“Miss Parker.  If you’re playing this tape, it means you’ve found your room.  I hope you like it.  I made a few additions that should make your stay more… homey.  If I’m not there now—if I am, you can just turn off the tape—then I’ll be there shortly.  I just had to pick up some groceries and a few other supplies.  Typing oh-four-seven into your wall console will play Plains in here; typing one will get you to a main menu, for security, entertainment, temperature adjustments, and communications features.  You can have the patent, if you want it.  If you’ve been exploring, like I know you have, then I probably have a few explanations to make.  But don’t worry, Miss Parker.  I would never harm your family or get them involved with the Centre.  Or involved with me.”    The tape hissed for a moment, then clicked and rewound.    The guest room was smaller than Jarod’s bedroom, but just as comfortable.  And there were little touches, but they didn’t set her more at ease.  Actually, they made her uncomfortable, not because it was difficult to scan and print a photograph, but because one had to have the original to do so.    The magazines, lined up on the oak bookshelf, were eerie, too.  All the ones Centre projects had appeared in since she’d taken the directorship, including exclusive periodicals reserved for the kind of extremely private think-tanks like the Centre.  One of them, Connections, showed her and Broots standing together in front of a busy Tech Room on the front cover, with the headline A DECADE OF CHANGE: PARKER’S TENTH YEAR.  Look at us, she thought, smiling.  Victors in the corporate wars.  She remembered that year.   A good one.    There were brand-new copies of old classics, all the familiar ones she had at home, and a few interesting-looking new ones, too.  A line of Michael Crichton’s, and a few by Dean Koontz.  Even a couple by that new author, Jamie Chains.  She hated science fiction, because she felt like she was living a science-fiction movie half the time, but she loved thrillers, when she had time to read anything at all.    In the closet were clothes in her size, mostly jeans and sweaters, but a few nice business suits, too.  There was also an anorak and a pair of boots.  Jarod had chosen well.    She opened the large window and let air breathe into the room.  She sat down on the double bed with the patchwork quilt which took up most of the bedroom, leaned back, and sighed.  She didn’t know how she would greet Jarod whenever he got here, with anger or with gratitude.  Probably with curiosity, mixed with a little annoyance.     Right now, Parker was exhausted, and lonely.  Jarod’s home was empty, dead, without anyone inside but her.  She took her new plastic phone from her pocket and spoke Broots’ name, glad she had invested in one of the small PhoneDiscs which held her phone number and saved names from phone to phone.  Ring—click. “You’ve reached the Centre Tech Room.  I’m not here right now, um, you can try to reach me on the computer.  Or you can leave a message.”    “Broots, it’s me.  I guess you took the day off like I said.  It’s all right, though; this isn’t an emergency.  I just wanted to talk.  Well, say hello to Debbie for me, if you go to the hospital, and my father.  And call me when you get back to work.”  She hung up.    There were a few other people she could call.  Her father, but he probably wouldn’t remember her voice.  Sydney would certainly be interested in what Jarod’s place looked like after all these years, and he would be glad to hear her voice.  But there was someone else she had the wickedest temptation to call—Kara Depp, the woman whom Lyle had screwed over, but hadn’t killed.  She’d be at work right now, and Nate, if he knew what was good for him, would be at school.  She said the name anyway.  “The Depps.”    Nate’s childish voice—he was fourteen—was the one on the answering machine.  “You’ve reached the Depps at 894-3093.  We’re not available to come to the phone right now, but leave a message after the beep, and we’ll return your call as soon as possible.”  At first, Kara hadn’t wanted a thing to do with her, or any of Lyle’s family, and Parker couldn’t blame her.  But years had taught them to trust each other, and though Kara and Parker might not be the best of friends, Nate adored her.  She’d told him she was CEO of a big company, which was close enough to the truth.    She’d also said, quite frankly, when he asked, that his father had been an asshole, which didn’t go over well with Kara, but did go much better than it would’ve with any other mom; Kara had known Lyle.  She didn’t speak.  Suddenly, she didn’t know what to say.  She just hung up, and pondered calling again just to hear her nephew’s innocent voice.  If Jarod had touched him—of course, he wouldn’t, but if he’d told Nate anything about his life, about his aunt, than Parker might well kill him.  She would definitely refuse the scheme he’d outlined to her vaguely in the coffee shop.  And she’d leave.  Even if she had to walk.    After a while, she slept, the sound of piano music chasing her into darkness.    A dog chuffed and slobbered on her face.  She blinked and tried to remember where she was.  Jarod’s house.  It was twilight.    She groaned and rolled over.  A yellow Labrador jumped on her bed, wagging its tail, license tags clinking.  She pushed it away.  “Get out of here.  Shoo,” she mumbled sleepily.  The dog jumped from the bed and dashed out of the room.  Its claws clicked on the wooden floor.  Miss Parker preferred cats.     She rolled out of bed and examined herself in the full-length mirror.  Her nice red suit was wrinkled all to hell, and she needed a shower.  Her eyes were still half-lidded with sleep, there was a terrible taste in her mouth, and her hands hurt.  She needed a shower.  She was confused, angry, and a little scared.    It was a crappy way to spend an evening.    She found a brush and fixed her hair, without bothering to flip it.  Parker thought for a moment, then removed her phone and put it on the bedside table.  It was flashing ONE INTERNET MESSAGE—CLYDE@CENTRENET.COM—SUBJ:  HOW’S BONNIE?    Parker smiled wearily.  Broots.  Sometimes, he worried about her too much.  She would call him at home.  Later.  Now, she took off her suit and pulled on a pair of jeans, a maroon turtleneck, and a loose-woven black sweater.  She smiled at herself.  Loose the crow’s feet and the smile lines, ditch the gray—she’d look like a college student.  Ha!   Maybe ten years ago.  She yawned and interlocked her fingers, stretching them high over her head.   Jarod was clanking around in the kitchen. Such a pretty little domestic scene.  The kind of thing she’d dreamed about for them when she was eleven, with a couple of little kids running around in the backyard.  But neither of them were destined for the picket fence kind of life.  No children, no marriage… from an evolutionary standpoint, they were complete failures.