Stray (13 page)

I can only imagine the roar of questions mounting in his head. He stares back at me, mouth ajar, processing my words, weighing their meaning. He comes slowly to his point. “You think I should remain untreated?”

“Yes,” Miriam and I answer together.

His brow contracts. “They won’t agree.”

“No,” Miriam says. “These specialists … this clinic … they have a lot of rules, but I know for a fact they’ve never seen or heard of anyone like you who recovered in the middle of an episode.”

“What if it’s not a full recovery?”

“I think you’ve come right,” I say. “So does Miriam.”

“How can you know for sure?”

It’s like arguing with Jamie and I grit my teeth. “If you were still affected, I’d know. Trust me.”

“You can’t guarantee it.” He slumps back in his seat.

“I’m certain. We’re certain.”

“What exactly am I supposed to do?”

“
Run
,” I mouth the word. “You know you could.”

Miriam stiffens next to me. “No. He needs time to think.”

He rises abruptly from the table and turns to the guard. “We’re done.”

I stand up. “Aiden, wait.”

“Thank you for your visit,” he says. “I appreciate your concern, but I don’t need time to think. When they come, I’ll take the cure.” He strides out, not looking back.

I bang my way into the bright warmth of the kitchen, saturated and breathing hard. Three and a half hours hoofing it up and down Allesford Ridge in the dark and the rain. I needed the release after the tense ride home from Roxborough, pins and needles playing havoc in my spine, reeling in the aftermath of Aiden’s response,
I’ll take the cure
.

I wring my ponytail, leaving wet droplets on the floor, and cross to the fridge for a bottle of water, my head spinning. Faint from exertion and no food – I couldn’t force myself to eat at the Roxborough mall – I lean back against the counter and drink until I empty the bottle, crushing the plastic in my hand, listing the obstacles in my head.

Miriam. Miriam’s a problem. How to act without her finding out? She’ll be watching me like a hawk now and I can’t let her even guess at what I have in mind. After glimpsing Felicity’s memory of the young man strapped to the chair in the ReProg room, or whatever Miriam called it, I can’t let it go. I see it over and over, or worse, I see Miriam in his place and it makes me sick with fear. If they find evidence of her helping Aiden, it can only lead to the question, why? And “why” might take them deeper, to secrets that have cost Miriam her whole life. I can’t let her get in more trouble than she’s in already for helping me. I have to convince Aiden by myself. This way Affinity won’t be able to hold it against her … I sigh and toss the bottle in the sink. Who am I kidding? They’ll hold her responsible for
not
knowing … but once they Harvest her memory there’ll be no evidence of involvement, at least not with my plans, and surely that has to count for something. God, let it count for something.

Aiden. Aiden’s the big problem. He won’t run. Hates himself for what he’s done – thinks he deserves to die. I have to show him it’s not true. Prove it to him, or at least get him into hiding long enough so that I can prove it. Like Miriam said, running is only a temporary solution …

My thoughts jump ahead to the next obstacle. The tracker. There’s no getting around the tracker. If I leave it in, I’m screwed. If I take it out, I’m screwed. Either way, once I move to help Aiden I have to accept they’ll come after me. Which means once I start I have to be prepared to go all the way and face the consequences.

A list begins to form in my mind and I make my way into the hall, not looking at the gap in Miriam’s bookshelf or the stair where Jamie kissed me goodbye. But I can’t avoid the ache in my chest, and curl my shoulders against it. A wave of dizziness makes me stumble and I nearly barge the Virgin from her shelf. Steadying myself against the wall, I hear music reverberating faintly beneath my feet. For me to hear it at all it must be at rock concert volume in the hidden training room. Miriam purging her worry and fear, sweating it out, thumping it out on the sparring dummy.

With a reckless rush of now-or-never, I square my shoulders and scoot upstairs.

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.

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.

And there’s Kitty, beautiful, innocent Kitty, who has suffered enough terror for a lifetime, smiling and laughing with a cute guy and I’m going to walk up to her with my poison and beg her to breathe it in one more time. Help me, Kitty. Help me save my brother who tried to kill you three times. Help me because it wasn’t his fault. Help me because you’re good and brave and because you love me and I need you. Trust me and be terrified again.

“Van?” Gil Bishop blocks the weak sunlight coming through the high window. Big and broad with worried blue eyes, a giant frowning teddy bear with a buzz cut. He’s the only one of Kitty and Jamie’s friends who calls me Van and a painful rush of longing for him, Abe, Lila, Imogen and even prickly Kaylee washes through me. If I wasn’t leaning against the wall, I’m not sure I could stand. It’s over. All over. This group. These friends who let me in, overlooking my brooding and difficult behaviour, belong to Jamie, not me. No more Gil and his bear hugs because I can’t be with them and be reminded again and again of what I’ve lost.

“Van?” Gil tilts his head and I realise I’ve been staring at him.

I force myself to straighten up. “Sorry, away with the fairies.”

“Sadistic fairies who drain your will to live?”

I laugh, a dead flat sound. “Something like that.”

He searches my face. “I guess it’s not a coincidence my best friend looks like he’s had his heart ripped out and stuck on a pike?”

Dizziness hits me and I close my eyes. “Um.”

“Whoa.” Gil steadies me, and I fight the urge to burst into tears and bury my face in his massive chest. “Evie, what the hell is going on?”

“I’m okay. I … what did Jamie say?”

“He didn’t.”

“Right … um.” With all the things to worry about I hadn’t once considered what to tell people at school. “You should probably ask him.”

He lets me go, watching me warily. “This isn’t about the cheerleader?”

“The what?”

He nods across the corridor where a handful of ponytails flip glowering looks at me. I stare blankly back at them. A petite redhead scowls. I try to access the details. Jamie told me the morning after – I did something at the dance – but all I can latch on to is the memory of lying in my bed, wrapped in Jamie’s arms, our legs scissored together.