Page 97 of Sleep No More
“You had no reason to be suspicious of Iona Bryant,” Pallas said.
Ambrose had calmed down but he was still in a savage mood. She knew he was blaming himself for a failure of judgment.
“Technically, I still don’t.” Ambrose stepped into the bathroom and filled the coffeepot at the sink. He reappeared a moment later. “When you think about it, nothing in the equation has changed.”
“I disagree,” Pallas said. “Something has changed. Your intuition has a lot more information to work with now. Context.”
Ambrose poured the water into the reservoir of the coffee maker. “It’s rather breathtaking when you think about it. If Iona is the one pulling the strings it means she lied to me from the start. And I fell for every single lie.”
“That brings up an interesting point,” Pallas said, determined to keep the discussion on track. “When did you hire Iona?”
“About a month after the San Diego writers’ event.” Ambrose groaned. “I can’t believe I was that... what? Dumb? Stupid? Unobservant? Naive? There aren’t enough adjectives.”
“Let’s forget the negative self-talk. It’s a waste of time. One month after your amnesia episode you were a man dealing with an extraordinary new vision. You were trying to process a whole new level of sensory input. You were disoriented and off-balance. On top of that, you wondered if you were losing your mind.”
Ambrose glanced at her. “Just like you and your friends?”
“Yep.” Pallas sighed. “Talia and Amelia and I frequently tell each other that the only reason we didn’t end up in a locked ward was because the three of us were able to support and reassure each other. You had to face all the dreams and doubts and fears on your own. I can’t even imagine the nightmare you’ve been living.”
Ambrose watched the coffee drip into the pot with a brooding expression. “Makes you wonder if there are others like us.”
She shivered. “Good question. Do you think Iona Bryant is the anonymous donor who funded the Institute? Maybe she’s responsible for everything that has happened to us. Our amnesia, our new psychic abilities, the experiments here in Carnelian. The whole damned nightmare.”
“Maybe,” Ambrose said. “But I doubt it.”
“Why? And please don’t tell me it’s because she’s a woman.”
“A woman who made me look like a fool,” Ambrose said. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure Bryant is involved in this thing, but I don’t believe she’s running the show.”
“Why not?”
“For one very simple reason.” Ambrose poured two coffees. “She really is a great virtual assistant.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Think about it. If we’re right, Iona Bryant spent a huge chunk of the past year keeping an eye on me and, probably, on Brooke Kendrick. She was monitoring Fenner and the Institute. But there are a lot of moving pieces in this thing. For instance, who is keeping watch on you and Talia and Amelia?”
Pallas went cold. “That is a very disturbing question. It would explain the low-grade paranoia, though.”
“For all we know there are other unwitting research subjects out there.” Ambrose carried the coffees back to the table and sat down. “I think we’re looking at an organization. Yes, there must be someone in charge, but every smart leader knows how to delegate. Got a feeling Iona Bryant was the project manager on this operation, not the boss.”
“How did you find her?” Pallas asked. “Were you searching for a virtual assistant and just happened across her name?”
“After San Diego I was in bad shape. My world seemed to be falling apart. I had trouble writing. My nightmares were getting worse. Maureen walked out. I was making my family nervous. I was trying to hold it all together and pretend I was okay. It occurred to me that I needed a virtual assistant. I went online and found Iona Bryant.”
“Did anyone recommend her to you?”
Ambrose went very still, his eyes stark. “No. I can’t remember why I settled on her. Everything about her just seemed, you know, perfect.”
“Sometime in the weeks after San Diego you decided you neededan assistant and almost immediately you found Ms.Perfect online. I hate to say this, but that does not sound like a coincidence.”
Ambrose massaged his forehead with one hand. “Call me paranoid, but I am inclined to agree. What does it sound like?”
“A delayed hypnotic suggestion that was implanted during your lost night in San Diego?”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
“It’s just a hypothesis,” Pallas said. “You told me your family gave you the number of the Carnelian Sleep Institute when they staged the intervention. You said your brother did an online search and found the clinic.”