Renegade (16 page)

A
couple of hours and false alarms later, I saw the glowing red warning.

I sat up and sure enough, a figure emerged from the house, carrying a box. He wore a bulky black jacket, a black ski cap, and heavy boots. I shifted down in my seat, so I could watch without being seen.

A man. Based on the clothing, it was a man.

Excitement surged like a sudden wind, but it was tempered by the weight of anxiety. Was this Jensen? The man from my memories? Seeing him, in the now . . . my brain bucked at the idea, confounded by its own version of the truth. I craned my neck, but his features were hidden behind the box. He headed straight for the driver’s side of his SUV. As he turned and opened the door, I sighted the back of his head. Dark brown hair, thick with a slight wave. Tall, and well built without being too bulky. Fair-skinned.

My mind retrieved an image, and I leaned up against the glass, my breath forming a white cloud.

It could be him.

He leaned across the driver’s seat to shove the box into the passenger side, then hopped in. I caught a glimpse of sunglasses, but with the way his collar was turned up against the cold, not much more of his face. The cloud on the window grew, in time with my shallow breathing.

I leaned back. Scar? I didn’t remember a scar.

The SUV grumbled to life and within moments started reversing down the first stretch of driveway. I waited for it to turn at the bend and face forward, but no—he angled the car expertly and continued to reverse his way down the second long stretch.

“Is that him? Are we going in soon?”

“Shhh,” I whispered, but despite the nerves fluttering to life in my stomach, I couldn’t help but smile a little at Hunter’s enthusiasm. When the SUV’s rear tires hit the street, I waited with growing anticipation to see which way it would turn. If it came our way, I’d get a look at the driver, but then again, he might get a look at us.

“Get ready to duck,” I murmured to Hunter.

So it was a mix of disappointment and relief that swept me when the man turned in the opposite direction. A few seconds later, the SUV disappeared as it made a right turn onto another street.

“It’s time. Quietly,” I said, before easing my door open.

Hunter was a quick study. He mimicked my actions, making a minimum of noise. Maybe this would work out to my benefit, after all. Checking out the house would go much faster with two of us.

The street remained quiet, so we started a leisurely walk across. I hadn’t seen anyone, but this way if they came upon us, they’d assume we were out for some exercise. On the other hand, if we ran at Jensen’s house like linebackers . . . yeah, that’d be a little more challenging to explain.

“We need to act casual; we don’t want to stick out around here,” I advised.

“Got it,” he said.

He fell into step beside me very naturally.

Like we were good friends.

As we drew closer to the house, I continued to scan the neighboring houses, especially the one right across the street, since it had an excellent view of the front door and garage. We reached the driveway and, without faltering, I steered us onto it.

Hunter leaned over and whispered into my ear. “Shouldn’t we be ducking behind those bushes?” he said, motioning to a green plant with rows of bulbous leaves framing the yard between the drive and the house.

I gave a tiny shake of my head. “Too suspicious. This way, if anyone stops us, we say we’re looking for a lost cat or something. Actually we better come up with a description too, just in case. What about a two-year-old Siamese named Lucy? She could be adopted from the local ASPCA or something.”

He blinked a few times before saying softly under his breath, “You’re really good at that.”

“What?”

“Making people believe everything you say.”

I swallowed hard, wishing that circumstances didn’t force me to be good at this kind of thing. Knowing that the truth of who I was wouldn’t sound the least bit believable to him.

“Come on, let’s keep moving,” I replied.

Two more steps. Then four. Suddenly, we were on the bend in the driveway, and turning. This was going to be easier than I’d expected. No one was out, and nothing stirred—

The high-pitched, rapid barks jerked us both to a stop. And then the sound of a heavy body slamming the fence to our right. At the top, a pair of pointed ears jackknifed over the posts, followed by a pair of dark brown eyes.

A dog. A Doberman.

I recoiled. Dogs—what was it about me and dogs? Please, please tell me this wasn’t going to be a repeat of the Toronto airport, when dogs had chased down Mom and me? As that thought raced through my head, I realized Hunter was walking toward the fence.

“Hunter, get back here!” I hissed, throwing a hasty look over my shoulder. Still quiet across the street, but that wasn’t enough to make me feel safe. Surely the neighbors to our right would be awake now, and if not them, then at least the dog’s owners?

“Hey buddy, it’s okay. You’re a good boy, right? Here’s a treat. Cookie?” Hunter said, using an odd, singsongy voice.

This was nutty. We needed to get out—

But then I heard it. Silence. As Hunter withdrew something from his pocket—was that . . . jerky?—the dog pogoed upward again, his shining eyes glued to Hunter’s treat-laden hand.

“You want this? You have to be a good boy. Quiet, okay? No barking.”

Then, Hunter reached the fence. The next time the dog sprung up, Hunter extended the jerky and, POOF! The dog snatched it and both the jerky and dog disappeared like magic.

“Is that really going to work?” I asked, stunned.

Hunter turned away and shrugged. “We’ll see. Just don’t make any sudden moves or eye contact, okay? But I think he was just barking for attention. He wasn’t growling, and the fur on his ruff wasn’t standing up. And did you hear his barks? Don’t think he meant business—a serious guard dog probably would have been too suspicious to take the food.”

All I’d ever wanted to know about dogs, and more. “What, did you used to train dogs or something?”

He shook his head. “Nope. But my mom watched a lot of Cesar Milan.” He gave me a sideways look and at my blank stare, continued. “You know—the Dog Whisperer?”

“The Dog Whisperer,” I repeated. “You approached a huge, barking dog on the basis of some guy who calls himself the Dog Whisperer?”

Hunter elbowed me in the ribs and I grinned, but it faded when I looked at the house. We still had to get in without being seen—and since we had no idea where Jensen had gone, we could have hours or only minutes to accomplish our task.

“I’m going to check out that back door and see if it’s unlocked—you take the front?” he said, pointing to a door on the nonstreet side of the house that appeared to lead into a room beyond the garage.

“Okay.”

Quietly, I walked along the front of the garage, to where the driveway turned into a brick walkway that led to the front door.

Hurriedly, I took in the surroundings—yellow, pink, and white flowering plants filled a brick-lined planter to my left, and to my right, a pine tree in a cedar-chip enclosure towered overhead. A tiny white sign poking out of the grass.

THIS HOUSE PROTECTED BY EMV ALARMS.

Crap.

I looked up at the moldings around the door, then the windows, and the gleam of wires said it all. The house was rigged with an alarm system. When Jensen had left, had he activated it?

“Hunter,” I breathed, backing away from the door and turning to run. “Hunter,” I tried again, a little louder this time. But before I could hit a sprint, I heard it. A noise where there’d been silence before.

A steady, pulsing beep. Which meant . . .

“Door’s locked.” Hunter’s voice floated around the corner.

I whirled back to the front door, horror-struck. Which meant—Hunter had tried the door, and while it hadn’t unlocked, the motion had done something far more disturbing.

He’d triggered the alarm.

While the beep continued its monotonous countdown, I shook off the shock and went to work. Around the corner, I heard the steady clap-clap of Hunter’s sneakers on asphalt. I opened my mind, searching for a signal from the alarm I knew resided just on the other side of that door. Completely conscious that we were running out of time with every single beep.

Beep. Beep.

Beep.

Maybe I should have panicked. Instead, my senses thrilled to the challenge. I had this. I’d been made for it.

I heard Hunter hesitate while at the same time I felt the click of a connection. The spark of awareness when my mind interlocked with the humming machine just inside the house. So simple—as smooth as the gentle slick of a currycomb over Maisey’s haunches back at the stables in Clearwater—and yet forceful. A heady rush that only came from bending power to my will.

Permissions granted
, the alarm responded.

I strode toward the door, even as the alarm continued to beep. The sinewy tendril of code was within my grasp. All I had to do was trace the tendril back to deactivate the alarm.

I toyed with the code as I approached the door. So simple, it was barely even fun. If I timed it just right . . .

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The alarm beeped, while the countdown played in my head.

Three seconds.

I was two steps away from the door.

Two seconds.

One step.

One second.

I reached for the door handle, at the same time I sent the final command.

At first I didn’t feel the other computer acquiesce, and my confidence slipped. Had I waited a moment too long?

But then I realized the beeping had stopped.

The response slid into my mind:

Cake. Just like I’d thought.

A heady power soared through me, and I turned the knob, reveling as the lock yielded beneath my hand.

Hunter reemerged around the corner.

“I picked the lock.” That was one way to put it.

“One of your agent skills, huh?” he said, skepticism lacing his voice.

I looked over my shoulder and saw him take in the alarm sign. But there was no time to reassure him or offer any explanations.

“I watched a news report once, and less than half of the people who have alarm signs actually have activated alarms,” I said, opening the door and walking into a faux-wood entryway, stifling a laugh. Oh, Jensen was definitely in the half who paid for guard services.

I gestured at Hunter to hurry, and inspected our surroundings as he rushed inside and closed the door behind us. The house was large—we’d entered into a central landing. Straight ahead was a kitchen, with a living area to our right. Branching out from the kitchen to the left was a set of stairs leading into some kind of basement, and another set of stairs led left and up from the foyer to what I assumed were bedrooms.

Minimal furniture, few decorations. Almost zero knickknacks. The house didn’t look especially lived-in.

I walked into the kitchen, where a long counter made an L around stainless steel appliances. A simple black-and-white Mr. Coffee coffeemaker, a shiny toaster. Takeout menus to Gino’s Pizza, The Greek Café, and Mr. Chung Chinese Food, neatly stacked near the sink.

One lone photo, on the refrigerator.

Oh my god . . .

I
took a disbelieving step forward, at the same time I heard Hunter gasp. He walked straight toward the refrigerator, reaching around the side to pluck a photo away from a silver magnet shaped like a horse. All of my newfound confidence evaporated.

The photo was of three people. Mom, Jensen . . . and me.

In my anxiety over human threats and weapons, I’d never given a single thought to worrying about simple, inanimate objects. But I should have. Because as Hunter extended the picture toward me, my heart—whatever, my pump—felt like it screeched to a stop inside my chest. Then, it burst back to life, pounding out a harsh, frantic beat. Evidence of my mother’s lies staring me directly in the face. I gaped at the photo, words failing me completely.

Not so for Hunter. “I don’t understand—if you’ve never met your real dad, how does he have a photo of you, him, and your mom? One that looks really recent?”

Good question. If only I had an answer.

“I mean, that is him, right?”

Another bull’s-eye. With a trembling hand, I reached for the photo, wishing I had an answer for him. Or that someone had an answer for me. Lots of answers. Because I had no idea how I’d gotten into that picture—and Hunter was right—I looked exactly the same as I had back in Clearwater. And Jensen? He looked exactly the same as he did in my memory. Before my mother had told me those images were totally fabricated.

“Mila?” Hunter prompted.

I shook my head, my hand refusing to stop trembling, despite my urgent commands. “I don’t . . .” My voice trailed off when I noticed more details, all at once. The man’s—my fictitious father’s—arm was draped around my mom’s shoulders, while both of them beamed at the camera. Waves in the background, and sand—we were at a beach. Obviously this photo was taken during a happy time. His other hand rested casually, comfortably, on my shoulder.

And me? I was smiling too. Only . . . it was me, and yet it wasn’t.

Apart from my mutilated hair, the happy girl in the photo looked identical to me in every single way, save one. While my eyes were a bright, almost too vibrant shade of green, that girl’s eyes were brown. It was like the stun of meeting Three for the first time, all over again.

Wait. Could . . . could that girl be Three? Or One, even—the version who’d existed before me?

Then, I remembered the third, empty file Mom had left for me. Her voice, whispering in my ear.

Maybe I’d finally found the mysterious Sarah.

Maybe I had yet another “sister.”

The photo slipped from my grasp as a sea of unanswered questions tossed through me, but the image remained implanted in my head. The memory from Virginia Beach teased at the back of my mind. The ocean, the seagulls, the roar of the waves. Wet sand, squishing between my toes. Then came the one from the carousel.
Spinning, spinning, spinning
. However, instead of becoming paralyzed, the images created a strange warmth in my heart, a feeling that I . . . belonged.

The fragmented images flickered. Then, they were gone.

Hunter bent over to retrieve the photo. He must have stared at the faces for ten seconds before he returned it to the refrigerator. I realized I still owed him a response, but what could I possibly say? Hello, sorry, but I have no clue how I could possibly be in a photo with that man. Oh, and there’s a chance that girl probably isn’t even me. I seem to have more than my fair share of imposters running around out there—crazy, right?

Hunter turned to me, his arms crossing over his chest. “Tell me what’s going on.”

I held up my hands. “I swear, I don’t know anything about that picture. Nothing.”

“But you’re not that young there—how could you forget? That could only be, what, a couple of years ago, max? Unless you have a twin,” he scoffed.

I coughed to cover my reaction. As an excuse, it really was the only plausible explanation, with the exception of the truth. Actually, strike that. This lie was probably way more plausible.

“Maybe I do have a twin. I’m adopted, remember?”

“But . . . doesn’t that mean she’s not your real mom?” he said, gesturing to Nicole.

“I don’t know,” I said, pacing in my agitation. “How could I possibly know?”

He must have sensed the honesty of my reaction, because though his frown deepened, he nodded. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—it just doesn’t make any sense.”

No, it really didn’t. But we had work to do. “Look, we can talk later. But Jensen could be back at any moment.”

Hunter opened his mouth like he might argue, but only sighed. “So what should we do?”

Guilt made me avert my eyes, but that didn’t stop the swell of relief. After everything we’d been through, I knew this looked bad. Like I’d gone right back to my old tricks of half-truths and lies. But honestly, at this point, the truth was more nuisance than help. It would steal too much time—time we didn’t have.

“Split up. You take downstairs, I’ll take upstairs, and we’ll meet back in the kitchen.”

An emphatic head shake this time. “I think we should stick together, just in case—”

“No, splitting up will make things go faster. We have no idea when Jensen is coming back, so the sooner we do this, the better.”

Nothing. And then finally, one curt nod. “I guess you know what you’re doing. Just to confirm, I’m looking for . . . ?”

“Weapons, which you should grab, and basically anything that looks suspicious.” Which was intentionally vague. I couldn’t add that I was also looking for info on the MILA projects, or information as to why Jensen was in witness protection. I figured that time would come soon enough, and besides, if he saw my name on something official-looking, undoubtedly he’d be on instant alert anyway.

That was actually part of the reason I wanted to split up. Not just for convenience—but that way, if I found something referring to my androidness, I could peruse it without fear of being caught.

“Okay,” he said, but his words fell on my back, since I was already halfway up the stairs.

The landing was small, and clean, and opened into a narrow hallway with four doors. One led to a bathroom, one room was completely bare—once upon a time, a bedroom, perhaps—and another was the master. That room was sparsely furnished, to the point that it scarcely looked lived-in. No pictures or art hung on the glaring white walls, and the queen-sized bed lacked a headboard. The comforter was plain navy blue—no throw pillows, no decoration of any kind. No knickknacks cluttered the simple dark-wood dresser, though it was devoid of dust. No desk of any kind in here, either, and all the nightstand held was a digital alarm clock. I hit Alarm and saw it read
12:00
—probably still on its default setting.

I scoffed. No weapons? Seemed highly unlikely. Unless Jensen took them with him?

I pulled out drawers and scanned contents. Socks, plain gray boxers, a few T-shirts and shorts. All neatly folded, and not much of any one item.

The small walk-in closet yielded about the same results. A few neatly hung collared shirts, four sweatshirts, and two pairs of jeans, folded on the top shelf. Only three pairs of shoes total, lined up against the far wall. An odd wave of familiarity cascaded over me as I searched pockets, under jeans, and inside shoes for any hidden papers or weapons. Nothing, and no secret panels as far as I could tell.

I stepped back and did one more quick inspection, and the reason for the familiarity hit me. The closet, the barren room, were familiar because they reminded me of Clearwater. How Mom and I had lived, back at the ranch’s guesthouse. It made sense. Back then, I’d thought we’d had so few possessions because we’d lost everything in a fire.

In reality, it’d been because we were on the run—hiding from the government. Just like Jensen was in hiding.

Jensen. The fire. Another wave crashed over me, this one full of remembered emotion, of the searing pain and sorrow that had ripped my chest when I’d thought I’d lost my dad. I’d eventually come to terms with the memories once Mom had told me they were all imaginary—a virtual reality she’d programmed me with to hide my past.

The photo on the refrigerator flashed through my mind and my throat seized. Except, it wasn’t all imaginary, because the Dad from those memories actually existed. So how could I possibly know what was real and what wasn’t anymore?

Shaking my head, I whirled and did a quick sweep of the master bath. Similarly tidy and with just the simple necessities in terms of toiletries—toothbrush, deodorant, shampoo, lotion—nothing at all to indicate Jensen was anything other than a very neat minimalist. I swept back the brown fabric curtain to reveal the tub—nothing.

A familiar scent teased my nose, making me spin back around to the toiletries. I scanned them again and locked in on a tiny bottle of lotion. I should have noticed it right away—the slight pink color didn’t really fit in with the rest of the greens and blues.

With trepidation, I lifted the bottle until I could see the lettering clearly.

Rosemary.

My fingers unscrewed the lid and before I could stop myself, I bent over and inhaled. The sweet herbal scent engulfed me, sweeping me away in a sea of memories. Mom, showing me how to brush Maisey. Mom, sitting behind me while clumps of my hair fell to the floor. Mom, trying to protect me with her very last breath. Her skin still thick with this same exact scent.

I closed my eyes, allowed myself a few desperate moments to sink into the past. To live once again in a world where Mom was alive. Then, with effort, I tore myself free of the fiction and replaced the bottle where I’d found it. Regretfully, I turned away, mind whirling.

He kept her scent with him. Their relationship hadn’t been confined to just business.

Who was this man?

Master bedroom—finished. Time to get to the other rooms. I could only hope—and fear—that Hunter fared better in his search.

When I returned to the landing I heard the distant rumble of an engine and froze.

Was it the SUV?

Below me, I could hear the click of wood against wood—Hunter, closing a cabinet?—while the car noise grew louder and louder. Doubtful that Hunter could hear it yet, though. I rushed into the empty guestroom, over to the blinds-covered window that faced the street. Where the blinds met the edge there was a thin slit of visibility, and I peered through.

My faux heart hammered when I spotted an SUV, headed toward the house—a green one, just like Jensen’s.

A Ford, not a Mercury. And then the car cruised past, allowing my pulse to return to a normal rate.

I reentered the hallway. The study was tempting, with its desktop computer and antique wooden armoire, which probably didn’t hold clothes. But above my head, the outline of a square beckoned. An attic.

“Mila?” Hunter whispered harshly.

I rushed over to the stairs. He was standing there looking up.

“It’s been a while. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he said.

“I’m fine. Just a little more to explore. How about you? Any luck?”

“Not so far. It’s kinda creepy that the guy has so little here.”

“I know, but keep looking.”

He gave a brusque nod before heading off to the right.

I hurried back down the hallway where I’d spotted the attic door. I sprung up from my toes and grabbed the thin string that dangled about a quarter of the way from the ceiling, and the square slid away to reveal a hole.

Soundlessly, without any of the groaning or creaking you might expect from a rusty or unused hinge. Which meant someone kept it well oiled.

Of course, the hole was probably at least eight feet overhead—

I scowled—was that really necessary?

—and there was no ladder in sight.

Glancing quickly down the stairs, to make sure Hunter wasn’t watching, I dropped into a crouch. Then I pushed hard off my feet and sprang up, clearing the distance with ease. My fingers curled around the edge of the ceiling, and I hoisted myself up and over.

I was inside the attic.

I’d expected a musty, moldy scent, but instead, caught a hint of cinnamon spice. The area was warmer than the rest of the house, though, for sure—much warmer.

I’d barely noted the dimness when—

Immediately, I saw the source of the cinnamon—two air fresheners, shaped like cones, sitting against the closest wooden slat. Next to it? A flashlight. My fingers twitched with excitement. Oh, someone had definitely been up here recently—multiple times, from the looks of it. Now, to find out
why.

The first room, if you could call it that, was empty—just wooden slats, thankfully devoid of spiderwebs—and a puffy mass of insulation. Beyond the insulation, a narrow rectangular space beckoned, so I hurried over to the doorway. I pushed into the tiny square of a room, and . . . empty.

I returned to the main part of the attic, turning around to catch what I might have missed. Air fresheners, flashlight. Boards. Insulation.

Wait.

I zeroed in on the insulation. There, at the bottom near the corner, was a barely noticeable slit. I walked over to it, eased it apart . . . and there they were.

Boxes, six of them. The smallish kind with lids—the ones I’d seen teachers in my classrooms use to store papers.

I whipped through the first two in record time—all old paperwork on houses, cars, bills, etc.—all made out to Daniel Lusk. A chill snaked through my gut when I saw where he used to live—Philadelphia. The same place I’d supposedly moved from.

The same place where my dad—Lusk, Jensen—whoever—had supposedly died in a fire.

I shook off the eerie tingle and thrust the papers back into the box, replacing the lid. Interesting, but not relevant, not right now.

The following box was similarly devoid of useful info, and disappointment started to tug at me. But when I pulled the lid off the next box, my hands stilled and I just stared.