking lot shone down on her, exposing her. Past the lot, the darkness threatened to close in. There was no other source of light nearby except for the dim glow of the streetlamps, nothing but trees for at least a mile in every direction.

The concrete structure loomed taller than its five storiesmaybe because of the invisible presence of the underground levels, or maybe because in a moment Becca was going to have to walk inside.

Heather cant have been arrested. If she were a prisoner, they wouldnt have let her call.

But when Becca remembered the panic in Heathers voice, the thought wasnt all that reassuring anymore.

Becca took the last few steps across the not-quite-empty parking lot. The windows of the upper floors glowed in a patchwork of lights, showing who was working another late night and who was at home sleeping or down on the underground levels. Becca knew that in one of those dark offices, a phone had been ringing off the hook for the past half-hour, its owner oblivious to Beccas pleas for her to answer, to find Heather for her, to fix this.

Becca reached the double doors of the entranceand froze. Her heart thudded against her ribcage.

Heather is in there, she reminded herself. Heather needs me.

She pulled the doors open and stepped inside.

The doors slammed shut behind her, the noise echoing off the stark white walls. Security cameras stared down at her from the ceiling. The guards, one to either side of the metal detector, pinned her to the floor with their eyes, but said nothing.

Opposite the metal detector from Becca, the room was bare except for a huge metal desk with corners that looked sharp enough to cut. Behind the desk, a dark-haired woman with a headset clipped to her ear stopped mid-yawn and jerked up to face her.

Becca held her breath and stepped through the metal detector. Its light flashed green, and one of the guards waved her forward. She let her breath out and stepped up to the desk.

She eyed the womans crisp gray suit, and the desk that gleamed like it had never seen a speck of dust in its life. Then she looked down at her own clothes, the jeans and wrinkled t-shirt she had grabbed from her dresser after hanging up with Heather. She crossed her arms around her stomach.

The receptionists bleary surprise had vanished, replaced by a stone mask. Can I help you?

Im looking for Becca bit back the name on her lips. No. If she were in her office, she would have answered the phone. Anyway, Becca could imagine her reaction at finding out about this midnight walk to 117. Becca was on her own.

Heather Thomas, she finished. She called me half an hour ago and told me she was here.

The receptionists expression didnt tell Becca anything.

Shes here somewhere she called me Beccas voice trailed off. Im not doing anything wrong, she told herself. Im not a dissident. Heathers not a dissident.

Which led Becca back to the question that had been circling through her mind since she had gotten Heathers call. What was Heather doing here?

The receptionist turned away and tapped something out on her keyboard. It only took her a few seconds to find what she was looking for. She typed in something else and touched her earpiece. We have a detainee in temporary holding, she said to someone Becca couldnt see. Last name Thomas. Her file says shes waiting for a relative to collect her. Right, thats the one. Someone forgot to collect her phone, and she called a friend. A pause. No, that wont be necessary. Just confiscate the phone.

She turned back to Becca. Heather Thomas is waiting for her guardian to arrive. Are you Lydia Thomas? She gave Becca a skeptical once-over.

Becca considered saying yes, but even if the receptionist werent going to ask for proof, there was no way she could pass as Heathers aunt, she remembered after a moment. Aunt Lydia, the one who always looked at Becca and Heather like being in high school was catching.

The receptionist took her silence as an answer. Im going to have to ask you to leave.

Becca wanted nothing more than to do just that. But she couldnt leave and let this place swallow Heather. If shes waiting for her aunt to get here, I can wait with her until she shows up.

Im sorry, said the receptionist, already turning back to her computer. The policy is clear. The detainee will remain in temporary holdingaloneuntil her guardian arrives.

Becca was losing ground. And somewhere in this building, Heather was waiting for her. Im not trying to take her home or anything. I only want to To make sure she wasnt locked away underground. To make sure they hadnt gotten her mixed up with somebody else, some dissident slated for execution. to let her know Im here. I promised her Id

Your refusal to leave the building when instructed will be recorded. The receptionist placed her hands on her keyboard. May I have your name?

At least tell me what happened. Why is she here? Is she all right?

Your name, please, the receptionist repeated.

If she stayed much longer, the receptionist would order the guards to drag her outor worse, in. She could end up in one of those underground cells She shivered. They couldnt do that to her just for asking about Heather, right?

Your name, the receptionist repeated again, with a glance toward the guards.

Becca slumped. Rebecca Dalcourt.

The receptionist blinked.

Well, she said, her voice suddenly warmer, I suppose we can make an exception.

The room looked like somebodys afterthought. The walls were painted a flat gray that matched the worn carpet. Two folding chairs had been shoved together along one wall, leaving the rest of the room empty. The smell of sweat and carpet cleaner hung in the air. Heather sat in the chair furthest from the door, rocking slightly. She didnt show any sign of having heard the door open.

The guard stepped out of the room and pushed the door shut behind Becca. It closed with a click that made Becca suspect she was now locked in.

Heather?

Heather didnt look at her.

Its me. Becca. I told you Id come.

Heather raised her head like she was moving through water. She stared past Becca with mascara-smeared eyes. Her hands trembled in her lap. This wasnt the Heather who had tried to talk Becca into a makeover at the mall this afternoonor was that yesterday afternoon by now? She could still hear Heather laughing as she tugged Becca toward the makeup counter. Come on, Becca! Do something fun for once. The girl in front of her looked as if she had never laughed in her life.

Becca sat down next to the trembling girl who didnt look nearly enough like Heather. What are you doing here? Her voice came out as a croak. She cleared her throat. What happened?

On the phone, Heather had only managed disconnected phrases through her sobs. Took them. Told me to wait. Please come. Please. And then the words that had chilled Beccas blood and brought her hereIm at 117.

Now Heather dug her nails into her legs as she spoke. My parents. She swallowed, like she was trying to take back the words before she could speak them. Internal took them.

What do you mean, took them? Stupid question. That only ever meant one thing. But Heathers parents, below them in one of the underground cells? No. Heathers parents had worked for Internal Defense longer than Becca had known them, longer than Heather had even been alive. For them to be arrested how could Internal have made a mistake like that?

Heather sank bonelessly back against the chair. The back of her head thunked against the wall; she didnt seem to notice. I dont know why I dont know why they