The Blood Between Us (2 page)

Viktor waved to Julian before putting the car in gear and pulling away from the house. He caught my eye in the rearview mirror. “There is also nothing wrong with the way that your sister is facing her grief, Adrien. Be gentle with her. She’s more sensitive than you may realize. And you need each other, now more than ever.”

“There was a time when I needed her, Viktor. But she’s spent years making her feelings about me perfectly clear. Now I just need her to stay out of my way.” I sank down in my seat and watched the familiar scenery as we passed trees, mailboxes, houses, and fields. I was going home. For the very last time.

That’s when the smell of the house fire reached me—long before the sight of it did. It smelled like decay. It smelled like the aftermath of war. And like a soldier stumbling upon a grisly scene on the battlefield, I didn’t want to look, didn’t want to see the source of the stench—I
had
to see it.

The car shifted to the right, curving around the bend. As
we turned, I found myself unable to breathe. I knew that just around that curve, I would be able to see my home, and I was terrified of what awaited me. Time seemed to slow, and my head filled with horrific images of the house in ashes and rubble, our furniture and walls merely charred remains . . . and poking up from the center of the pile, a thin, pale arm. My mother’s arm. Her index finger pointed crookedly up at the sky.

My lungs burned from holding my breath, and when I finally let myself exhale and inhale again, my nostrils burned.

But then we rounded the corner, and our home greeted me as it always had. Tall, white, surrounded by perfectly manicured flower beds. I scanned the building, but couldn’t see where the fire had done any damage. Viktor pulled the car into the circle drive and put it in park. As if guessing what I’d been thinking, he said, “The damage was largely contained in the lab and the back of the house.”

As I reached for the door handle, Viktor met my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Adrien. Are you certain you want to do this?”

“Wait here.” I opened the door and stepped out onto the driveway. The gravel crunched beneath my sneakers as I walked away from the car, leaving Viktor in the driver’s seat. This was something I had to do, and I had to do it alone.

I passed Maggie on my way to the house—my father’s gorgeous black 1972 Oldsmobile Cutlass 442 coupe—and tried not to look inside at her worn leather interior. I had spent countless hours in that car . . . and under the car, too. She was the embodiment of my time alone with my dad. The lab had represented both my parents, but the car . . . that was my father and my father alone. My dad had been an Olds man for as long as I had known him. And, apart from my mother, Maggie had been the love of his life.

Even now I can imagine the look in my father’s eyes whenever he’d pick up Maggie’s keys or change her oil. She was beautifully flawed and his most prized possession. And I got the feeling it had gone the other way around as well. Maggie had loved my father deeply. How would she fare without him now? How would I?

I rounded the right side of the house, and the full impact of the fire hit me. The screened-in back porch, where Dad would read in the summer while Mom tended to her orchids, had been completely obliterated. It lay in ashes, and where the fire had stopped at the main house looked reminiscent of an enormous black bite mark. As if the fire, the explosion, had taken a bite out of our lives and gobbled my parents whole.

I continued, my steps more urgent, around the back of the house to the extension that my parents had added a few
years ago—their lab. Or rather, where their lab had been the last time I’d been home. It wasn’t there anymore. Just ash and soot and the melted remnants of equipment and experiments.

When I lifted my eyes from the lab, I got the full view of the house, and my heart sank even farther into my stomach. The back of the house stood open to the elements, its insides blackened like the rotten core of an apple. I climbed the rubble to the house and then pulled myself up onto the main floor until I was standing in the breakfast nook. A glass of water, its contents now black, sat on the table. The kitchen still looked as it had the last time I’d stepped into it. Only now it was a ruined memory.

My lungs grew tighter with every step. The heat from the fire had melted our television set. The spines of the books in the bookcase next to it were all stained from smoke. I reached for my mother’s autographed copy of
Carrie
. It had been a gift to her from my father. Her favorite book autographed by her favorite author. Somehow, its spine was cleaner than the rest, like some special force field had protected it from the smoke damage. When I lifted the book from the shelf, another tome caught my eye. It was my father’s journal, just where it had always been when it wasn’t in use. Every detail of his biggest project—his life’s dream—was contained within the pages of this book. His
notes filled every page, and where his stopped, my mother’s notes began. They had been a team, the two of them. Intelligent minds, both.

His research was brilliant and had so many potential applications, both in the military and out. With my mother’s input on bioluminescent plants, he was well on his way to developing eye drops that would allow the user to see in the dark, eliminating the need for costly night vision goggles and enabling underwater explorers to see more broadly in their ocean expeditions. His invention would reduce costs across the board and change the world forever. It would save lives.

Only now the journal was covered with soot and the stain of unfinished progress. I picked up the book and shook the droplets of water and debris from its cover. It was coming with me. I couldn’t leave it here. I could leave almost anything, but not this.

On the next shelf up was a family photo we’d just had done a few weeks before. I took it down and wiped the soot from the glass. Grace and I sat in chairs in front of our parents. My father stood to my mother’s left, his hand placed awkwardly on her shoulder. Anyone else looking at the photo might have seen a nice, normal family. But I could see the grimace on my mother’s lips at my father’s touch. I could see the way that Grace’s chair had been moved just slightly
away from mine right before the photo was taken. We were all dressed in our finest, but no one seemed happy. The look in my parents’ eyes was one of pain. The look in mine was confusion. Grace sat stoic—a perfect statue in a garden of chaos.

The morning of that photo had been very tense. My parents had been arguing after some woman had come to the front door and my father had told her to leave. I stood in the foyer, listening to the words that were hurled back and forth between my mom and dad, but not really understanding them. What I did understand was the expression on my mother’s face when she noticed me. She wanted me to leave. So that’s just what I did.

That afternoon, we’d ridden in silence to the photographer’s studio. Fight or no fight, my dad wasn’t one to miss an appointment. I didn’t speak while we were getting arranged into the perfect family pose. All I kept thinking about was the look in my mom’s eyes when she’d noticed me eavesdropping that morning, and how much it had hurt to wonder if she’d regretted adopting me.

Strange where your mind takes you sometimes. Their argument wasn’t about me—I don’t think so, anyway—but I brought it to that place regardless.

I returned the photo to the shelf, laying it facedown.

Without allowing myself to set foot upstairs or to give
myself over to the pain that was burning its way up from the depths of my soul, I opened the front door and stepped outside. My mind was blank. They were dead. They were really dead. What would I do now? Who would be my family?

I don’t remember sliding into the passenger seat of Viktor’s car or closing the door. The next thing I knew, we were barreling down the road back to Viktor’s house, and I was clutching the journal to my chest, not caring that I’d never get the smell of the fire out of my school uniform . . . or out of my memory.

As we pulled through the gate onto Viktor’s long, paved driveway, I flipped through the journal. My thumb stopped at a spot two-thirds of the way in, where I could see that several pages had been torn from the book. My father was a brilliant scientist, but he did have his quirks. One of those quirks was that he tended to be a bit obsessive-compulsive when it came to his work. The way he took notes was all about order and precision. He would just as soon toss a journal out and get a new one than damage one and continue to work in it. So what had happened to these pages? Someone must have taken them, but who?

The car came to a stop in front of the redbrick house, and I glanced up at a window on the second floor. Grace was standing there, looking out through the glass, watching the car like she was sad to see us return. I set my jaw as I exited
the car, and Grace met my eyes with a snarl.

I didn’t know what her problem was.

Viktor called to me from the back of the car. “Adrien, why don’t you help me out with these bags?”

Before I could react, Grace’s suitcase came flying through the air toward me. I stepped aside and let it sail past. I was more than happy to carry my own bag, but there was no way I was doing anything for her.

The suitcase popped open when it hit the ground. Grace’s clothes were scattered all over the driveway. From the look on his face, I could tell that Viktor was not nearly as amused as I was. Reluctantly, I started picking up the mess. That’s when I saw it. A small, yellowed piece of paper. There was no writing on it, but I recognized that paper immediately.

I opened my father’s journal and slipped the blank paper into place. The tear on the side of the paper from my sister’s suitcase matched one of the missing pages in the journal perfectly. Grace had taken the pages. I had no idea where the others were or why she had them, but I was damn well going to find out.

Viktor’s home was lovely and large—the perfect place to hold a memorial service for my parents, Allen and Claudia Dane. Two of the world’s most brilliant scientists, or at least they were in my mind. I had foolishly thought there would be a
funeral, with bodies. But the fire had been so hot that there was nothing much left of our parents’ remains to put in a coffin. Rightly, and horrifically, what remains were found and identified were cremated. On the day of the service, I was sitting on the arm of the loveseat in Viktor’s great room, staring at the two urns on the mantel.

Grace was on the other side of the room, a cup of steaming tea in her hand, chatting with family members I only recognized from photographs. She was dressed in a tasteful black skirt and a dark blue blouse, her flowing black curls twisted into a tight bun at the back of her head. Even in grief, she was perfectly put together. I, meanwhile, felt woefully underdressed. I’d pulled a pair of black slacks from my duffel bag that morning but hadn’t ironed them, and then had thrown on a dark gray V-neck sweater. It was good enough. Dad would have said it was good enough. Besides, I doubted the dead really gave much of a crap over what people were wearing when they came to stare at the jars that held their remains.

Slipping my cell phone from my pants pocket, I noted the time and wished it would inch along a little faster. Several texts were waiting for me to respond, but they would have to wait. Right now, I just wanted to be left alone.

As quietly as I could manage, I slipped off the arm of the loveseat and made my way to the stairs. But just as I was
about to get away, a familiar voice whispered harshly to me, “Where do you think you’re going?”

Turning to meet my sister’s bitter gaze, I rolled my eyes. “Upstairs. What’s it look like?”

“You’re supposed to talk to people. You haven’t spoken to anyone. I’m doing
everything
.” Her last word came out biting, but I didn’t flinch.

Everything. Because there was so much to do when it came to staring at jars filled with ash and munching on appetizers. I sighed. “And you’re doing a fine job of it, too.”

“Adrien.” For a moment, her voice sounded eerily like Mom’s did whenever she meant business. The sound of it startled me slightly.

“What do you want me to do?”

She looked aghast. “Talk to people. Share memories with them about Mom and Dad. Act like a normal person for once.”

I shrugged. “Why should I talk to anyone? They’re not here to see me. They’re here to look at urns.”

“Because it might help them to feel better.”

“Make them feel better? I don’t give a damn about making them feel better, Grace. They didn’t just lose their parents in a freak explosion. They didn’t just have the only family they’ve ever known ripped away from them, leaving them with nothing but a heartless, robotic b—” I cut my words off the moment I noticed Viktor watching us from the
other room. I wouldn’t regret calling Grace the word that was locked inside my mind, but I might regret letting him overhear it.

My voice caught in my throat. “Who’s going to help me?”

“Help yourself.” She practically spit the words in my direction.

“That’s what I was doing before you so rudely interrupted me.” I took two steps up before pausing and looking back at her. “But while I have your attention: I know you took those pages from Dad’s journal. I want them back.”

“No.”

I raised an eyebrow. I’d half expected her to ask me what I was talking about. “So you don’t deny you took them?”

“I have no reason to keep secrets. Do you?” She folded her arms and stared me down.

“Why did you take those pages? What’s on them?” I could feel the heat rising in my face.

“That is none of your business.”

“What do you mean?” I took a step closer to her.

“Let’s just say it’s a family matter.” She pointed toward the group of people in the living room. “Now get your butt back in that room and play the gracious host.”

“You’re a real piece of work, Grace.” Turning away, I continued my ascent.

As I reached the top of the staircase, she said, “Yes.
I suppose I am. But at least I have the decency to treat our guests with the respect they deserve at a funeral.”

“Memorial service. There wasn’t enough of Mom and Dad left for a funeral. Remember?” I continued down the hall without so much as another glance back in her direction.