The Mechanic

-Chapter Twenty-Eight-

Location: Olympia, Washington, US

Lottie wouldn't be surprised if her laptop keeled over from pure shock of what it's being put through.

Hours upon hours of wedding dress shopping.

Or rather, looking. She hasn't actually done anything serious yet. Though, she wonders, looking down at the list of budgets that Paul wrote up, if it wouldn't be wise just to pick one and get it over with.

His lack of concern over how much she spends unnerves her.

She's just about to click through another page of dresses when her phone rings.

Sighing, she closes her laptop and starts toward the kitchen to make herself some tea. The phone continues to ring, but she ignores it.

After filling the kettle halfway with water, she sets it on the burner. She answers the call right before it would stop ringing and holds the phone up to her ear. "Hello?"

Silence on the other end. A static-y buzzing, and a quiet popping. "Hello."

She frowns a little bit. "Who is this?"

"Uh... well, that's not really important." It's a man, and his voice is kind of tight-sounding, almost choked.

"It's very important, buddy," she chuckles. "Who are you, and why are you calling me?"

Static. "I'm sorry."

"No, no, it's fine. But what do you want?"

"You knew my girlfriend?"

She frowns, looking around suspiciously. "Did I?"

"Yeah. Her name was Femi, red hair, pretty eyes?"

Lottie's heart stills. She swallows, pulls the phone away from her ear to check the number, and squints at the seemingly-average collection of digits.

"Ma'am?"

"You're kidding."

"I'm what?" he chokes on the last word, voice weak.

"How..." She swallows, stomach churning. "Is this Paris Verloren?"

Static. The silence pops with it. "Yes."

"Oh my gosh." She covers the speaker of the phone just long enough to screech a string of bewildered exclamations. "Sorry about that. Might I ask why you're calling?"

Silence. Even the static seems to quiet for a moment.

"Femi is dead."

Cold.

Lottie's heart drops like a cold, sharp rock in her chest. All that she can manage in return—a simple question—comes out as a whisper. "She's dead?"

The line pops with more static.

"Paris, it's alright."

He doesn't say anything.

"How long?" she whispers after a while of listening to the phone line buzz with static.

"Almost three weeks."

Three weeks? It's only been... a few days. A week, Lottie's time, since the last time she watched the Software.

But the story does move faster in some places. Days can come in hours.

And somehow, across the lines of reality, Lottie is on the phone with someone who "doesn't exist."

She releases her uncertainty in a shaky exhale. "How did it happen?"