Page 29 of Exposed

“The entire left side of your face was... a mess. The right side was perfect, unblemished. The left... was not. I imported the most skilled and renowned reconstructive plastic surgeon in the world, and paid him a rather large amount of money to restore you to your former beauty. The two and a half million dollars I mentioned was just the bribe to implant the chip, mind you. I paid him more than quadruple that to drop all of his other clients and fly to New York and fix you.”

I suppose I should be impressed by how much you spent to have me fixed.

“When you say that I’ve been... microchipped—what does that mean?” I have trouble now forming words, forming breaths.

You do not answer for a moment. “The scar on your hip... it was always there, since the accident, I mean. When Dr. Frankel had you under to fix your face, however, he sliced into that scar, implanted a very small computer chip, and closed the incision, making it look as if it had never been disturbed. The microchip allows me to pinpoint your location, down to the nearest meter.” You lift your phone.

I don’t know what I am to think about your revelation. So I change topics. “Would you like to know the story Logan told me?”

“If you wish to tell me, I will listen.” Impassive, unconcerned. Disbelieving.

Too much so, perhaps?

“There was a car accident,” I say. “My parents were killed, and I wasn’t. They were immigrants. The police couldn’t identify me, but because I was in a coma I might never wake from, the investigation was closed, leaving me a Jane Doe.”

“I see.”

“You see?” I stare at you. “What does that mean, ‘you see’?”

“It means there are problems with his story,” you say. “Why could you not be identified? Were your parents illegal immigrants, that they didn’t even carry basic ID? And even if we assume some bizarre sequence of events leading to your parentsandyou being unidentifiable, why would the investigation just be closed? They wouldn’t just...give up. If Logan could figure out who you are, why couldn’t the police?”

“I...” My throat is dry and my spirit numb, my mind confused.

“Six years, X. I’ve spent six years of my life caring for you. You think I would hold back this kind of information from you, if it were that easy to find it?” Do I think so? I don’t know. You continue. “You’ve known me for six years, yet this man you’ve known for less than... what? I don’t even know? How much time have you spent with him? A few hours, at most? And you are ready to believe whatever he says.” You sound disgusted.

I have no answers for your logic.

“But my face, Caleb. You just said it was burned. How would that happen in a mugging gone wrong?”

“I didn’t say it was burned, X. I said it was messed up. You’d been beaten, savagely and brutally. The doctors think your face was kicked, that you’d tried to turtle, you know? Hands over your head? The damage was so severe your face would never be the same. I didn’t want you to have to live with that, so I had it fixed. I never said you were burned.”

And just that fast, my nascent identity is gone.

I hate you.

“You are Madame X...” you say. And I want so desperately to be able to cling to that, but I cannot, and the words you speak, once so familiar and comforting, seem empty now. “And I am Caleb...”

“Stopit, Caleb,” I say, barely able to manage a whisper. “Just... stop.”

“If you wish to choose a new name—”

“Why do you get to decide what I am allowed to do?” I ask. “Why is my entire life dependent onyou? Why is my entireexistencedependent on you?”

You sigh. It is a long-suffering sound. “Stop the car, Len,” you say.

The car slides to a halt in the left-hand lane of Fifth Avenue, a few blocks from your tower, early-morning traffic rushing past on our right.

You gesture at the car door, the window, the world beyond. “Then go. Find your own way.”

“Caleb—”

You open your door, watching the traffic, and then circle around behind the vehicle. You pull open my door. Grab my wrist. Haul me out. Close the door, return to the rear driver’s-side door. “You are not dependent on me because I insist on keeping you captive. It is just the way things are. You want your ‘freedom’ so badly”—you weight the word with sarcasm—“then so be it.”

You lower yourself into the car. The door closes with a softthud. A smooth purr of the engine, and the Maybach glides away, leaving me alone.

You have made your point: Where do I go? What do I do?

Who am I? If I am not Madame X, who am I?