Page 101 of Mastermind

It feels like a prison built by a machine. There’re no shower sexual assaults or illicit drugs that I’m aware of, but there’s also no library, classes, or church services. I have a cell with a toilet and a shower. At the end of my bed is a television that I can only control with my voice.

With a little human interaction, it could be a model for prisons everywhere, except for one detail—it has to cost a ridiculous amount of money to keep me here. This is a place reserved for a certain kind of criminal, though I haven’t a clue what that kind of criminal is supposed to be.

Maybe like me? I don’t know.

There are footsteps that sound like heels. I can smell a whiff of perfume. This would be Dr. Diane. She’s one of the psychologists who interview me twice a week. She’s never been formally introduced as a psychologist, and I’m sure Diane is merely the name she shrinks under. I can tell from her questions that she is highly educated but horrible at statistics and has only a weak understanding of world events.

She asks me questions, usually through the television, about my well-being, then random ones about potential network vulnerabilities or whether I’ve communicated with certain hacking groups.

I imagine that somewhere at the other end of those questions is an intelligence analyst typing into a web form like they’re ordering Korean food.

“Dr. Cray, you have a visitor,” says Dr. Diane. “I’m here to remind you that we’ve made you aware that the procedures and practices in this facility are national secrets. You may talk about your well-being, shows you’ve watched, and books you’ve read. But you may not discuss our conversations or any other aspects of our facility. May I get a verbal yes from you before you’re allowed to see your visitor?”

“Yes, Dr. Diane,” I reply.

Diane’s footsteps retreat, and I hear the heavy plodding of Lagrange as he enters the room.

He tightens the hood on my head, puts a hand on my back, and walks me to another room.

“Sit down,” says Lagrange, using a powerful hand on my shoulder to remind me which way is down.

“Face forward.”

I look straight ahead as the hood is pulled away. When my eyes adjust, I see my reflection in a pane of glass. The room around me is white, like the interior of an Apple store.

A light flickers to life on the other side of the glass, and I see a mirror version of the room I’m in. A door slides open, and I see the face that I’ve been thinking about constantly—and feeling guilty about it.

“Theo,” says Jessica as she steps forward and sits opposite from me across the glass.

“Hey, Jessica,” I reply, giving her a smile to let her know I’m perfectly fine.

“I am so, so sorry,” she says. I can tell from the puffiness around her eyes and the dark circles she’s tried to cover with concealer that these last three weeks have been worse on her than on me.

“It’s not so bad. Last time I was in a jail, I was pretty sure I was about to be killed or one of the guards was going to try to make it all the way to third base with me. Possibly in that order.”

She shakes her head. “Theo, Theo. I’ve been trying to get you out of here and to the minimum-security prison. I’ve also reached out to Heywood . . . ,” she adds hesitantly.

“What?”

“I want to talk him out of this.”

“No! That’s what he wants. You can’t put him in a position of power. He’s a cruel man. He’ll just use that to torment you.”

“Knowing you’re in here is tormenting me. It’s not right.” Tears start to well up in her eyes.

“Hey, it was only a matter of time. I deserve worse than this. I’m okay. More importantly, how’s your father?”

“My father? What do you know about my father?” she asks.

“You had very specific knowledge of Weir’s wife’s cancer medications, and I’ve seen you receive texts on multiple occasions from someone named Dad on your phone,” I reply.

“I didn’t know you knew.”

“I didn’t think you were ready to tell me. It’s a heavy burden to put on someone,” I say. “And I suspected you didn’t want me to revisit what happened to my dad.”

“He’s doing okay. We think he has a good chance of remission. That could give him several years.” Jessica pounds her fist on the counter. “That asshole.”

“Your dad?”