Miriam’s study, the converted sunroom, looks down on the street. A bank of windows with a long narrow desk beneath. Laptop, sprawl of paperwork, the lamp always on. The top lip of the filing cabinet sits partially open and I’m grateful I don’t have to riffle through the drawers for a key.
I slide the bottom drawer out, steel myself for Mom’s handwriting on the sticky labels. April, I correct myself. Miriam cleared this drawer for all April/Evie previous life documents. Deed to the house in Pennsylvania, birth certificates, passports, insurance documents, bank statements, credit history, tax forms, report cards, awards. What I want is the clear plastic zip file with the keys to Nan and Pop’s “beach house”: a neglected bungalow in Virginia, eroded by sea salt, lowering property value for its neighbours on an annual basis. Not a solution, but a starting point.
Flicking through the files, haphazard in my rush, I finally land on the right one. I cock my head, alert for the warning tread of footsteps on the stairs, but all I can hear is wind and rain roiling the trees outside.
The plastic zip runs smoothly open. Laser-printed sheets with directions and visitor instructions scanned from typewriter copy back when Nan and Pop rented the place to low-budget summer vacationers. I slip one out and finger a spare key from the bottom of the sleeve. What’s not in the file is the key to Pop’s old army jeep and the jeep is what I’m counting on. I stay calm. I know the spare key hangs from a ring by the back door of the beach house and there’s another one tucked in the driver’s sun visor. I return the file, ignore my hand tremors, slide the drawer closed, check everything looks as it was, rise shakily and freeze.
There on the desk, beneath the shuffled invoices and printed email requests, the dog-eared corner of a manila folder. Prickling all over with recognition, I nudge the papers an inch. A sticky label. Doctor Sullivan MD Geneticist & Forensic Investigator. My stomach swoops. Aiden’s file. I haven’t seen it since the night of the attack at the Gallaghers’ estate. I see myself sitting at Barb and Leonard’s dining table, Miriam, Kitty and her family watching me as Doctor Sullivan confirms the identity of the Stray.
I hesitate then flip open the cover and there’s Aiden’s photo in black and white, the pages of documents recording his adoption, the death of his adoptive parents, his admission to foster care … Miriam must have been going back through the file. I bite my lips to stifle the flood of emotion. At the back sit the transparencies with our DNA coding all plotted out, Miriam, Aiden, me. I hold them up to the lamp, layering them like Doctor Sullivan showed me that night. The patterns that match and the anomalies of the Stray mutation.
Hope. It comes on me like a swift and rippling wave. My scalp tingles with it. I’m holding in my hand the evidence of Aiden’s Stray mutation, taken from blood samples collected before Aiden deactivated. This is what I need, a new sample from Aiden, his DNA coding plotted out as it is today. Hard evidence that Affinity can’t deny. Is this what Miriam’s planning too? It makes me giddy. I can’t let her be the one who defies Affinity. I won’t let her.
It’s hard to resist the temptation to pocket Aiden’s transparency, but I don’t want to give myself away. I stuff them all back in the folder and flip the cover shut. I scramble for a pen, my hands shaking so badly it takes me several attempts to copy down Doctor Sullivan’s number on the notepad. I rip out the page, fold it and jam it in my pocket. I try to rearrange the emails and invoices back as I found them, my brain leaping ahead, already making lists, planning for contingencies.
Tiptoeing back up the hall, I glance over the banister for signs of Miriam but the coast is clear. I need one more thing.
When I slip into the bathroom, I crank the shower faucet and close the door. I get down on my knees and dig in the back of the cabinet for Miriam’s medical kit. Inside the wall, pipes gurgle and burp, the water interfering with the bandwidth, increasing my agitation.
My fingernails catch the stitched edge of Miriam’s leather case. I drag it out and fumble the zip. It sticks at one corner. I force myself to slow down to work it free. The kit’s a jumbled mess. I feel in the bottom for the smooth glass vials of Fretizine and scoop two into my palm. Folding them inside a bath towel, with a couple of disposable syringes, a scalpel and bandages, I freeze at the sound of footsteps on the landing then slap the kit closed, not bothering to zip it shut before shoving it back into the cupboard. A tap on the door and Miriam pokes her head in, dripping sweat and breathing hard. “Evie, I–”
“What?” I struggle with my buttons. The shower running was meant to be a deterrent. “I’m getting undressed, here.”
“Sorry.” Miriam frowns, scanning my jogging gear, taking in the mud splatter and damp clothes. “You’re late. I was worried. Did you run the whole ridge?”
I nod.
“Remember you’re grounded and it’s a school night.”
I jut my jaw.
“Have you eaten?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I know you’re upset but you can’t afford to skip meals. It’s irresponsible with your metabolism. Your system requires constant refuelling, you know that. You could black out while you’re crossing the road and be hit by a truck.”
“I’m not crossing the road. I’m taking a shower.”
“You know what I mean. Your system is very sensitive and you need to take care of yourself. Pining for Jamie–”
“Have you spoken to anyone, yet? About Aiden?”
Her mouth tightens. “We discussed this in the car. Stay out of it.”
I turn my back and yank my shirt over my head, anger and fear laminating my resolve. There’s a pause, as though she might say something, but then the door clicks closed.
REQUESTS
I weave through the stream of Gainsborough students, several grinning and animated in red T-shirts with blue slogans, worn over sweatshirts or peeking through gaps in jackets. I wonder if I’ve forgotten something. Is it red T-shirt day? A fundraising thing? I trudge on, trying not to hunch against the fading tenderness in my abdomen, the low buzz of my pins and needles. A soft clinking comes from my backpack, the vials of Fretizine, syringes, medical supplies, a knife I took from Miriam’s training room and one of her vests and balaclavas, plus a change of clothes. Today would be a bad day for a security search. My sneakers squeak on the hardwood but I can’t seem to lift my feet. Everything looks fuzzy in the pale morning light. I blink up at the high windows, at the burnished oak lockers, but can’t seem to clear my eyes. Are people staring or am I being paranoid? I fidget with my hair, brushing it down over my shoulders, patting it close to my neck, awkward, conspicuous, as though my freak status has amplified with the implant. Another huge yawn cracks my jaw and I scan the crowd for Kitty.
I spot her down at the end of the corridor with Pete. My head fills with the sound of my pulse. Can I do it? Can I really do this to her?
She leans back against her locker, smiling up at Pete. He holds her hand, their heads close together. Why are they so close? It hits me, the dance. The Halloween dance. Catwoman and Batman and their date. The realisation makes me light-headed; it was only three nights ago. Three nights. I draw a shaky breath and lean against the wall, losing track of my next steps. What am I doing?
All around me normal girls and boys walk the corridor. I bet they’re thinking about normal things like schedules and homework or whatever. Maybe some of them have crappy lives, horrible parents, terrible grades. Still, on the scale, normal. They’re checking books in their lockers, posting bulletins about debate club and pep rallies. They’re greeting friends, exchanging gossip, sharing photos from the dance on their phones. Meanwhile, I’m here with a goddamn implant in my neck and hands that can kill a grown man and anger that explodes glass. I imagine my signal radiating like poisonous gas, tainting the atmosphere.