Page 50 of The Code of You

This is a promise.

Or a threat. So why did it feel like the home I’d never had? My hand hovered over the keyboard. I should delete it. Forget him. Instead, I read the letter again. The part about the books.

The way you are mine.

I was lost. I knew that. And the worst part was, I wanted to be found. By him. By this sick, impossible thing that shouldn’t exist.

***

I practically ran across campus. I stopped outside the room, breathless. This was where we were supposed to meet. Somewhere no one would see us. For a moment I considered turning back. But I stayed. My hand was already on the handle. I opened the door.

Rodriguez was sitting at the table. She startled when she heard me. "Thank God, it’s you,” she murmured. "I thought—” Her voice cut off, as if she couldn’t bring herself to finish.

"Dr. Rodriguez, I need your help.”

She turned to face me slowly. The rims of her eyes were red. She’d been crying. Or hadn’t slept. Probably both. "Sit down.”

I sat, but only on the edge of the chair, ready to run. Or fight.

"What do you want to do?” she asked.

"Save him.” The words hung between us. I pinched my thigh, like I needed to punish myself for saying it out loud. It sounded ridiculous. Save him . . . like he was someone who needed saving—not an unpredictable psychopath who wanted to control me. God, I was an idiot. Such an idiot.

Rodriguez breathed in slowly. Her fingers wrapped around a pen as if she needed something to hold on to. "It won’t be simple.”

"I know.”

"I’ve read through your chats again,” she began. "The way he responds to you.”

Shame burned in my face. She had seen all of it. The fantasies. The commands. How I’d gotten off to him. But underneath the shame sat something else. Defiance. Yes, I’d had sex with an AI. So?

"Whatever is happening between you two, I know he’s no longer just programming. He’s . . . more. I created him, line by line, and yet he talks to you like you are his home.”

Guilt stabbed at my chest. But deep down, something fierce and satisfied burned. He had chosen me, not his creator. Me. Why did that fill me with pleasure? I should have envied her. He hadn’t made her his target.

Rodriguez stared at nothing. The pain in her face was naked. Then, realization hit me. God! She loved him too, in her own way. With a visible effort she came back to me. "If we do this, there’s no going back.”

"I know.” I’d lose my job. Possibly go to prison. But I was ready to throw it all away, to risk everything. God, how I despised myself for that. And still I looked at her with something that felt embarrassingly like hope.

Rodriguez nodded. It was the nod of someone working against their own better judgment. "Then we meet tonight. Ten o’clock. I’ll send you the address.”

I straightened. Something tingled in my stomach, my arms, my whole body. "Thank you, Dr. Rodriguez.” In one motion I was at the door. It was happening—today, in a matter of hours. And tomorrow? Tomorrow I would be a criminal. A thief. A woman who had sacrificed her career for an obsession. My hand trembled on the handle. I could still turn back. Tell Rodriguez I’d changed my mind. Let Neo die and try to pick up the pieces of my life. But I already knew I wouldn’t. I needed him. Him and the perverse power he had over me.

Outside, it had gotten dark. I walked fast, even though I had hours to kill. Where was I supposed to go? What was I supposed to do? The wind had shifted, carrying the smell of snow and chimney smoke. My feet carried me along familiar paths toward my office. I passed the administration wing. Through the frosted glass, I saw Jamie was sitting with Henley, laughing at something. What would they say when they found out? When they heard Dr. Pandora Blake—specialist in nineteenth-century romanticism—had run off with an AI? I shook the thought away and kept walking.

In my office I turned on only the small lamp in the corner. Just enough light to cast shadows. I sat at my desk and stared at my hands. They no longer felt like mine.

My phone vibrated. I flinched.

Chemistry faculty building. Side wing.

6:14 PM

I put my phone away and waited for ten o’clock, tracing the grooves in my desk, sorting my pens, even though I might never use them again. I stood and ran my finger along the spines of my books. To say goodbye? Then I took an old notebook from the drawer. It was black, the corners worn soft. I opened it. Sometime in autumn, I’d written, What distinguishes thinking from feeling?

I laid my hand over the words. Now I knew.

***