Code (3 page)

CHAPTER 4

D
r. Michael Iglehart strode the hall, ignoring his companion.

Dr. Sundberg prattled on about login issues and allocating server space, but Iglehart had checked out.

The Brennan girl rankled him. Now he had an errand to complete.

“I can only offer runtime after hours,” Sundberg continued. “The backup is temporary—we’ll have expansion packs in place by early next month. Dr. Howard has signed orders doubling our computing capacity.”

“Wonderful.” Choking back the bile in his throat.

Having to ask Anders Sundberg for permission was insult enough. Needing Kit Howard’s authority was almost intolerable.

Life is never fair. Ever.

Iglehart had joined LIRI before either of these imbeciles. The three of them had nearly identical CVs. Now one ran his department, and the other headed the entire freaking institute!

And why? Because Kit Howard found a treasure in some sinkhole.

And what, pray, for Dr. Iglehart? Nothing. Zilch. Nada. The two frauds assumed he’d be
grateful
just to retain his position.

On that count, they’d miscalculated. Badly.

“Mike?”

Iglehart’s attention snapped back to the present. He’d walked right past the conference room.

“Staff meetings still take place in here.” Sundberg grinned, holding the door. “And don’t worry about Triton, we’ll get you squared away.”

Iglehart forced a smile. “Sorry. I’ve forgotten a file I’ll need. Won’t be a moment.”

“Sure.” Sundberg waved a hand. “I can hold off for five. Take your time.”

“Thanks.”
Such graciousness from his lordship.
“Back in two shakes.”

Iglehart hurried to his phone booth–sized office and pressed the space bar on his computer.

How he hated the cramped, windowless dungeon. Metal desk. Straight back chair. Soulless institutional bookshelves. Never enough space. To do any real research, he was forced to hunt for open conference rooms.

Which meant endless interruptions by the idiots working around him. Idiots with
bigger
offices. Galling.

So he’d taken steps. Howard and Sundberg thought him content to eat whatever scraps fell from their tables? Think again.

Howard had been director for two months, yet here Iglehart remained. Stuck in a broom closet with a second-rate Dell.

Not for long.

Agitated, he tapped the keyboard again. The institute’s logo finally appeared on-screen. Entering the backdoor code he’d been given in secret, Iglehart accessed LIRI’s mail server and deactivated the security protocols. Safely off the grid, he began to type.

The email was short and to the point. He knew what his contact wanted, even if the reasoning escaped him.

Iglehart pressed send, reset the protocols, and slapped his laptop shut.

You shouldn’t have ignored me, Kit.

Wearing a satisfied smirk, Iglehart hurried to meet the coworkers he despised.

CHAPTER 5

I
sensed trouble the moment I turned my key.

Coop shot inside and up the short flight of stairs to our townhome’s small living room. Where he froze, tail erect and bristling.

Only one thing caused that reaction in my wolfdog: Kit’s gal pal.

Blargh.

I trudged up the steps to see Whitney Dubois scootched to one end of my couch, eyeing Coop as she might an intruding ax murderer.

Mascaraed eyes darted in my direction. “Tory, control this creature!”

“Relax.” I clicked my tongue. Coop glanced my way, padded to his doggie bed, circled three times, and sat. “He’s just surprised to find you here. In our house. Alone. Unannounced.”

“I came to
feed
you.” Manicured hands poofed her salon-blonde hair. “Lord knows what you’ve been eating lately. Your daddy spends
far
too much time at work. And on the weekend, no less!”

“Kit’s the director,” I said flatly. “It’s a demanding position.”

“But that makes him the boss.” Whitney’s nose crinkled as her deep blue eyes filled with incomprehension. “Can’t he leave whenever he wants?”

“That’s not how it works.” I suppressed a sigh. “To get LIRI back on its feet, Kit has a thousand details to square away. He’s chairing board meetings, managing the expansion, all while still overseeing day-to-day operations. Plus, he has responsibilities to the trust. It’s a huge job right now.”

“He should delegate.” Whitney’s voice carried the conviction of someone with no idea what she’s talking about. “Be more proactive.”

“He can’t.” This time, the sigh escaped. “Kit will be very busy until LIRI is finally straightened out. That’s going to be months, not weeks.”

Kit had talked with me about this before accepting the post. At length. I’d given my full approval—Kit becoming LIRI’s director meant no one had to move. That my friends’ parents’ jobs were safe, too. To keep everyone in Charleston, I’d have agreed to
much
worse than an overly busy father. Anything to preserve my pack.

Apparently Kit had failed to have the same conversation with Whitney.

“He needs to spend more time with his family,” she said firmly.

That’s me, not you.

“Whatever.” Something else had snagged my attention.

Throw pillows littered the couch on which Whitney lounged with her half-eaten peach. Lime green ones, with swirling pink embroidery.

New. Frilly.
Definitely
not a Kit purchase.

I scanned the room, noted other troubling developments.

There, on the bookshelf: a black-and-white porcelain vase. And on the mantel: the picture of Kit’s bowling team had been replaced by a framed shot of Kit and Whitney on the beach, wearing identical blue sweaters.

Other minor changes dotted the living room. A small ficus. Ceramic bookends. A wicker magazine caddy.

What the hell?

Kit and I share a townhouse on Morris, a four-square-mile island forming the south half of the entrance to Charleston Harbor. It’s a skinny, four-story home that goes up more than out. On the ground floor is an office and single-car garage. Our kitchen, dining, and sitting areas make up the second level, while floor three consists of sleeping quarters. Upon my arrival Kit moved into the one in back, giving me the larger front bedroom overlooking the ocean.

Our top floor is Kit’s man cave—an impressive media center that opens onto a spacious outdoor roof deck with a stunning view of the Atlantic. Every scrap of furniture was purchased from the good folks at Pottery Barn or IKEA. All in all, it’s nice, so long as you can handle all the stairs.

Our entire neighborhood consists of ten identical units built inside a 430-foot concrete structure formerly known as Fort Wagner—a remnant of the island’s days as a Civil War outpost. The community is so small that even most locals think Morris is uninhabited. Save for us, it is.

No other modern structures exist. There’s only one road—an unpaved strip of asphalt winding south through the dunes before crossing to Folly Island. Our sole lifeline to civilization.

The Loggerhead Trust had recently purchased the whole landmass, and leased the units to scientists working on Loggerhead. The Stolowitskis occupied one, as did the Blues and the Devers family, making my crew some of the planet’s most isolated teenagers.

The remoteness on Morris keeps visitors to a minimum. Yet here was Whitney, loafing on my sofa, making herself at home.

And practicing interior design.

I felt a hot flash of anger. The peroxide queen had overstepped—she had no right to redecorate my home without asking. She didn’t live there. Wasn’t my mother.

Whoa. There it was. As the emotional wave struck, I fought back tears.

Backstory. I’d come to live with Kit nine months earlier, after a drunk driver killed Mom. The pain of her loss still lingered just below the surface. Most of the time. Until some trigger caught me off guard.

Like unauthorized throw pillows on my couch.

I first met Kit a week after the accident. We got off to a rocky start, but lately had managed to find some common ground. That is, when I wasn’t busy getting shot at, or being arrested.

Kit once said I terrified him. He meant it in a good way. I think. Pretty sure.

Though light-years from a normal father-daughter relationship, we weren’t total strangers anymore. Progress. Baby steps.

As if I know what a normal father-daughter balance is, anyway.

But one thing became clear straight off. On the topic of Whitney, we did not agree.

I found the woman vapid, tactless, nosy, and overbearing. To Kit she was pure enchantment. Go figure. Bottom line, I had to endure her presence.

So far, I’d mostly succeeded. Barely. But here she went again.

Talk to Kit later. No point arguing now.

Movement in my periphery distracted me. Coop, scenting food, had slunk to the edge of the coffee table.

Whitney noticed at the same time. “Back! Back!” Swatting downward with a cloth napkin. “Get away, you mongrel!”

Whitney smacked Coop’s snout while simultaneously pressing herself deeper into the couch. Coop fixed her with an unblinking ice-blue stare, gray-brown fur bristling along his spine.

“Tory!” Whitney squealed. “He’s going to attack!”

“Maybe.” I walked into the kitchen and snagged a Diet Coke from the fridge. “Try to protect your throat.”

“Tory!!!”

“Oh, relax.” Though enjoying Whitney’s discomfort, I knew Kit wouldn’t share my amusement. “Coop, heel!”

The wolfdog trotted to my side and sat. I couldn’t prove it, but I swear he looked pleased with himself.

Whitney straightened her clothes, rolled her eyes skyward seeking patience, then rose and walked into the dining room.

“It’s dinnertime.” Placing flatware on the table. “I brought catfish po’boys, Cajun style. Black-eyed peas on the side.”

I’ll give Whitney one thing—she knows good food. I could usually tolerate her company if bribed with Lowcountry deliciousness.

I’d nearly finished my po’boy when she blew it again.

“I spoke to the Women’s Committee today.” Daintily wiping glossy red lipstick from her teeth. “It’s just not practical to return you to next year’s cohort. The invitations have been printed, and an official roster has gone to the paper. You’ll be making your debut this season after all.”

My head dropped. “What? I’m only fourteen! I’ll be the youngest deb by almost two years!”

Despite my fervent wishes to the contrary, I was being forced to take part in the grand Southern tradition of a debutante ball. Whitney’s idea, though Kit had thrown in his full support. Some nonsense about me needing “more refinement” and extra “girl time.” Like it was
my
fault no teenage XX-chromosomes lived on Morris Island.

I’d been attending cotillion classes for the past six months, learning massively important skills such as formal dance, standing up straight, the proper use of silverware, and the etiquette of hosting a tea party. I hated all the pretension, but there was no escape. Whitney was determined to mold me into a proper young lady.

Okay, it wasn’t
all
bad. I’d made a few friends, and was getting more comfortable around Bolton Prep’s ruling elite. Dressing up was kind of fun. Plus, the organization had a charitable focus, and we spent lots of time doing good works in the community.

But, by age, I should’ve been a
junior
debutante, with my debut taking place the following season.

“You’re a bit early to the party, I admit, but it’s not like you’re setting a record.” Her Southern drawl became aggrieved. “I pulled
a lot
of strings to advance you when we thought you’d have to move away from Charleston. It’s simply too much to untie that bow now.”

My thoughts were already leaping ahead. “When is the ball?”

“Friday after next.” Whitney giggled excitedly. “We’ll need to hustle, and you have some important decisions to make.”

Uh-oh.
“Such as?”

Whitney gave me an indulgent look. “Your marshals and ushers, Tory. You’ll need to select escorts to the ball.”

Call it avoidance. Call it willful blindness. Call it whatever you like.

I can honestly say this hadn’t crossed my mind until that moment.

“What? Who? How many?”

“One of each, usually, but you can include more if you want. But you
must
have a marshal for your debut.”

I gaped. Who in the world could I drag to this disaster? Why would anyone want to go?

Whitney, as usual, misread me completely.

“I agree it’s a very significant decision. So take some time to think. But I need your choices soon, sweetheart. The invitations will be late, as is, and the boys need to rent tuxedos if they don’t already own them.”

Whitney pushed from the table and began stacking dishes. I mumbled thanks and retreated upstairs to my room. Flopping onto my bed, I couldn’t shake that single, nagging question.

Who?

Whitney’s delusions aside, I didn’t view this as a prime dating opportunity. I didn’t even want to go. Like most cotillion events, I’d probably spend the ball avoiding crowds and trying not to embarrass myself. My goal was to
survive
these things, not make a love connection.

Small confession: I’d never had a quote-unquote boyfriend. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t a convent case or anything—I used to kiss Sammy Branson behind the Dunkin’ Donuts back in Westborough, even though Mom thought he was a total slacker. But I’d never dated anyone seriously. Or even officially.

When could I have? Mom and I had bounced around central Massachusetts for most of my childhood, never staying too long in one place. She’d been my only constant. I was only thirteen when the car accident happened, Mom died, and I was shipped down south to live with Kit.

My first year in Charleston hadn’t been designed for romance. At Bolton Prep I’d been an outcast from day one—a geeky freshman transfer, on scholarship, a year younger than everyone else. How many strikes was that?

I’d had nothing in common with my classmates. My father wasn’t a member of seven country clubs, or on the board of a local hospital. Most of the attention I’d received hadn’t been the pleasant kind.

Outside of school, my world consisted of remote islands, Kit, and my packmates. No prospects there. While Hi, Shelton, and I were as close as friends can be, the idea of any brewing romance would’ve sent us into hysterics. Not gonna happen.

Ben, though. Ben was . . . different. I could admit it to myself, if not to anyone else. He was older, more worldly, and undeniably handsome. The only potential swimmer in Morris Island’s microscopic dating pool. I’d even had a slight crush on him when I’d first moved down here.

But ever since the sickness, and the emergence of our abilities, we’d become a pack. To me, pack was family.

It was better that way. Cleaner. Safer.

“Blargh.”

I stared at my notes, no closer to answering Whitney’s question.

I needed a date.

But who?