Page 17 of Factory Thief

For a guy with no cardio, he looks incredible. I guess, when you’re in solitary confinement for twenty-three hours a day, there’s plenty of time to get your prison workout in. Who knew sit ups and push-ups could create a physique a pro wrestler might envy?

I think of those strong arms wrapped around me, and a tingle shoots through my entire body. I squeeze my thighs together and try to ignore it. The more I try and put Jack out of my mind, the more firmly entrenched he becomes in my psyche.

I remember Andrew teaching me a trick at the Factory. It works all the time. Tell someone not to look at a particular object or person and their gaze will inexorably be drawn to the forbidden object, as if by magic. It takes a force of will to stop it, especially if the order is suddenly issued to them.

The thing is, I wouldn’t feel so much as a wiggle if not for Jack’s explanation of why he was incarcerated in the first place. Not that I have the slightest bit of proof that he’s telling the truth.

I’d like to think Jack would have come up with a lie much easier to believe if he weren’t telling the truth. It does seem pretty outlandish. My mind avoids going too close to the narrative, but, like a moth to flame, my thoughts inexorably draw near.

The idea of the Xtera corporation pushing a fake cancer cure makes my blood boil, and not because I’m Miss Altruism. I have a personal stake, as cancer took everything from me.

I remember it like it happened yesterday. The first time my mother showed any outward sign of illness, it didn’t seem so bad. She came up the stairs to our apartment and plopped down in a chair, grocery bags sagging to the floor at her side.

When I asked what was wrong, she simply smiled and said she was just feeling a little run down. I think she started taking vitamins and drinking stronger coffee to compensate. It didn’t work. She grew steadily weaker over a course of weeks until she finally relented and went to the doctor.

That was when I learned words a preteen should never hear. Sarcoma. Prognosis. Quality life years.

My mother’s cancer proved particularly aggressive. I watched while a once-vibrant, vivacious woman degenerated into a withered husk of her former self. Her hair fell out from the treatments, and, at one point, I could fit her wrist into one hand with room to spare. She appeared almost akin to a department-store mannequin which hadn’t been dressed, complete with the dead eyes.

She was like those people in the tearjerker movies where someone has a terminal illness. The ones where they muse over blades of grass, implore young people to celebrate life, and become more and more beautiful—in a metaphorical sense—until they die? Yeah, those are all bullshit. My mother tried to be hopeful at first and put on a brave face for me.

She did it for as long as she could. But then the pain and the despair got to her. She withdrew more and more, rarely speaking, and when she did it was all nasty. We had a nurse who visited every day, and neighbors pitched in some, but in the evenings, I was my mother’s sole caregiver most of the time.

She had a small bell she would ring when she needed or wanted something. I grew to loathe the sound of that bell, no matter how much I loved her. Not because I didn’t want to help her, but because I feared her acid tongue and utter lack of affection for me. Either the cancer ate away all her kindness, or she figured, since she was dying anyway, there was no need to be kind. Or affectionate. Or loving, nurturing, or any of the things mothers were supposed to be.

I hate myself for thinking it, but when she finally passed while the nurse and I were out buying groceries, the first thing I felt was immense relief. At least I wouldn’t have to put up with her hateful speech or look at her frail, skeletal form any longer.

My pops was never in the picture, and my mother had little in the way of family. At the funeral, every one of my aunts, uncles, and cousins came by to reassure me I could come and see them whenever I wanted. Every single one of them added the same caveat, however.

“You can’t stay, though—ha, ha, ha.” Pretending to make a joke while making it absolutely clear they weren’t going to give me a place to live. Me, a twelve-year-old girl at the time.

Foster care was a fucking nightmare. The first night at my foster home—where bedtime was enforced at a draconic seven-thirty PM, sharp—one of my foster brothers tried to climb on top of me in my own bed. I smashed his face with a roller skate, and I was the one who got in trouble.

Fuck that. So cancer is my personal enemy. It made me run away and take to the streets.

It was cold, miserable, and I was often filthy, but at least, for a while, I was free. There’s a certain type of freedom to be had when you hit rock bottom. It’s like, you can’t fall any further. You’ve already failed as profoundly as any human being could ever manage.

It’s no wonder I wound up in juvie hall for shoplifting shortly after my thirteenth birthday.

I don’t know if Xtera provided the drugs which failed to save my mother or not. All I know is, the mere thought of their giving false hope to people literally fighting for their lives turns my stomach—and makes me angry. Very angry.

If there’s even a one-percent chance that Jack is telling the truth, and he has the proof on a flash drive, then I have to try and bring what he knows to light. The public can savage the Xtera corporation until they buckle and fold like a bad habit.

Only one problem. I’ll have to delay dropping Jack off with Andrew. That means I’ll be in the Factory’s thrall for that much longer. Still, I owe it to everyone who suffered the way I did to try.

I head out into the motel’s crumbling parking lot and call Andrew on my burner phone. As it rings, I stroll away from the motel, heading toward the busy avenue. The sounds of traffic mingle with my own heartbeat as I wait to hear Andrew’s voice.

“What is it?” Andrew’s voice holds a note of confusion. “If this is a telemarketer—”

“Of course, I’m calling to sell you timeshares…” I say. “Seriously, Andrew. It’s me.”

“Ah, Tori. Nice job on extracting the asset.”

“Don’t you ‘nice job’ me, Andrew. The fucking cops got my picture splashed all over the place. Did you set me up?”

“What? No.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t just fall all over myself trusting you.”

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