Page 1 of Ruined Omega

PART ONE:

THE HIVE

CHAPTER 1: HINES

This restaurant is nice. Way too nice for the likes of me.

The place is dim and cavernous, fronted by floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto streetlights and the dense evening traffic of the city hive. Three crystal chandeliers suspended high overhead cast a warm, gentle glow over the well-dressed patrons and white tablecloths. A tuxedoed pianist is playing unobtrusively in the corner, and his tinkling jazz number mingles with the restaurant sounds—the clink of silverware and the soft hub-bub of conversation, punctuated now and then by the pop of a cork or a burst of elegant laughter.

Everyone here seems to be thoroughly enjoying themselves.

Everyone except for me.

There are several things I don’t like about this place. For one, it’s too open, too spacious. For another, it’s too dark. Both of those factors have my danger instincts on high-alert. I feel vulnerable, like a sitting duck. But the worst part is that I allowed myself to be seated with my back to the front door.

Stupid, Hines. Real stupid.

For about the hundredth time during this dinner, I turn in my seat and cast what I think is a discreet glance toward the glass entrance.

“Everything okay?” Martin, my date, mumbles through a mouthful of food. “You seem nervous.”

“I’m fine,” I lie. “Sorry, I just…I thought I saw someone I knew.”

Martin just shrugs and forks another hunk of steak into his mouth before he’s even finished chewing the previous bite.

He doesn’t look anything like his photo from the dating website. A few long, greasy strands of hair have been combed over the top of his head in an attempt to conceal his bald scalp. His soft, ruddy jowls wobble as he chews his food. He’s expending so much energy devouring his steak that he’s literally breaking a sweat. He washes down his mouthful of meat with some red wine, draining his glass in one gulp before grabbing the bottle for a refill.

Then again, I’m not one to talk. After all, I lied on my own dating profile too. Oh, my pictures are real, all of them taken in the past couple of months. It’s the other information that’s false, like my name and bio.

“Your spaghetti isn’t good?” Martin asks, eyeing my barely touched plate.

“Oh, no. It’s really delicious.”

I muster a smile and take a bite of shrimp and pasta.

This time I’m not lying at least. The food really is delicious—shrimp Fra Diavolo on a bed of bucatini (not spaghetti) cooked al dente. It’s spicy, but not too spicy—just enough to tingle my tongue without overpowering the rich flavors of the herbs, pasta, and shrimp.

Unfortunately, I simply don’t have much of an appetite tonight.

Paranoia will do that to a girl.

The truth is, I’m a complete train wreck. Yes, I managed to fix myself up for this date with Martin, but underneath my makeup, jewelry, and sexy but sensible red dress, I’m struggling to hold myself together. I’ve barely slept a wink in the past six months. And whenever I do sleep, it’s never for more than an hour at a time. I always wake up shivering and covered in cold sweat. Whenever I leave my apartment, which is rarely, I’m constantly looking over my shoulder, checking to see if anyone is following me.

And I’m certain that someone is following me.

I’ve never gotten a good look at them. Just the briefest glimpse of a shadow—a big, burly shadow—ducking into a doorway or down a darkened alley. It’s like one of those sleep-deprived hallucinations that flicker at the edge of your peripheral vision.

But I’m sure this shadow I keep seeing is no hallucination.

I’m sure he’s real.

I don’t know exactly who is following me, but I’ve got a pretty good idea. Somebody from SynerGen who wants revenge for what I did. Or maybe someone from the government who wants to tie up a loose end.

That’s me. Shelley Hines. The loose end.

Across the table, Martin dabs his damp forehead with his napkin, loosens his sweat-stained collar with a hooked finger, and goes back to work sawing on his steak.

“Anyway, as I was saying, something has to be done about it, don’t you agree, Sherri?” Martin asks, calling me by the fake name I used on my dating profile.