“All right,” he echoes.
He’s calm now, and the weird thing with his eyes is gone. Maybe I imagined it? But he still isn’t acting like himself. He went from verbally sparring with me to almost liking me, and then there was that moment where he looked way too intense. And now he’s all glassy-eyed, like a zombie, following meekly behind me as we head down the hall. He’s behaving the same way that guy with the cocktail did, when I used “the tone” on him. Dazed and compliant.
It reminds me of the stories my dad sometimes tells about my grandmother. He doesn’t like talking about her career, because as a man devoted to science and logic, it embarrasses him. She was a medium, a mentalist, and a hypnotist—fairly well known in certain circles. She went on tour a few times, and she had a shop where she read tarot cards and held séances. She could hypnotize people, put them into a suggestible state and make them perform tasks. She even won some awards for her skills as a mentalist.
I’ve often wished she had lived longer. I only remember a few conversations with her—a handful of gifts I still cherish. She died when I was seven, and yet I’ve always felt more connected to her than to my mom’s parents.
Years ago, after one of Dad’s stories about her, I watched a documentary on hypnotism, and from what I saw, hypnotism and mentalism aren’t inherited gifts. They have to be learned and practiced, like anything else. It seems silly to think that I could have hypnotized Cody without meaning to. Although according to the documentary, certain sounds and vocal rhythms can affect brain waves, making a person more docile and suggestible.
There’s only one way to find out if I have inadvertently hypnotized my cousin’s boyfriend. If Jay were here, he’d want to do the scientific thing and devise some tests of this phenomenon. Experimentation to confirm theories.
“Cody,” I say quietly. “Pat your head.”
And he fucking does it.
Okay.
This doesn’t mean it’s hypnotism. Maybe he’s messing with me.
“Cody.” I pause, carefully controlling my voice. “Turn around three times.”
He revolves in place three times.
I stare at him, and he stares back, peaceful and expectant.
This is so, so freaky. And dangerous. And possibly morally wrong.
And also, what the hell?
“We’re going to find Nick,” I tell Cody, softly and firmly. “And we’re going to pretend none of this happened, okay?”
“Okay,” he chimes back.
“Stop it, Cody! Please, just…stop.”
He frowns, his eyes clarifying, refocusing. “Stop what?”
“You were… I mean…” He’s obviously back in control again. And I can’t even begin to explain what happened when I don’t understand it myself. “Let’s just find Nick.” I turn and head for the stairs.
“Sure.” Cody inhales as if he’s going to say something else, but when I look back, he only shrugs and descends after me.
The guy at the foot of the steps frowns, as if he’s wondering how I slipped by him, but then his gaze flicks to Cody, and he lets us pass without protest.
My heart is jackhammering in my chest, and Cody keeps stealing glances at me. Finally, he says, “You seem nervous.”
“I’m fine. It’s nothing.” Except it really might be something, and the only way I can figure it out is to collect more evidence. So here goes.
“I overhead a bit of your phone conversation,” I say to Cody. “And I was wondering… Is Jay in trouble? Who’s the Wolfsheim person you were talking to?”
He shakes his head. “Spying and eavesdropping. Naughty, naughty.”
“Are you going to answer my question?”
“No. If you want answers, talk to Gatsby.”
Okay then. Now I know this is a question he won’t willingly answer. Which makes it the perfect control factor to test my “hypnotic voice” theory.
We descend the steps to the second floor, but when we reach the landing I step in front of Cody, look into his eyes, and say in my silkiest tone, “Tell me what I need to know, Cody. Tell me who Wolfsheim is.”
His eyes drift instantly, sliding from mine.
Oh my god, is it actually working? “Cody, tell me who Wolfsheim is,” I say soothingly. “Come on. You can trust me.”
His voice is hollow, toneless. “Wolfsheim is the one who made me. He likes things done a certain way, the traditional way. Not the way Gatsby and I are doing them.”
“The one who made you?” My excitement surges but I press it down, keeping my voice soft and lyrical. “You mean he’s your dad? Or the one you got your money from?”
“He made me,” he repeats. “He’s not my father. And the money is mostly Gatsby’s. This whole thing was his plan.”
“What plan?” I urge. But at that moment Cody’s phone chimes, and he frowns, confused, his hands drifting over his pockets as if he’s not sure what to do.
“It’s fine. Go ahead and check it,” I say in my normal voice.
He’s back to himself again, casually taking the phone out and examining the text. “It’s Nick. He’s waiting for me.” His mouth curves, and I could swear he’s blushing a little.
Either the introduction of a new sound or the return to my normal voice snapped him out of the daze. I’m not sure which it was, and honestly, I’ve had enough experimentation for now. I think if I don’t dive into some kind of mindless entertainment, I just might start screaming or crying from sheer nervous exhaustion and too many fucking changes in my life.
“Before you go, would you mind telling me where the VR game room is? I don’t want to go back into that crowd right now.” The VR room might be a good place to hide out from Jay and to process the freaky, freaky weirdness that is me and my hypno-voice.
