The Caretakers by David Nickle Page A

no one wanted to go inside to examine it.
    â€œWhat the fuck?” [email protected] was a thin slip of a girl, with black hair grown past her shoulders and swooping down over her left eye … her right eye, peering out in a sleepy drawl of indifference. She’d underdressed, Evelyn thought, showing up at her first meeting in a loose off-the-shoulder sweater and black tights, dirty white winter boots with a ruffle of faux fur. The cursing didn’t aid the cause any better. “I’m supposed to read minds?”
    â€œNothing to be done,” said Evelyn.
    â€œWell, fuck,” said the girl, and kicked at the carpet with one boot, a gesture that recalled the manner of a horse.
    Because no one else would, Evelyn went into the meeting room, found the marker where it had been dropped on the floor, and used the cloth on the back of it to erase the note. She flicked the lights off, and without looking back, slipped out the door and pulled it shut.
    At the elevator, they each of them checked their phones again to see if there were a message indicating how to proceed, then tucked the devices in purses and pockets when it was clear none had yet arrived.
    â€œWe shouldn’t go far,” said Andrea.
    â€œWhere would we go?” said Bill.
    They made their way down to the hotel’s bar. It overlooked the river, which was not entirely frozen over, and a freeway on the far side. The bar was closed, so Andrea stepped away to arrange for coffee service.
    Evelyn’s phone chirped from her purse, and she checked it. Her daughter had texted her back, finally. STOP , it read. Evelyn slipped the phone back into her purse.
    â€œAny news?” asked Leslie, and Evelyn said, “Nothing.”
    Andrea returned, empty-handed and flustered.
    â€œThey won’t bring it,” she said. “The complimentary breakfast ended an hour ago. The bar doesn’t open until three. Until then, they won’t bring coffee.”
    â€œThat’s not very hospitable,” said Bill.
    â€œIt seems deliberate,” said Andrea.
    â€œWhy are we—”
    â€œYou know why.” Andrea fell emphatically on the sofa and scowled at Bill.
    â€œExcuse me a moment,” said Evelyn, and rose.
    In the restroom, she set herself in a stall and keyed in the passcode to her phone. The text from her daughter hung there on the screen
    STOP
    Evelyn considered that word and, with her thumbs, typed in a reply:
    IN A TELEGRAM STOP WOULD JUST MEAN PUNCTUATION
    Her thumb hovered over the SEND button as she considered deleting her reply and composing a new one. But in her consideration, she trembled, and her thumb brushed near enough, and just like that, the decision was made.
    Evelyn stood and adjusted her skirt, slid the phone away in her purse. When she finally left the restroom, she found Leslie leaning against one wall of the narrow corridor.
    â€œI thought we should talk,” he said, his voice low. “About Amy.”
    â€œAmy?”
    â€œThe new girl,” he said, and Evelyn got it. [email protected].
    â€œAmy,” she said. “What about her?”
    â€œShe left.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    Leslie rested his hand on Evelyn’s shoulder and drew her nearer so he could speak in her ear. “She’s gone. Andrea went after her. Maybe she’ll convince her to come back. But for now, she’s gone .”
    It had happened very quickly. Amy—her name was Amy—had been gnawing on her thumbnail and, after a moment, began to breathe rather heavily, and as Leslie frowned and started to ask what was what, she’d stood up, shook her head violently so that hair spread to the side and for an instant revealed both her eyes. “Fuck this!” she shouted. And then she turned away from them and ran, across the lobby and out the front door into the snow.
    â€œAndrea followed her, but I don’t know how far she’ll get,” said Leslie. His hand moved