Page 15 of Cup of Lies

I flip open my laptop, type in the password, and go straight to one of the programs I created. It’s unnerving to me that I can do all this by muscle memory, but I can’t remember so much. Once in the program, I airdrop the picture Calista sent me torun through it. While it analyzes the image, I do my best to determine when my memory loss happened.

Dad and Theo both claim I hit my head during the Christmas holidays on our family trip to New York, which resulted in a hospital stay. There was some damage done to the part of my brain that stores memories. Considering Dad specializes in therapies and treatments that are meant to brainwash a human, I’m obviously concerned I’ve been an unwilling victim.

Why would Dad choose to put me through the CUP program if that’s what happened? Did I do something to anger him or did I ask him to? Am I trying to get over this mysterious woman?

There are more questions than answers, which is frustrating.

While I wait for the AI to tell me something about Calista’s drawing, I decide to see what I can find out about my sister. It feels stupid doing this behind her back, but she’s not exactly forthcoming with information. Sometimes it even feels as if she sees me as an enemy—someone to be feared. I know that’s ridiculous because she’s the only true family I have left, but I still get a doubtful pit in my gut about it.

Calista Crowne doesn’t exist on the internet. A simple search pulls up nothing that can be linked to her. It’s not super alarming, but it does give me pause. Most girls her age have a social media presence at the very least. Calista has nothing.

I AM LULU.

The image of her screensaver flashes in my mind, signaling me to look in that direction next. A ding, indicating the completion of the image scan, steals my attention back to the AI program. I hit play for analysis to be read to me.

“Based on an extensive web search, it is determined your image matches that of four potential people—a female with a ninety-nine percent match, a female with a point-oh-five percent match, a male with a point-oh-five percent match, anda male with a point-oh-two-five percent match. Which one would you like the results for?”

“The one with the highest match,” I bark out, eager for more information. The fact that this woman is real is exhilarating.

“Great, thank you,” the AI says. “I’ll proceed with the ninety-nine percent match.” The computer beeps again. “Sorry, but there’s been an error.”

“An error?” I ask, confused. “What kind of error?”

“I’m unable to access classified documents.”

Classified? What the hell?

“Proceed,” I instruct. “You’re programmed to override any and all encryptions. Show me the highest match. Now.”

“In order to proceed, please create a patch that allows me to access the following encryptions.” The AI bot throws out a bunch of code on screen for me to view. “Perhaps I shall give you the details of the others in the meantime?”

“No.”

Frustrated, I run my fingers through my hair and tug at the strands. I know enough that my program is capable of accessing any file across the web. Someone has gone to great lengths to hide this woman. From who? Me?

Maybe she doesn’t want to be found.

Too damn bad. I need to know who she is—to see if she’s the woman I fought with my brother about in my memory. If she is, I want to speak to her. She could hold the answers I need. Plus, I want to know why we broke up. I’m clearly still not over her if she’s putting cracks in my mental safe, showing me slivers of a life with her.

It takes most of the early evening, but I manage to work through a string of code to bypass the encryptions. I’m mentally exhausted, bleary-eyed, and honestly unsure how I managed to do something so technical with very little memories.

“Try it now,” I tell the AI. “I need to know her name, where she lives, where she’s at now. I need everything.”

I rub at my eyes and ignore the gnawing hunger in my gut. I’ll rest and eat as soon as I learn who this woman is, but not a second before.

Ding.

The AI pops a picture into the window for me to view. As soon as I see the intelligent blue eyes, silky blond hair, and pouty pink lips, my chest tightens in familiar response. I know her. Hell, I think I even love her.

“Romy Langston, age nineteen, is the daughter of media mogul, Gideon Langston. She resides in New York City, New York, with her father and stepmother. Aside from the generic blurb about her, there doesn’t seem to be any other information out there. This is statistically impossible for a woman of her age. In these instances, it’s because the information has been purposefully scrubbed from the web. The reason for this could be for witness protection or due to classified orders from the government. Would you like me to research the other matches?”

Romy Langston.

I close my eyes, desperately trying to piece together my past with this mysterious, beautiful woman.

Nothing.

My brain is drawing infuriating blanks, but my heart throbs painfully in my chest, telling me all I need to know.

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