The Delphi Revolution
Author: Rysa Walker
Date: 2018-10-09 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Young Adult; Fantasy; Science Fiction; Paranormal; Fiction; Urban Fantasy; Supernatural; Dystopia; Action
Description: A psychotic killer hijacked her mind and her body...She’s taking them back!Eighteen-year-old Anna Morgan is on the run from the very government project that created her abilities. Now they seek to weaponize the gift she doesn’t want and can’t control: the invasion of her mind and her body by spirits, some of whom have their own unusual powers. Her latest “hitcher” is a former top Delphi executive. Unlike Anna’s previous guests, this one has taken over, and he’s on a personal mission of revenge.The target is Senator Ronald Cregg, a corrupt, power-hungry presidential candidate. One of Delphi’s c
Publisher: Skyscape

ALSO BY RYSA WALKER

The Delphi Trilogy

The Delphi Effect

The Delphi Resistance

Novella

The Abandoned

The CHRONOS Files

Novels

Timebound

Time’s Edge

Time’s Divide

Graphic Novel

Time Trial

Novellas

Time’s Echo

Time’s Mirror

Simon Says

Short Stories

“The Gambit” in The Time Travel Chronicles

“Whack Job” in Alt.History 102

“2092” in Dark Beyond the Stars

“Splinter” in CLONES: The Anthology

“The Circle That Whines” in Tails of Dystopia

“Full Circle” in OCEANS: The Anthology

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Text copyright © 2018 by Rysa Walker

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Skyscape, New York
www.apub.com

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Skyscape are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

ISBN-13: 9781542048408

ISBN-10: 1542048400

Cover design by M. S. Corley

To Courtney, editor extraordinaire, who has now moved on to other adventures.

Kiernan sends his love.

CONTENTS

NEWS ITEM FROM THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT

CHAPTER ONE

NEWS ITEM FROM THE WASHINGTON POST

CHAPTER TWO

NEWS ITEM FROM THE WASHINGTON EXAMINER

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

SHARED JOURNAL

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

SHARED JOURNAL

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

INTERVIEW FROM THE US SENATE COMMITTEE ON HOMELAND SECURITY AND GOVERNMENTAL AFFAIRS WEBSITE:

CHAPTER NINE

NEWS ITEM FROM THE COEUR D’ALENE PRESS

CHAPTER TEN

LETTER TO THE EDITOR, EVANSVILLE COURIER & PRESS

CHAPTER ELEVEN

OP-ED FROM THE HILL

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EXCERPT FROM “MIND BLOWN” IN THE SCOOP

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

NEWS ITEM FROM THE SAN ANGELO STANDARD-TIMES

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

NEWS ITEM FROM THE KANSAS CITY STAR

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

NEWS ITEM FROM THE PENSACOLA NEWS JOURNAL

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

NEWS ITEM FROM THE WASHINGTON TIMES

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

NEWS ITEM FROM THE WASHINGTON TIMES

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

NEWS ITEM FROM THE KNOXVILLE NEWS SENTINEL

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

NEWS ITEM FROM THE KNOXVILLE NEWS SENTINEL

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

NEWS ITEM FROM CREGGFOROURFUTURE.COM

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

NEWS ITEM FROM THE WASHINGTON EXAMINER

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

NEWS ITEM FROM THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT

April 11, 2020

Police are searching for any additional witnesses to the murder of Cameron Applebaum, 13, in Virginia Beach. The boy was struck late Wednesday night while crossing Paladin Drive on the way back from a friend’s house. The killing was initially reported as a hit-and-run until images of the body posted anonymously online revealed the word freak, apparently written in blood, scrawled across the boy’s forehead.

Four other victims have been discovered in the US with the words freak or mutant written either on or near the body since the beginning of the year. A group calling themselves The Natural Order has taken responsibility for all five killings, which they claim are not acts of murder but proactive self-defense.

A spokesperson for the Applebaum family refused to comment on whether the boy had been tested or had exhibited any sort of psychic ability, but it seems likely. Like many of the individuals who tested positive for psychic ability, Applebaum’s father (deceased) was assigned to the PSYOP battalion at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, in the late 1990s.

CHAPTER ONE

Carova, North Carolina

April 23, 2020, 9:20 a.m.

The sand beneath my cheek smells of salt and fish, and of something harsh and pungent. Motor oil, or maybe gasoline.

How the hell did I get here?

I want to sit up, but my body feels too heavy to move. So I lie still, eyes closed, digging my fingers into the cool, wet sand.

Then an icy wave hits my bare legs. It jolts me awake, and I scuttle away from the tide to avoid a second dousing.

“Anna? Anna!”

I turn toward the sound as I brush the grit from my face and hands. It’s Aaron, maybe a hundred yards down the beach. He’s talking on his phone as he jogs toward me.

Damn it. Damn. It. Did he follow me?

Why can’t I have a half hour to myself? I need space. I need room to breathe. To think. To simply be.

My heart hammers erratically in my throat as I pull my feet under me, preparing to bolt. Aaron is already winded. I’m a better runner. He’ll never be able to catch me.

What? No. No, no, no. I draw in a deep breath through my nose and close my eyes, pushing down the panic. I love Aaron. He loves me. Why should I care if he followed me?

And then my mind starts clicking through the questions he’s going to ask, and I want to run again. When did I leave? Why didn’t I wake him? Why was I lying on the beach? Did I faint again?

Focus, Anna.

Aaron stashes his phone in his pocket and picks up the pace, closing the distance between us. Time to get my story straight. Employ a few selective truths detailing the things I do remember and add enough filler (lies, you mean lies, lies, lies) to cover the things I don’t remember.

Out of sheer necessity, I’ve gotten quite good at fabricating a plausible story. These memory gaps are becoming more frequent. Longer, too. I thought my symptoms would improve steadily over time as my brain healed from the concussion. But Kelsey warned me from the beginning that progress after a traumatic brain injury isn’t predictable. It comes in starts and stops, and sometimes symptoms can worsen temporarily.

I could tell Aaron the truth. That I don’t remember. But that will just tighten the net around me. They won’t let me out of their sight if I admit I’m blacking out.

Even worse. They’ll lock you up.

Let’s go with this story, then. I woke up early, just before daybreak. Couldn’t sleep. Everyone else was still in bed, so I pulled on my jogging clothes and hit the beach. And I’ve been running for the past . . .

I glance at my watch: 9:22.

Three and a half hours? He’ll never believe I’ve been running since dawn. I don’t even believe it.

And . . . time’s up.

Aaron drops onto the sand next to me, panting.

“What the hell, Anna? You know you can’t leave without telling anybody.”

He sounds more worried than angry, even though he has every right to be mad. This isn’t the first time in the past few months, or even the second time, I’ve slipped away without telling anyone. It’s also not the first time I’ve had memory lapses, but I’m getting better at disguising those.

Better at lying.

“I’m sorry. But I did tell someone. I told the guard I was going for a run. The night guard—the young guy with freckles?”

That part isn’t a lie. I remember this. Glancing at the clock as I tied my running shoes. Thinking I needed to hurry and get downstairs before six when the guard changed. The night guard is scared to death of the Delphi adepts, especially me. He’s one of the guys who received a few new memories—memories I planted in their heads—when Aaron, Taylor, Deo, and I went AWOL from Sandalford back in December. He and his buddies willingly loaded the truck with weapons, medical supplies, anything we asked for, because I made them think it had all been cleared by their boss. I even made them remember Miller ordering them to help us.

I can’t mess with their heads that way anymore. That ability was courtesy of a temporary hitcher, Daniel Quinn, Aaron’s half brother. When I returned Daniel’s spirit to his comatose body on Christmas Eve, his powers of persuasion went too.

Or at least I assume they did. Daniel is in Maryland, no longer in the hospital but still undergoing daily rehab. Luckily, he retained a good deal of his gross motor ability. He’s able to walk on his own now, and he’s recovered his speech almost completely. For the first several weeks, it was just a few words, and according to his mom, the vast majority of them were impolite. That doesn’t surprise me. Daniel hates being dependent on anyone. Having others take care of him has to be driving him mad.

There’s no rehab for psychic abilities, however. And since his mom is still in the dark about his ability to “nudge” people, as Daniel calls it, I doubt Aaron or Taylor have had the opportunity to ask him whether his Delphi skills are back to normal.

The guards here at Sandalford seem to think I can still push them around, though. When I approached the guard at the gate this morning and said I was going for a run, he shrank back instantly. I almost expected him to make the sign of the cross to ward off evil, but he settled on a nervous nod.

“The night guard?” Aaron says. “But . . . that means you’ve been out here for over three hours! You didn’t leave us a note. You didn’t even sign out. We’ve combed the entire beach. Deo’s already been down this way twice and he didn’t see you.”

Another wave of guilt hits me. Deo must be freaking out, the same way I would be. The same way I was when Graham Cregg’s people nabbed him a few months back. We may not be related by blood, but he’s my brother in every sense of the word, and I hate that I’ve made him worry. That I’ve made any of them worry.

“I wasn’t on the beach the whole time. I ran on Sandfiddler Road for a while.”

This might be a lie. I don’t know. The truth is I have no memory of running anywhere beyond those first few steps out of the gate this morning. But you can’t really hide on a wide-open beach. If Deo came down this way and didn’t see me, the only logical explanation is that I was on one of the roads that run through the Currituck Wildlife Reserve.

“Look at me,” Aaron says. I’ve been avoiding his gaze, staring out at the water or down at my knees, but now I turn toward him. He searches my eyes for a long time. Looking for the truth, I guess. Searching for some sign that I’m being honest.

Eventually he shakes his head, breaking the stare. He picks a shell out of the sand and flings it toward the water. “You’re lucky Miller is with Magda. Otherwise, we’d never be able to keep this under wraps. It’s almost like you want to end up with one of those ankle gadgets.”

Magda Bell owns Sandalford—not just the big house but also the empty lot to the north and the property to the south, encompassing nearly a mile of oceanfront. She set the place up as a safe haven for Delphi adepts, most of them kids who inherited something extra from parents who were used by the military as guinea pigs. The experiment, which had its roots in the Vietnam War but reached its apex in the late 1990s, involved a serum designed to ramp up natural psychic abilities. It worked, but it also had major side effects that made many of them, especially the male subjects, violent and suicidal.

Magda’s missing husband, Erik Bell, was a former TV psychic and one of the Delphi Project’s civilian subjects. Both of her daughters are apparently adepts, but no one has any idea exactly what it is they can do. Magda keeps them separate from the rest of the adepts in the big yellow house on the southernmost lot, which she dubbed Bell Isle. A small team of nurses and Dr. Batra, her private physician, live there, too. Batra is the doctor who helped stabilize Deo, and he continues to monitor him to make sure that Deo doesn’t have a relapse of the brain swelling that came very close to killing him after he was injected with the Delphi serum. Batra seems nice enough, but the whole thing over at Bell Isle feels off.

Concern for her daughters is the key reason Magda is bankrolling the effort to find a cure. She’s made that clear from the moment she got involved. The latest addition to that effort is the small team of scientists who showed up at Sandalford three weeks ago, setting up shop in the guesthouse out back, complete with lab equipment and a half dozen caged monkeys. That bothers me. I mean, I guess they need to test whatever they’re cooking up on animals before they test it on children. It feels wrong, though, and sometimes when I hear the monkeys screeching, I want to storm in and fling open their cages.

But I doubt unleashing psychic, possibly aggressive, monkeys on the beach would help either our situation or theirs.

“Do you really think I’m trying to make Magda angry?” I ask Aaron.

“Not exactly,” he says. “But we both know it doesn’t take much to set her off. And she’s kind of the only ally we have against Senator Cregg right now.”

Technically, Magda is overseeing the effort to expose Senator Cregg’s role in the Delphi Project and his ongoing exploitation of the adepts for his own political purposes. But not much has been done on that front, as far as I can tell. The entire goal seems to be to keep the adepts in stasis. That’s why she hired Miller and his company, Vigilance Security, back in November when she was still living in London. Miller is former military, and while I don’t know exactly what he did during his time in the service, my guess would be drill sergeant. It’s been clear from the beginning that he doesn’t like children and he really doesn’t like psychic children.

Miller would run Sandalford like a military school for juvenile delinquents if not for Kelsey. She hates him with the fire of a thousand suns, and it takes a lot to make Kelsey hate someone. I’d hoped Magda would realize Miller is a bad fit for the position once she arrived here after we rescued the other adepts in late December. But no. He remains, partly because he is the King of Suck-Ups and would lick the sand from her feet if he thought it would put more money into his pockets.

The bottom line is that Magda calls the shots. And the last time I wandered off, Magda said if it happened again, Miller would fit me with one of the ankle trackers like the ones worn by the kids who were brought in from the school on Fort Bragg. Furthermore, she’d revoke my “travel” privileges, and I’d be forced to stay “on campus” with the other adepts.

Magda doesn’t have legal grounds to force anything on you, I tell myself. You’re an adult now.

It’s true. I’m eighteen. Aaron is an adult, too. And their mom refused to sign any legal agreement that would require Taylor to remain at Sandalford against her will. Kelsey did likewise for Deo, and Magda was so annoyed that I was fairly certain she was going to fire Kelsey for insubordination. In the end, Magda didn’t fire her, but she made it abundantly clear that all of us would be bounced out permanently if our actions exposed the group as a whole to danger.

We can leave at any time.

But the outside world isn’t exactly a safe place for adepts right now. Especially ones like me and Aaron. Our faces were plastered all over the news for a few days last fall, as persons of interest in the killing of six children and several adults near Fort Bragg. And even though the media has moved on to other stories now, our faces are still out there. Once something is online, it spreads like pee in a swimming pool.

“I’m sorry, Aaron,” I say between clenched teeth. “I just . . . I got claustrophobic, okay? There are so many people in that house, and I needed to get out. I needed to run. To be alone.”

I emphasize the last word because I know it’s the excuse most likely to resonate with Aaron, who has far more reason to feel claustrophobic at Sandalford than I do. In addition to the two of us, there are currently twenty-nine Delphi adepts between the ages of two and nineteen living there, along with three parents of those adepts, seven security guards, two nurses, and Kelsey. Every time any of those residents gets the slightest urge to smack someone, Aaron feels that anger. If anyone should be sneaking out for three-hour jogs on the beach, it’s him.

“I understand the need to get away from Sandalford,” he says. “You know I do. What I don’t understand is your need to get away from me. From Kelsey, Deo, Taylor. The people who care about you. You can talk to us, you know.”

His voice is so gentle I can barely hear it over the surf and wind. I turn away slightly, and clench my fists so hard that one of my nails breaks through the skin of my palm as I try to rein in a flood of emotions. It’s partly guilt. It’s also fear, because I don’t know why I’m acting this way. Why I’m feeling this way. Why I can’t talk these feelings through with the people I love.

But what terrifies me most is that behind the guilt and fear is a mass of pure white-hot rage. I’m furious at myself for playing Aaron’s emotions this way, but also furious at him for turning it back around on me.

Aaron reaches up to touch my hair but stops abruptly. His fingers hover a few inches above the shorter patch, where my head was stitched up after Jasper Hawkins cracked it with the butt of his pistol, but it’s not because he’s worried the spot is still tender. It’s been fine, at least on the surface, for several months. The reason he stops short of touching me is that his little gift from the Delphi scientists, what we jokingly call his spidey sense, is on full alert. It’s telling him I’m barely holding in a feral rage—a tiger-footed rage that would love nothing more than to turn and snap, to bite those fingers—

He jerks his hand back.

I want to scream. I want to tell him I didn’t mean it. Even though I did. Even though he knows I did.

And I still kind of want to hurt him. To startle him, push him away, and run, run, run.

But I don’t. We both remain there, frozen in our separate thoughts, for what feels like an eternity.

Aaron finds words before I do, but his voice is shaky. “Would you just look at me, Anna? Please?”

Several deep breaths later, I turn to face him, still fuming and determined to tell him to back off. To go home and leave me the hell alone. But the instant I meet his eyes, the hard ball of anger inside me disintegrates. I can almost see it splintering, shattering, crumbling into the sand between us.

Again, I dig my nails into my palms, but this time it’s to hold back tears. Crying will only make Aaron feel guilty. I’d have been perfectly okay with that a moment ago, because he might have given me some space if he felt guilty. But my anger is gone now. I just want to fix this. Make it right.

Except I don’t know how to do that without lying. Telling him the truth—that I have no memory of the past three hours, I did indeed pass out again, and my emotions ricochet from one extreme to another—would lead to questions I can’t answer. I don’t want everyone, and especially not him, treating me like I’m this breakable thing that must be sheltered.

Or worse, locked away.

I’ve been in psychiatric hospitals before. I know beyond any shadow of doubt Kelsey wouldn’t let that happen if she could prevent it. Not in the current social climate where they run tests for evidence of Delphi “contamination” in the public schools. Not when there are angry hordes who think all Delphi adepts should be eliminated.

But even if Kelsey wouldn’t allow me to be sent away, there are kids at Sandalford who are on lockdown. Kids like Caleb, a toddler who has to be kept sedated and secluded because he’s—well, I don’t really know what he is, but everyone who has seen his psychic ability in action agrees he’s too dangerous, too volatile, to socialize with others. Too dangerous to even be in the same house with the rest of the adepts.

Magda’s own daughters, Clara and Chloe, are shut away next door. Kelsey visits them, but she’s the only one, and she won’t breach doctor-patient confidentiality by discussing those visits. We haven’t been able to tease even the slightest hint out of her about the nature of the Bell sisters’ ability.

If Magda is willing to lock her own daughters away, she’d have zero hesitation about forcing me to wear an ankle monitor and confining me to Sandalford. And would it really be all that different from a psychiatric hospital? A luxurious beachfront cage is still a cage.

Fighting another wave of panic, I rub my temples and instantly wish I hadn’t because Aaron asks if my head is hurting again. And yes, it is hurting again, but not in the way he means. It’s more that this constant emotional whiplash is exhausting.

“I’m okay. And . . . I’m sorry I didn’t leave a note. I woke up early and thought a run might relax me. You were all asleep. I didn’t want to wake you. And let’s be honest . . . none of you really like to run on the beach.”

“That’s not true,” he begins, but then stops when I arch an eyebrow at him. “Okay. I like walking on the beach with you.”

“Exactly. Deo’s even worse, and we both know Taylor wouldn’t run if an army of zombies was hot on her heels. So . . . I didn’t want to bother you. I ran the loop twice, walked a bit, then stopped here. I guess I lost track of time.”

Aaron sighs. “In the future, if you really need to get away from everybody, at least bring your phone. And maybe Ein? He loves to run on the beach.”

I don’t argue the point, because it’s true. But Ein’s not old enough to run more than a mile or two. He weighed over sixty pounds the last time we checked, so it’s easy to forget he’s still a puppy and has limits.

Aaron starts to say something else, hesitates, then finally blurts out, “Did you faint again?”

I follow his gaze toward the spot in the sand where I was lying when he approached, just a few feet away from a set of tire tracks. An alert driver would have seen me in time to swerve, given that traffic is light this early in the year, but this is the main thoroughfare for Carova Beach. In fact, if I’d been lying in that spot about twenty minutes from now, it’s likely that I’d have been an unexpected stop for a tour jeep carrying visitors to more remote sections of the island, in search of wild horses. Two or three of them drive past Sandalford around ten most mornings.

“No,” I tell him. “I didn’t pass out. That hasn’t happened in weeks. I was just . . . resting. Looking out at the water.”

He looks unconvinced. As he should. I’m a much better liar than I was four months ago, but I still kind of suck at it.

I reach over and take his hand between mine. To his credit, he doesn’t flinch, even though he knows that, only a few minutes ago, I’d happily have bitten a chunk out of it. He can sense that the black rage has passed.

“I’m sorry.” And while I feel like I’ve said the words so many times lately that they’ve begun to lose all meaning, I repeat them. With emphasis. “I’m really, really sorry. Everything is just so . . . scattered . . . since we got back. I’ll think I’ve done something—left a note, or whatever—then find out later that I haven’t. Kelsey tells me this sort of thing is common after a head trauma, but . . . it’s been so long. I was really hoping that the injection Kelsey prescribed would make a difference, but . . .”

For a brief second, the rage surges again. Needles. I hate needles, but I was willing to let Kelsey poke me if there was any chance of getting my head back to normal. But she said it hadn’t helped. That there was no point in continuing.

Aaron’s face clouds over. It’s like he’s weighing what to say or do. After a few seconds, he sighs and pulls me closer. “I know it’s tough, but we need to be patient. That was a bad concussion, babe. The son of a bitch whacked you twice in the exact same spot.”

His voice is soft, but I can tell he’s holding something back.

“It wasn’t Jasper’s fault,” I say. “Graham Cregg was controlling him. And . . .”

I trail off, unwilling to finish the sentence. While the blunt-force trauma I suffered last December may have been the main trigger of my psychological problems, the physical and mental effort I’d expended a few days later to reconnect Daniel’s spirit with his body didn’t help matters. If I mention this, however, Aaron will undoubtedly add it to his list of grievances against his brother. And it couldn’t be helped. Couldn’t even be postponed. Daniel was only a faint presence in my mind by the time we made it to the hospital.

“Cregg was actually the bastard I meant. And he can’t hurt anyone anymore,” Aaron adds, thankfully interpreting my hesitance in a different way. “Well, at least that Cregg can’t hurt anyone.”

“One down, one to go. But . . . all in good time.” I mimic Magda’s mostly British accent. Magda doesn’t want us to make any moves against Senator Cregg until her science team tells her whether it’s possible to reverse, or at least mitigate, the effects of the serum, both on the first generation of Delphi subjects and their offspring. She thinks having a cure in hand will give us additional bargaining power, and she could be right. But again, it doesn’t really matter whether she’s right, because Sandalford is not run as a democracy. Magda pays the bills, Magda makes the rules.

“She’s probably right about us waiting,” Aaron says.

“I’d be more likely to believe that if there was any evidence they’ve made progress.”

None of us has a real sense of how the research is going, aside from the fact that we’ve all been poked for blood samples—well, all but one. Peyton Hawkins has a serious needle phobia, and given the little girl’s telekinetic ability, no one has been willing to push her on this matter. As the resident psychiatrist at Sandalford, Kelsey is nominally part of the science team. She told us that they’ve made some progress, but I know her well enough to infer from her tone of voice that by some she means very little. Her role has been confined mostly to observer, however, and occasionally advocate for the well-being of her patients, some of whom don’t really have anyone to defend their rights. Kelsey’s had plenty of experience in that area. I’m not sure where Deo and I would be today if not for her tenacity.

In Deo’s case, he might be better off if he’d never met me or Kelsey. It was probably inevitable that I’d get drawn into all of this insanity. Both of my parents, as I’ve recently discovered, were part of the Delphi Project. My dad even developed the stupid serum. But Deo? He’d still be in the foster system, but he would never have encountered Graham Cregg, never have been given the Delphi drug. He wouldn’t have to avoid physical contact with me and pretty much everyone else at Sandalford, for fear of amplifying their powers. He wouldn’t have to get an injection three times a week to keep his brain from swelling. To keep from dying.

On the one occasion that I actually got Deo to talk about all of this, he was adamant that he prefers the needles to his old life—and yes, he does have a family here, people who love him and accept him for who he is. But I suspect that any objective observer would say he was better off as a ward of the state.

“What’s wrong?” Aaron asks.

I don’t want to walk him through my convoluted train of thought, so I summarize. “Just . . . thinking that everything is complicated enough without me adding fuel to the flames. I’m sorry.”

He smiles and presses a kiss to my temple. “You already said that. Just wake me up next time, okay? If you want to run on your own . . .” He shrugs. “I won’t stop you, but at least someone will know where you are. You’re going to give Kelsey a heart attack. She was terrified that one of the Senator’s people had grabbed you. When I called the house just now to say I’d found you, she already had Taylor trying to pick up your location. But Deo was still out looking for you, and without his boost, Taylor wasn’t getting anything but sand, water, and trees.”

I’m not surprised. Aaron’s sister has an amazing talent for remote viewing, but this is one of the more deserted sections of the island. Beach to the left and beach to the right. The ocean is all you can see in front, and behind us, the wildlife reserve takes up the entire half-mile distance from the surf to the sound. Sand, water, and trees is pretty much all there is.

“We should go,” I say, even though I’d rather get a root canal—without anesthesia—than face everyone right now.

Aaron rises and reaches down to give me a hand up. As I stand, something drops to the ground—a blank white business card. He stoops to retrieve it, and panic rises in my chest again. I don’t know why, because I have no earthly idea where the card came from.

He flips it over to reveal a scrawled number. 202-555-1083.

“Yours?” he asks.

“No,” I answer, but I have to fight back the urge to snatch it out of his hand.

“Weird that it’s a DC number.”

“Not really. Miranda told me most of the tourists who rent these houses are from up there.”

“I know,” Aaron says. “I just meant it was a weird coincidence, what with me and Taylor leaving for DC this afternoon.”

“Leaving?” The question is out before I can stop it, even though I’m certain this is something I should know.

“Yes,” he says. “To talk to Daniel about coming down here? Magda agreed before she and Miller left the other day. That was like . . . a full-fledged negotiation. Did you forget that we—”

“No, no. I remembered you were going. I’d just forgotten that you were leaving today.”

His skeptical look gradually fades. “Oh. Sorry.” He folds the card with the phone number and sticks it into his pocket.

“Why are you keeping that?”

He gives me an odd look. “Um . . . because there’s no trash can here? What do you want me to do—drop it back on the beach?”

Part of me wants him to do precisely that. But I know that’s utterly ridiculous, so I force a laugh. “Guess we can’t have you being a litterbug, can we?”

“Nope. That Woodsy Owl coloring book in kindergarten came with a solemn oath to give a hoot and not pollute.” He brushes the sand off his jeans and then looks down the beach toward Sandalford. “Do you want to run back? Or maybe you’re too tired?”

I snort at the hopeful note in his voice. “Yes, actually, I am too tired. I can tell you’re soooo disappointed.”

He grins. “Absolutely crushed.”

Aaron and I walk back arm in arm, and the last remnants of the crazy brain fog that has been hovering at the back of my head dissipates. I actually manage to relax and enjoy the gentle rhythm of the waves lapping at the shore and the cry of the seagulls as they swoop and dive. Then I see Magda’s house up ahead and Sandalford beyond, and the peaceful feeling withers into a tight ball of dread. Even if I’m good with Aaron, I’ve still got some major explaining to do with everyone else.

As we pass Bell Isle, I get the sensation we’re being watched. No one is in the yard or out on the deck, and I’m about to chalk it up to simply being closer to Sandalford. But then I glance upward and see someone at the window. Two someones, actually—Magda’s twin daughters. I can’t tell if they’re identical from this distance, but they could be. One stands near the middle of the picture window that spans the top floor, overlooking the ocean. Her sister is seated next to her in what appears to be a wheelchair, her head lolled to one side as though she’s sleeping.

I nudge Aaron, then take a few steps toward the house.

Aaron’s eyebrows go up when he sees the girls at the window. “Wow. When the mama cat’s away . . .”

The girl who is awake raises her hand and waves at us. I wave back, and it’s as though my movement summons a nurse, who tugs on the girl’s arm, then pushes the wheelchair away from the window. One last wiggle of the fingers from the sister who is standing, and the vertical blinds snap shut, obscuring her from view.

For some reason, I’m reminded of a movie that Deo and I watched a few years back, We Have Always Lived in the Castle. It wasn’t as good as the book, and neither of the sisters were in a wheelchair, so maybe it’s just the overall mood it evoked.

“How very . . . gothic,” Aaron says. “Two sisters trapped in a castle.”

“Exactly.” I smile and slip my hand into his. It’s almost as though he plucked the idea out of my head. Not in the way that some of the kids here at Sandalford do, but in the more basic way that two people in love sometimes finish each other’s sentences.

We walk on in companionable silence until we’re almost to the gate of the tall wooden fence that now surrounds Sandalford. “What are we going to tell the guard?” I whisper.

“Nothing,” Aaron says. “Maria already took care of it.”

And sure enough, the guard opens the gate without comment. This is a new, strictly-by-the-book guy, and yet he doesn’t ask where I’ve been and why I didn’t sign out. In fact, he doesn’t even meet our eyes. He just looks down at his boots, red-faced.

“O . . . kay,” I say once we’re out of earshot. “That was bizarre. I wonder what Maria has on him.”

“She wouldn’t tell me. But she did say you owe her a favor.”

If there’s anyone the guards like less than me, it’s Maria . . . and I can’t entirely blame them. She’s never even tried to hide the fact that she can read their thoughts, and the scope of her ability is unnerving, to put it mildly. And while she exercises some restraint with her fellow adepts, every day is psychic open season on the guards as far as Maria is concerned. I usually don’t have much sympathy for them, especially the ones who call us freaks and mutants when they think no one is within earshot, but the new guy looked mortified as we walked past. I can’t help but wonder what he’s so determined to keep secret that he’d risk lying to his boss.

But I guess everyone has secrets they don’t want people to know. I’m one of the few in this house who doesn’t have to worry about constant surveillance from Maria. Most of the time, I can block her out, but that’s only because I’ve spent years building up mental walls to keep my hitchers and their various memories at bay. The other residents of Sandalford have a much tougher time. Kelsey has been working with Maria and the three younger telepaths—none of whom is anywhere close to as powerful as Maria—trying to make them more respectful of personal boundaries. But they slip up from time to time, and when they do, things can get nasty really quick. No one likes having their privacy violated. Fights broke out at the foster homes where I lived because some kids liked to rummage through everyone else’s stuff. It’s the same here, except The Peepers, as they’re known by the other adepts, are rummaging through everyone else’s thoughts, which is an even greater violation.

Fortunately, and sometimes unfortunately, all the adepts have their own abilities and they can retaliate. If a Peeper spills a secret that embarrasses one of the pyrokinetic kids—aka Zippos—the little snoop might wake up one morning to find that his or her favorite (or in the case of many of these kids, only) pair of sneakers is now a smoldering pile of ashes.

It took a few months, and there were several times where it seemed like the situation was escalating out of control, but the adepts seem to have arrived at a complex but relatively stable balance of power. And the fulcrum of that balance is Maria. Maybe it’s because she’s one of the older adepts, but I think it’s more that she’s got something on absolutely everyone. And given her firm conviction that this group is going to have to fight as a team against Cregg’s people at some point in the future, she runs a tight ship. If someone isn’t acting as a team player, she’s willing to use a little psychic blackmail to coax the miscreant into line.

Aaron leads me to the service elevator, rather than the more direct route to the great room.

“Why are we going in the back way?”

“You know this place. Word gets around.” He punches the button for the second floor. “There will probably be fifteen, maybe twenty, of the adepts hanging out upstairs to see if you’re wearing an ankle bracelet yet. We need to give Maria some time to convince them that would be a bad thing. Anyway, Deo and Kelsey are both waiting.”

“I think I’d rather run the gauntlet in the great room. How pissed is Kelsey?”

“Oh, she’s pissed.” I turn down the hall toward Kelsey’s office once we exit the elevator, but Aaron takes my arm and pulls me toward him. He tips my face up so that I have to look him in the eye. “They’re both pissed because they were both scared, Anna. And so was I.”

His grip isn’t tight and he’s not hurting me in the slightest. Still, I feel a faint tickle of annoyance again. Some stupid tiny part of me doesn’t want to be touched, and my body stiffens.

He releases my arm instantly and steps back. “Sorry. I’ll just . . . I’ll . . . see you later, okay?”

But I don’t want him to go. Okay, yes, that stupid, tiny part of me does, but it’s not going to win this time. Before he can leave, I close the distance between us and pull him in for a kiss.

There’s no hesitation on his part. We haven’t kissed much lately—or done anything else, for that matter—and Aaron’s response is immediate. He wraps his arms around my waist, lifting me up so that my face is level with his. I miss this. I miss him. I miss us. And the fact that the disconnect between us is entirely my own fault makes the situation doubly painful.

Two girls round the corner, nearly colliding with us. One of them is Bree Bieler, whose brother was recently one of my hitchers. I can’t remember the other girl’s name, but she was one of the kids at The Warren. I think she’s what Maria calls a Mover . . . in other words, telekinetic.

Bree herself has a smattering of different abilities, including the power to fry pretty much any electrical device simply by touching it. She burned through two PS4 controllers, apparently by accident, before the other adepts realized she hates to lose. Bree doesn’t like me much. I’m pretty sure it’s because she associates me with her brother’s death.

Right now, though, they’re just two little girls who have collapsed into giggles because they caught me wrapped around Aaron like a string of Christmas lights. I’m glad that neither of them is a Peeper like Maria, or else they’d have picked up some very R-rated thoughts just now.

Aaron says, “Begging your pardon, young ladies,” in a very formal tone, then tops it off with a wink. That sends them into another peal of giggles as they retreat back down the hallway.

“Maybe we should go to our room?” I suggest before remembering it’s no longer our room. It’s now my room, and his room is elsewhere . . . and that was apparently my decision. I don’t remember making it, and I don’t particularly like it, but I haven’t worked up the nerve to reverse it. My gut instinct is that it wouldn’t be a good idea to reverse it right now. A lot of my memory gaps seem to come in the morning, and it’s easier to hide them if I’m in my room and he’s in his. I always remember waking up, brushing my teeth and so forth, but then something happens. The next thing I know, it’s hours later and I have no idea why I’m on the deck or in the dining room.

He ignores my word choice, though, pressing his lips to mine again. “Mmhmm. Excellent idea. Oh. Wait . . .” My feet are now back on the carpet, and he’s looking down at me with narrowed eyes. “Nice try.”

“Aaron! That’s not what I was doing. I swear.” And it’s true, although I’ll admit that delaying the discussion with Kelsey would have been a nice bonus.

“Good.” Aaron plants a last quick kiss on the side of my mouth. “Then we’ll pick this up after you talk to Kelsey. And Deo.” He flashes me a wicked grin, puts both hands on my shoulders, and pivots me around.

“Fine,” I say. “Assuming I survive . . .”

He knows I’m joking. I’m not scared of Kelsey. She won’t even yell at me. It would be easier, actually, if she did yell at me. It’s the disappointment on her face that I dread.

NEWS ITEM FROM THE WASHINGTON POST

April 16, 2020

Sanctuary for Psychics, a nonprofit organization created earlier this year by Jerrianne Cregg, wife of presidential candidate Senator Ron Cregg (UA-PA), is urging anyone exhibiting psychic symptoms or who knows someone who exhibits these symptoms to call their hotline for assistance. “The danger from these vigilante groups is very real,” she said. “We can offer aid and protection. You don’t need to do this alone. We still do not understand the nature of this condition. Some experts believe that viral transmission is possible, so if you see something unusual, it’s your civic duty to make a report.”

Mrs. Cregg’s organization has been awarded a $72 million grant from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention to facilitate blood screenings at schools and local clinics for all students and interested adults. Several states are now requiring the test be conducted along with the eye examination when granting a driver’s license. Anyone who tests positive can then be tracked. The test is offered free of charge, and results are available within a week. A bill that would make this sort of screening mandatory for all US citizens and persons traveling into the country has recently passed the House of Representatives and is under consideration in the Senate.

Sanctuary for Psychics is also working in conjunction with several other organizations, including Decathlon Services Group (DSG), where Mrs. Cregg has served on the board of directors since 2014. Mrs. Cregg is currently chair of the Health, Environment, and Responsible Social Engagement committee. A DSG subsidiary, Python Diagnostics, holds the patent for an antidepressant drug that has shown promise as a psychic inhibitor.

CHAPTER TWO

Carova, North Carolina

April 23, 2020, 10:26 a.m.

Kelsey answers immediately when I tap on the door. I step inside and glance around the office, postponing the inevitable moment when I have to look her in the eye.

Even though I’ve been in this room dozens of times since Kelsey arrived at Sandalford, it’s still a slight shock to see her behind a different desk, in a different office, instead of her old office in Wheaton. In every rational sense, this place is an upgrade—the old location overlooked a rear parking lot and a dumpster, and often smelled of stale grease wafting up from the restaurant below. This room is twice as big and it has an ocean view. But I miss the familiarity of her other office. I don’t know if Kelsey misses it, but that place was one of the few constants for much of my life. Foster homes changed, foster parents changed, schools changed. Kelsey’s office was the only place that felt like home, even though I was only there for an hour twice a week.

The most important thing, though, is that Kelsey is here. These past few months have aged her, but the same patient gray eyes watch me from behind rimless glasses. Her hair is the same silver-white, though a little grown out, no doubt due to the lack of nearby salons.

And it’s the same blue mug—the one she gave me that first Christmas, the one with my name in white letters—waiting for me on the edge of her desk. A tiny curl of steam rises from the cup, and tears spring to my eyes as I breathe in the aroma. Black coffee, no cream or sugar, just as I requested the very first time I sat in her office chair, back when I was five and my legs were still too short to touch the floor.

It’s only a cup of coffee, but it symbolizes more than twelve years of trust that I’ve been chipping away at over the past few months. I sink into the chair, unable to meet her eyes. Unable to say anything because I don’t want to lie to her, but I’m too terrified to tell the truth. Too terrified to admit I don’t know what really happened this morning.

“Oh, Anna, you look like you’ve been sent to the principal’s office. I have no intention of scolding you. Did I scold you when you ran from the Becklers’ house?”

“No.”

“Did I scold you or Deo when the two of you ran from Wheelwright’s house?”

“No.”

“And why do you think I didn’t scold you?”

I’m quiet for a moment, then say, “Because we had a reason for running. Especially that last time.”

“Exactly. Scolding you would have been pointless because you were in a situation beyond your control. My concern then—and now—was keeping you out of danger. You explained the problem to me both times, and we worked together to solve it. And that’s what I want you to do now. So. Try to explain why you left this morning, just two days after Magda’s security team reported suspicious activity around the perimeter.”

She’s been using her calmest and most level therapist’s voice, but worry creeps into the last few words.

“I can’t,” I tell her. “I can’t explain. When I woke up this morning, I just . . . I wanted to run. I didn’t think about whether any of Senator Cregg’s people or a group of rogue vigilantes might be in the area. All I remember is putting on my shoes and telling the night guard I was going for a run.”

“That’s the last thing you remember?”

It is the last thing I remember, but I shake my head, surprised that I let that slip. “No. I just meant that’s the last thing I remember before I left. I remember running, then sitting on the beach. Watching the waves until I dozed off. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“And sitting there all alone, you didn’t think at all about the reasons Magda has guards here? About how she’ll want to tag you with one of those horrid trackers if she gets wind of this?”

“No . . . I didn’t think about those things. It’s off-season, midweek. I didn’t even see anyone, Kelsey. I was safe.”

Kelsey paces for a moment, then sits on the edge of her desk. Her voice is reflective, almost idle, when she asks, “Do you think maybe the boy in Virginia Beach felt the same way? Felt like he was safe?”

My hand tightens around the mug. Last week’s murder of Cameron Applebaum, a thirteen-year-old boy with low-level telekinesis, is the fifth killing we’ve tracked since December. Two of those kids weren’t even connected to the Delphi Project, at least not in any way we can identify. Just random kids who had a smidgen of native psychic ability. Or far more likely, they simply didn’t fit into the pecking order in their communities or schools, and were singled out for removal. The current hysteria over psychic abilities gave some people a handy excuse for killing a couple of misfits.

Cameron’s death came as a double blow because Magda and Kelsey—mostly Kelsey, to be honest—had finally persuaded his mother to let the boy come to Sandalford. Miller, Magda’s head of security, had already dispatched a team to fetch Cameron when the boy’s uncle called with the news.

The family had been receiving threats for several weeks. That’s what eventually pushed them to accept Magda’s offer of asylum for the boy. Cameron’s mom cautioned him to stay in the house. But he decided to walk over to his best friend’s house to say good-bye and, apparently, to retrieve a half dozen or so video games. Those games were found along with his body, crushed by a car on the way home. No witnesses, but just in case anyone was tempted to see this as an unfortunate accident, the perpetrator scrawled the word freak across Cameron’s forehead with his own blood.

“He was thirteen, Kelsey. I’m an adult.”

Her eyes flash, and I’m certain that she’s going to say that if I want to be treated as an adult, I need to start acting like one. That’s what every single one of the parents among my former hitchers would have said to an eighteen-year-old who was taking stupid risks. It’s what most of the foster parents I’ve dealt with would have said. Part of me wants Kelsey to say it, to snap at me out of anger and fear. To treat me like one of her children.

She doesn’t say it, though. Honestly, I’m not even sure she would have said something like that to her own two children, now adults with nearly grown kids of their own. More likely she’d do what I’m pretty sure she’s about to do now—toss in a few leading questions to help me draw that conclusion on my own.

Normally, I’d play along, but I really don’t have the patience for the psychiatric Socratic method today, so I jump in first.

“Yes,” I say, “I’ve been forgetful lately. Things slip my mind. You know that and you know why. This morning, I just needed to get away. I wasn’t thinking about Senator Cregg or the recent attacks or anything other than the fact that I needed to get out. Get some fresh air and exercise. I’m sorry everyone was worried. It won’t happen again. I told Aaron that I’ll wake him up next time, and I will. I promise. Just don’t tell Magda. You know it would make me crazy to wear one of those anklets.”

Kelsey remains quiet during my plea. Even after I fall silent, she doesn’t speak for a moment. She just watches as I sip my coffee. Her elbows are on the desk, hands folded together, chin on her thumbs, and her forefingers steepled below her bottom lip. This is her usual pose when she’s trying to think how to proceed. And after twelve years, I don’t need any psychic ability at all to know the question lurking behind her expression—what is it you’re not telling me?

Eventually, she sighs and gives me a weary smile. “Okay. You know I won’t mention this to Magda, but don’t be surprised if word gets back to her anyway. We have several dozen bored kids in this house. Gossip is a diversion, and there’s only so much we can do to keep them in line. Hopefully they’ll have forgotten by the time she gets back.”

She doesn’t add that some of the kids already resent the fact that I—along with Aaron, Taylor, and Deo—have been able to leave Sandalford on a few occasions, most notably back in December when we drove to Upstate New York. Magda had tentatively approved the trip, but we left ahead of schedule. The fifteen kids we rescued from the missile-silo-turned-prison where Cregg was keeping them don’t generally seem to have an issue with our off-campus privileges. They know they probably wouldn’t be here otherwise. And they’d much rather be here than in The Pit with Cregg’s guards. The kids who were brought in from the school at Fort Bragg, however, have been at Sandalford longer. Many of them miss their families, and pretty much all of them have cabin fever. Even if you can see the ocean from the top two floors, you still know that there’s now a fence and a guard.

“Thank you, Kelsey. And really, I promise it won’t happen again.”

Even though I was pretty sure she wouldn’t rat me out to Magda, I’m amazed that she capitulated so quickly. I thought we’d spend longer thrashing it out, while she poked at my excuse, searching for holes.

She brushes off my thanks and settles herself in her chair. “We had to cut our last session short because I had that meeting with the science team. But I do have about twenty minutes before my next appointment, so . . . ?”

Ahhhh. That’s the catch. We’re not actually finished. I want to tell her that I’m too busy. That Aaron is waiting. But we both know Aaron has nowhere to be. And we both know that I’ve been avoiding our sessions whenever possible—something that I’ve never done in the past.

“Sure,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “But there’s not really much that we haven’t already talked about, so . . .”

“What about the nightmares?”

“I’ve had a few. But . . . they’re just garden-variety nightmares, not the recurring ones.”

As I tell Kelsey this lie, a fleeting image runs through my head. A woman’s body is sprawled on a flagstone patio, one knee up and the opposite arm arched over her head near a hedge of white and pink rosebushes. You might think she was sleeping, except for the growing red pool beneath her face and the hand on her outstretched arm, which is badly broken and bloodied. The fingers jut out in odd directions, and one—the pinky—is missing.

Sometimes, the dream starts earlier, with a sense that I’m falling through the air. I never wake up when I land. It’s almost like the impact tosses me out of her body, and I walk toward her in a swirl of emotions. Grief. Guilt about an argument. I hate you. You suck! Terrified that she’s dead. Terrified that I caused it.

The dream ends there, occasionally. Usually, however, everything around me morphs into a city scene. Downtown DC, I think, but then that’s really the only city I know. The woman is still lying on the ground, but she’s older now. Different face, different clothes. They’re drab and ragged. Dirty. She’s huddled in a doorway, sleeping next to a shopping cart full of her belongings.

In the dream, I draw back my foot and kick the woman in the stomach. I can see the shoe as it kicks again and again. It’s a pink-and-white sneaker with Velcro straps and little lights. One of the lights is broken, but the others turn on when you walk—or if you kick hard enough.

The old woman pulls away from the second kick and looks up at me, shock and horror in her eyes. That’s usually what wakes me up, but sometimes I keep kicking, over and over, and I don’t wake up until I feel hands on my shoulders, pulling me away. I don’t want them to pull me away, and it’s my anger that wakes me.

This last scene has frequented my dreams for years. Kelsey and I have talked about her before. I don’t know the old woman’s name. I don’t even think Myron knew her name. She was just there when he surfaced, a convenient target for his rage.

But the woman on the patio is new. I’ve never seen her before, and I’ve no clue why she keeps popping up in my dreams lately—at least a dozen times in the past few months. She must be symbolic. The missing pinky would seem to confirm that, actually, since I associate it with Graham Cregg’s victims.

I’ve had symbolic dreams before, and usually Kelsey helps me sort them out. But some instinct tells me to hide this new version of the dream, even from Kelsey. Maybe even especially from Kelsey.

So I shift the topic slightly, hoping she didn’t pick up on my lie. “But, like I said last time, I didn’t have a single exit dream after Hunter Bieler left. I don’t have any of his memories, either. That’s odd, don’t you think?”

When my hitchers move on to whatever waits beyond, I relive their last moments. I’ve had “exit dreams” with all of my former hitchers. I don’t know if the old saying about having your life flash before your eyes when you die is accurate, but I get a wave of memories, and it’s like my brain gets stuck on the last moments. And my ghosts didn’t die peacefully. People who die happily in their sleep with no regrets are eager to see what’s on the other side. They don’t stick around with the living. There’s something tethering my hitchers to this realm—something they need to know or something they need to do. And maybe I dream those last moments again and again because it takes rehashing their death multiple times for them to finally accept it as reality.

The one exception to the rule was Hunter Bieler. He was one of the six kids who were killed by Dacia Badea. She abandoned their bodies in a training area near Fort Bragg, presumably to let the military authorities know Senator Cregg wasn’t impressed by their failure to keep the offspring of Delphi subjects out of the public eye. Hunter’s ghost stuck around because he needed to be sure his twin sister, Bree, was safe. Once he knew that for certain, he simply vanished. No farewell, no dreams, no cabinet full of memories in the back of my head.

“It is odd,” Kelsey agrees. “But Hunter’s departure also coincided with your concussion, so . . . who knows?”

She doesn’t look at me, instead she concentrates on lining up a stack of files on her desk. This is the second time I’ve mentioned Hunter’s strange exit and the second time Kelsey has shown very little interest. Normally, she’d be all over this, asking if there were any other anomalies, hoping to make all the puzzle pieces fit. This is definitely not her usual pattern, although I guess it could simply be that she now has a number of other patients whose abilities fall outside of the ordinary. She may not have the mental energy to keep track of the psychic minutiae each of us is dealing with.

“You’ve processed all of the memories from Jaden?” she asks.

“Yes.” I’m surprised she asked, since I’m pretty sure we discussed this last time. Processing Jaden’s memories was fairly easy. I already knew how he died, so there were no surprises. When I heard the gunshots that day at Fort Bragg, I’d been terrified they’d shot Deo. Instead, when I entered the room, I found Deo frightened but still alive, seated next to three other adepts who were murdered as part of a twisted aptitude test devised for me by Graham Cregg. Jaden Park was one of the spirits Cregg forced me to pick up if I wanted Deo to stay alive.

“And there haven’t been any more visions?”

Jaden’s gift from the Delphi serum was the ability to see brief, verbatim glimpses of the future, although I think he found them more of a curse than a gift. They occurred at random, and he couldn’t change anything he saw. What happened, happened. When Jaden came on board as a hitcher, I began having the visions too. Most of the time they were inconvenient as hell, but I’m not sure we’d have found the other Delphi adepts if not for the clues I got concerning their location in one of those flashes. Even though Jaden has moved on, that ability, like his memories, remains. My visions aren’t as frequent, but they still hit like clockwork if I touch Deo.

“The only vision I had was the one I mentioned last session. And it was really mundane. A conversation I had with Deo about Ein needing his nails trimmed.”

She nods absently. “And what about Myron?”

Her words suck the air out of my lungs. I sit there, openmouthed, hollow, unable to respond. If I live to be 120, that name will still be the auditory equivalent of a gut punch. And Kelsey knows this.

I picked up the spirit of Myron Wells when I was five. Like most of the hitchers who’ve taken up residence in my head, I found him at the place where he last felt safe or happy. In Myron’s case, that was the back seat of a train on the DC Metro’s Orange Line. He’d killed a homeless woman and her son in that seat late one night in 1996. Stabbed them repeatedly while the three other passengers, college students headed back to their dorms after a night of heavy drinking, hid at the other end of the car, terrified. When the train reached Metro Center, they ran screaming. A guard entered the car and shot Myron, who was still standing, knife in hand, smiling down at the carnage.

The gunshot wound wasn’t fatal. Myron died three years later in a fight with two other inmates at the Lorton Reformatory. But eventually his spirit made it back to that Metro car, that seat . . . because it was the last place he was truly happy.

Kelsey and I have talked about Myron many times. Most of those conversations took place years ago when I was working to contain and evict his ghost, but we still discuss him on occasion. She knows when I say I’m having “garden-variety nightmares,” I’m referring to dreams about Myron.

But any time Kelsey brings up Myron, she approaches the subject gently, tentatively. She asks if I want to talk about him. She doesn’t just drop his name like a live grenade into the middle of a conversation.

“The Myron memories are behind the wall,” I say, struggling to keep my voice level. “Where they always are.”

Kelsey’s eyes are sympathetic when they meet mine, but she pushes ahead. “You said there were cracks in your walls after Jasper hit you. Shattered bricks and . . .” She takes a deep breath and continues, speaking quickly, as if she’s worried I’m going to interrupt. “When Myron was active, you had memory gaps. You ran off without telling anyone. You were prone to angry outbursts—”

“Myron. Is. Gone.” I slam the mug onto the desk with that last word. Coffee sloshes out, pooling toward her papers. She yanks the files away, and I’m relieved to have a reason to get up so I don’t feel her eyes burning into me. I grab a handful of paper towels to sop up the mess, taking my time and breathing deeply so my voice will be calm enough to finish this damned discussion.

Kelsey watches me silently as I shove the soggy towels into the trash. “You never dealt with those memories, Anna. Never unpacked them, never worked through them, so . . .”

“Fine. Yes. There were cracks in the wall around the Myron memories after Jasper hit me. Cracks and a few missing bricks. But the wall was patched the next time I checked. Good as new. And it wouldn’t matter anyway, right? They’re just memories! You’re the one who told me a few years back I could tear that wall down anytime I wanted to. That I should tear it down. That I might be happier if I worked through those memories instead of repressing them.”

“I still think that’s true.” Kelsey’s voice is calmer than mine, but it shakes slightly on the last word. “There were things you weren’t equipped to deal with at age six. You’re older, and if you did it in a controlled setting, it could be beneficial. But my worry is that you’re tapping into those memories in a way that’s harmful, as a result of your injury.”

“My recent nightmares weren’t even about Myron, okay?”

It’s only a partial lie. Most of the dreams have starred the mystery woman, and others featured Dacia or Grady, the guy Aaron shot when we were trying to escape from Overhills. The bodies of Hunter Bieler and the other dead children pop in from time to time. But my most frequent nightmare is still a variant of the one I began having when Molly Porter left—one minute it’s Cregg holding me captive in the basement, then the face morphs into Myron. And occasionally it mutates into some creepy-looking rat-spider-thing, but that’s really not as weird as it sounds. Rats and spiders seriously freak me out. Both creatures have had cameo roles in my bad dreams for as long as I can remember.

“Okay,” Kelsey says. “That’s what you told me at our last session, but you seemed somewhat evasive about the whole thing, so . . .”

At our last session? What the hell is she talking about? We didn’t talk about Myron last time. She hasn’t mentioned Myron to me in ages. I’m about to point this out, but then I remember Kelsey is sixty-seven years old. Her mind is usually razor-sharp, but she’s laughed a few times about having a senior moment. Maybe she’s not entirely joking when she says that?

It would be hypocritical to call her on it, given all of the things I’ve forgotten in the past few months. So I sidestep. “I’m not the only one having nightmares. Normal people tend to have bad dreams when they see horrible things, right? Aaron’s had a few. Deo said he and Taylor both had bad dreams about those dead kids for weeks after we left Overhills. Have you called them in here to rehash their childhood traumas?”

“No,” Kelsey admits. “But did any of them suffer a head injury? Are they having memory gaps?”

These are clearly rhetorical questions, so I don’t answer. We just stare at each other silently for a moment, until she sighs and glances up at the clock.

I’m surprised to see thirty minutes has already passed. Kind of relieved, to be honest, though it felt like ten, maybe fifteen, minutes at most.

Kelsey seems surprised, too. “Oh, wow. My next appointment will be here any second. We need to wrap up. And if you still feel like you need to get out of here, like you need a break . . . let me know, okay? Maybe we could go for a walk on the beach later. Me and you and Deo. Like we did a few months ago. That was a good day.”

It was a good day, back before the memory gaps really started. Maybe the only good day I can remember since we returned to Sandalford. It was unusually warm for early January, in the upper sixties. Bright and sunny, as though winter needed a day off before diving in to finish the job. We collected shells and chatted about nothing of consequence, which I think Kelsey needed even more than we did. After about an hour, Deo phoned Taylor and told her to grab Aaron, some matches, and a bag of marshmallows. We pulled pieces of driftwood into a circle, built a fire, ate way too many toasted marshmallows, and told silly jokes. Somewhere along the line, the pointy sticks became Harry Potter wands. Deo nearly laughed himself sick when Kelsey flicked her wand, crying Avada Marshmahllow in her best imitation of Professor McGonagall, and sent a flaming ball of sugar into the sand. And then we walked back to Sandalford, all agreeing we should really do that more often.

But we haven’t. I think it’s because Deo mentioned one of the other adepts, in passing, while we were laughing. And just that casual mention of the others brought the party to a halt. It was like that scene in Mary Poppins where they’re having a tea party on the ceiling. The other adepts are allowed to go outside the fence in groups of no more than two, and then only if Kelsey and two of the security guards tag along. Remembering that the other kids at Sandalford lack even our limited freedoms pulled us back down to reality.

Kelsey now reaches out to touch my arm. “I’m here if you want to talk. I’m on your side. I’m always on your side, Anna. You know that, right?”

Her eyes, familiar and safe, fill with tears. That sight knots my stomach with so many conflicting emotions—guilt, frustration, anger, and beneath it all, a horrible smidgen of satisfaction—that I don’t trust myself to speak. I simply nod, partly so this can be over, but mostly because I do believe Kelsey has my best interests at heart.

It’s just that I believed it even more before she mentioned Myron.

NEWS ITEM FROM THE WASHINGTON EXAMINER

April 20, 2020

Two more are confirmed dead in yesterday’s explosion in Colorado Springs, bringing the total to four dead and seven injured. The attack is believed to be the work of a splinter group of West Coast separatists known as WOCAN. The building that was targeted housed several military contractors, including the Decathlon Services Group, an organization linked to psychic experiments on members and former members of the US military.

Eight attacks have now been claimed by WOCAN, including one that disabled the Texas electrical grid, which left most of the state without power for nearly a week. Fourteen deaths were attributed to that outage. The group has also taken credit for two car bombs and last week’s explosion on a commuter train in Northern Virginia, which killed six people and left dozens hospitalized. In addition, WOCAN claims credit for the murder of six children in North Carolina, destruction of the Tome School in Maryland, and the attack on a regional airport in Upstate New York that took the life of Graham Cregg, son of presidential candidate Senator Ron Cregg (UA-PA), and several of his associates.

Prior to this surge of violent activity, WOCAN—which stands for Washington, Oregon, California, and Nevada—was a loose-knit alliance of center-left political groups advocating economic and political independence for those four West Coast states. They blocked roads leading to several oil fields and briefly occupied one oil field in California. This resulted in a minor constitutional crisis when the president sent in the National Guard to remove the protesters, despite the fact that the governor of California opposed using military force.

Technically speaking, the original WOCAN is now defunct. Its leaders resigned last month and announced there would be no annual convention this year. Benjamin Weber, the former president of the group, claims they had nothing to do with the recent spate of attacks. “I don’t know who these people are, but they didn’t splinter off from WOCAN. No matter what Senator Cregg and the others claim, we’ve never seen a psychic supersoldier. We don’t have weapons. We haven’t killed anyone or engaged in an armed attack against the United States. Aside from those early efforts at the oil fields, pretty much the only thing we accomplished was adopting the WOCAN flag and the grizzly bear as our mascot.”

Whether or not the current group originated with Weber and his fellow separatists is now a moot point. Each time the terrorists release video claiming credit for an attack, the footage begins with the WOCAN flag. They hide their faces behind bear masks. And they appear to be amassing an army capable of both traditional and very untraditional warfare.

CHAPTER THREE

Carova, North Carolina

April 23, 2020, 10:59 a.m.

I close the door to Kelsey’s office and lean against the wall. I’m too wound up to talk to Deo or even Aaron right now. What I really want is to go directly to the beach. Do not pass go, do not sign out at the gate. Just run and clear my head. But that’s what got me in trouble in the first place. Maybe I’ll walk around on the deck instead.

That plan lasts all of ten seconds. As I approach the south wing, I hear Deo’s voice. Talking to Taylor, most likely. They’re joined at the hip these days, and I mean that both figuratively and literally.

But Deo’s not talking to Taylor. He’s in the little hallway alcove with Maria and two of the other adepts, Maggie and Stan.

Maggie is one of the little girls Cregg’s guards held at gunpoint back in December until they turned the tables on him. She’s very popular with the other adepts. But it’s definitely not because of her conversation skills—she’s painfully shy, and you’re lucky if you get more than a single-word answer to any question before her nose goes right back into whatever book she’s reading. I think she’d really like to spend more time alone, but you’ll usually find her at the center of a group of adepts, often the most volatile ones. Maggie’s a blocker, and when she’s nearby, they can feel normal, without having to worry they’re going to torch the place or whatever. It’s probably nice to feel needed, but it can’t be easy knowing people mostly seek her out because of her ability.

The guy with Maria is Stan, though Maria—with her little nicknames for everyone—calls him Fiver most of the time, after the rabbit in Watership Down who had visions. He’s not the only “Fiver” here at Sandalford, but he must be the strongest, because he’s definitely the one Maria relies on the most.

Stan, like Maria, is one of the kids Cregg held captive, first in Maryland and later in the missile silo in Upstate New York. He wears thick-rimmed black glasses that make his dark eyes look huge, but the effect is more Spike Lee than Steve Urkel. Some days he uses a cane to walk, although he seems to be pretty steady on his feet today. Stan keeps to himself for the most part, rarely taking meals with the rest of us. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him speak. The few times I’ve seen him hanging out in the common areas, he’s been with Maria, so Taylor’s assessment that he has a crush on her could well be true.

Of course, a lot of the guys seem to have a crush on Maria. Taylor thinks it’s the liberty of knowing they have no secrets from her. If she’s nice to them, it’s not because she’s fallen for whatever suave act they’ve put on. She knows the person beneath the persona.

I ignore Maria and her companions and focus on Deo. Yes, I should probably thank Maria for intervening with the guard earlier, but I don’t want to get sucked into a conversation with her. If she and her friends are pissed at me, I don’t really care. Their opinions don’t matter.

Deo’s, however, does. We stick together. We don’t keep secrets.

Or at least that used to be the case. I’m not so sure anymore. He didn’t tell me about his relationship with Taylor until Aaron and I caught them in the act. And I haven’t been entirely honest with him about these memory lapses. I’ve tried to be, but I don’t want to worry him any more than he already is. And it’s hard to be honest when I don’t really know what’s going on myself.

“Well, speak of devil . . .” Maria says as I round the corner. “We need to talk—”

“No,” Deo says, “I was here first. What the hell, Anna?”

His words are a direct echo of what Aaron said on the beach earlier. And his expression is a direct echo of Kelsey’s when I left her office. Worried. Hurt.

I can’t delay this discussion with Deo, but I don’t want to have it in front of anyone else. That’s doubly true since my answers will not make Deo happy, any more than they did Aaron and Kelsey. The mere fact that I have to go through the whole process of giving my lame explanation again makes me want to punch something. Not someone, and definitely not Deo. Just . . . a wall or a door. Hard enough to hurt, so that I can release some of the pressure building up inside me.

Maria puts her hands on her hips. “Do not be stupid, Anna. Magda won’t like if you put hole in wall, and I already cover for you once today. Go to gym and hit the bag if you are feeling punchy.”

Conversations with Maria are always one-sided. It’s simply quicker for her to pluck it out of your brain than to wait for the words to make it to your mouth. I think part of the reason is that English isn’t Maria’s first language, and mental conversations may be easier for her than actually speaking, but it’s also a power trip. She swears she isn’t trying to spy, and you have to be thinking something for her to pick it up, so it’s not like she knows every single secret you have. But it’s pretty damn close. Her one concession to life here at Sandalford is that she usually speaks to us with actual words, even though she’s perfectly capable of shoving her responses to whatever you’re thinking directly into your head.

Right now, Maria looks a wee bit smug that she managed to pull a thought from my mind so easily, although she could have picked up at least some of my frustration and anger simply from my expression. She doesn’t get as many thoughts from me as from the others here, thanks to the tricks Kelsey taught me to help control my hitchers. I was caught off guard this time, but that’s a simple fix. It only takes a few seconds to stack my mental bricks and form a privacy barrier.

Maria responds with a fake pout.

As tempted as I am to stick out my tongue, she did me a big favor earlier. So I take the high road and say in my sweetest voice, “Thank you for covering for me, Maria. I appreciate it. But I really do need to talk to Deo. Could you guys give us a few minutes alone?”

She twists her mouth to one side, considering my request.

“Okay, whatever,” she says as she backs down the hallway, motioning for Stan and Maggie to follow. “I can just as easy explain to everyone at once. Meet us in rec room on top floor when you are done. But hurry. You must leave soon.”

“Leave . . . to go where?” I ask Deo once they’re gone. “Do you have any idea what she’s talking about?”

“No. And I’m more interested in you right now. What gives? You had everyone worried.”

“I needed a break, D. Some exercise. Some solitude. I get that it was stupid. I just . . . it was early and I wasn’t thinking. And Aaron and Kelsey have already given me the third degree, so could we skip to the part where I say I’m really, really sorry and it won’t happen again?”

“Sure,” he says. “We can do that. If you tell me what’s really going on. Because you might be able to convince Aaron, maybe even Kelsey, that you’re into beach marathons that take three or four hours, but no one knows you better than me. Yeah, you like to run, but you rarely last more than half an hour.”

“I never said I ran the entire time. Like I told Aaron—”

“You told Aaron you were on a stretch of beach I checked. Twice. There were tire tracks but no sneakers.”

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I ran along the water? That the waves erased my footprints? What exactly are you accusing me of, D?”

“Nothing! I’m just . . .” Deo looks like he wants to say something else, but he holds it back, instead running a hand through his hair. He used to do that a lot when he was a kid, especially when he was frustrated. When he started using hair putty a few years ago, he had to break that habit because his fingers kept getting stuck in his quiff. That’s exactly what happens now, and it’s his turn to look like he wants to punch something.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “But you scared me, okay? And now we’re yelling at each other, which I hate, and I can’t even give you a hug to apologize without triggering one of your visions.”

Neither of us has actually yelled, and this is a truly pathetic sibling squabble compared to the screaming matches Aaron and Taylor engage in on pretty much a daily basis. They don’t exactly hug and make up afterward but instead act like it’s no big deal. They’re the same way with Daniel, and even the older members of the Quinn family. It’s taken me a while to figure them out, but I’ve come to the conclusion they are simply so secure in their affection for each other and in their place within the family that no amount of disagreement can shake them.

But Deo and I come from a very different place. We aren’t big fans of conflict, and he’s right—it makes my heart ache to argue with him.

I give him a half smile. “So . . . are we at the part where I say I’m really, really sorry and it won’t happen again?”

“I guess.” He returns my smile, but it fades quickly. Which means he doesn’t want to argue, but he doesn’t believe he’s gotten the full truth. “Just . . . go get Aaron and we’ll go see what Maria’s all worked up about.”

When Aaron and I arrive, there are about a dozen adepts, mostly teens, assembled in the rec room. A few are playing table tennis, but most are seated in folding chairs pulled from the supply closet. Magda hinted a few months ago that she’s planning to convert it into additional sleeping space. A bunch of adepts protested that it was the one room large enough for everyone to hang out. Eventually, Magda backed off, although that could be because the flow of new adepts arriving at Sandalford has slowed to a trickle. At this point, those who aren’t with us or with Senator Cregg’s crew are sufficiently hidden, hoping to ride this thing out until the world returns to normal.

Personally, I’m not holding my breath on that whole return-to-normal idea. Not with seven low-level terror attacks in the US within the past six months, all falsely attributed to WOCAN. The original leftist group’s leaders have maintained from the beginning that WOCAN had nothing to do with these attacks, but their innocence is totally irrelevant in the current political environment. Their organization was a convenient scapegoat for Senator Ron Cregg, the presumptive nominee of the Unify America Party, and he’s presented enough “evidence” to have them convicted in the court of public opinion.

Video released of each attack depicts a group of young people in bear masks, many of them appearing to wield strange powers—blue streaks of light that could easily be Adobe After Effects coming from their hands, a small pickup that goes flying off an embankment for no apparent reason, and security guards who fall unconscious as soon as the bear-masked brigade comes into view.

A few of the stunts might be real. We know Cregg has at least a dozen Delphi adepts working with him, maybe more. But we’re pretty sure most of it is smoke and mirrors. There’s no way psychically zapping a handful of power stations could have brought the entire Texas power grid to a screeching halt. That was almost certainly the work of hackers.

People are willing to believe pretty much anything, however, after the Senator’s live demonstrations and actual video of Delphi kids in action. It might seem that the notion of psychics who can bring down the nation’s infrastructure with a touch of the hand is a far cry from a kid predicting a tornado or propelling a dart through the air using only his mind. But it’s that first leap of faith that’s the tough one. Once the Senator convinced the public that telekinesis, telepathy, and other psychic abilities are real, convincing them that anyone who possesses those powers is a clear and present danger was a cinch.

In one sense, the Senator has a point. Glancing around the room, I spot several adepts who could quite easily be classified as lethal weapons. But the posts I’ve seen on the social media pages of anti-psychic groups make it clear they’re not all that worried about the telekinetic kids (aka Movers) or even the firestarters (Zippos). They seem confident that those kids could be stopped by a bullet if necessary. No, they’re worried about the ones like Maria who can read someone’s thoughts if they’re within her range, which can extend for around the equivalent of a city block if she’s really trying. Or kids like Jeffrey, the guy sitting off by himself at the back of the room who almost everyone calls Snoop Dogg. He can do the same trick as Maria, not with the same ease or the same degree of depth, but from much farther away—he picked up stray thoughts from our crew at a distance of several hundred miles when he was with Graham Cregg. Then there’s Daniel Quinn, who can sway someone’s mind without them ever realizing it. The people who frequent the anti-psychic groups are terrified they could go to sleep one night as a charter member of Mothers Against Psychic Predators, convinced that psychic abilities are the work of the devil, only to wake the next morning believing psychics are prophets sent straight from God.

I’m firmly on the side of these kids. I’d like to think I would be even if I wasn’t one of them. They are in a rotten situation through no fault of their own. Much of the ill will toward them is due to a steady stream of propaganda, and I suspect those screaming the loudest against the Delphi adepts would be doing the same if these were refugee kids who needed food and shelter. There are many, many good people out there, but there’s also a solid chunk whose basic philosophy is: I got mine, and screw the rest of you.

Still, I can’t deny that the anti-psychic brigade has some reason to be concerned.

I spot Deo and Taylor at the far side of the room, which is as close as Deo dares get to the more volatile kids. The Zippo on the other side of the room might scorch the carpet a bit if he loses control of his temper. Put Deo next to him, and that same burst of anger could set the entire room on fire.

Taylor gives me the side-eye as Aaron and I approach, but she doesn’t say anything about my morning adventure. I’m tired of talking about it, so I’m perfectly happy to have her stick to nonverbal means of expressing what a total screwup I am.

Maria is perched on the edge of the pool table, next to a portable whiteboard. She taps her fingernails in a nervous rhythm against the green felt lining of the table and glances frequently at the microwave in the corner, apparently checking the time. Then she leans over and whispers something to Stan, who is standing next to her. One side of his mouth twitches upward in a bashful smile, and his eyes follow her when she turns away.

“See?” Taylor whispers to Deo. “What did I tell you? He’s crushing hard on Maria.”

Deo chuckles. “Can you imagine how embarrassing that must be? I mean, she has to know every little thing he’s thinking. Every time he sneaks a peek at . . . her—”

Maria is staring straight at Deo, clearly annoyed. A blush creeps up his neck, confirming my suspicion that she’s sending a few choice thoughts his way. She tugs up on the V-neck tee she’s wearing as she sends him one last glare, then her gaze goes back to the doorway.

“What did she say to you?” Taylor asks.

“Uh . . . nothing,” Deo says, although his tone is less nothing and more none of your business.

Taylor rolls her eyes.

“Do either of you know what we’re waiting on?” Aaron asks.

“No clue,” Taylor says. “Maria just sent out a mental blast telling us to assemble here at eleven thirty. Looks like she contacted the entire varsity squad to me. Pretty much anyone over age ten or eleven.”

“Well, it can’t be anything to do with the training schedule, then, right?” Deo says. “She’s supposed to consult with you about that.”

Taylor shrugs. “In theory, but . . .”

She trails off when the side door opens and Ashley Swinton enters. Ashley pauses and scans the room to see who else is here, giving me a brief nod when she catches my eye. I haven’t seen her in weeks. Most of her time is spent as caretaker for her nephew, Caleb. At first, Magda put them in the guesthouse out back, but it was soon clear something else would have to be done. Doors would slam at random throughout Sandalford. Curtains would dance around the windows as though they were caught by the breeze, even when the windows were closed. Sometimes the walls and even the windows would seem to ripple.

About a month back when we were walking Ein on the beach, Deo and I saw something that looked like a large waterspout beyond the breakers. Except it was rising up from the water, not hanging down from a cloud. And there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The odd column of water surged maybe five feet above the surface, subsided, then rose again, ever higher as it pulsed outward, like ripples that spread when you toss a coin into the water. Only these ripples were suspended far above the water. Then it ended and the water arced downward, like a circular sheet of rain, into the waves below.

Many of the adepts also reported odd dreams, saying they kept hearing a little kid’s voice in their heads. It was getting to the point where some of them couldn’t sleep.

Magda had been complaining openly that Sandalford was bleeding cash, draining her financially, and she didn’t have enough liquid assets to build a separate house to accommodate Caleb’s needs. So her next solution was to house Maggie with Caleb, since her blocking ability makes him easier to manage. Ashley and Maria both told her it wouldn’t work, that they’d tried that at The Warren but Maggie hadn’t fared well. And sure enough, within a few days, Maggie began to look like the life was being sucked right out of her. Her usually pink cheeks were ghostly, and she had almost no energy. She said it wasn’t anything Caleb was doing on purpose. He’s a lonely kid and was delighted to have a visitor. Blocking him simply drained her, and since it takes a conscious effort for her to avoid blocking, her ability was working at full capacity, nonstop.

That’s the most sobering indicator I’ve seen of Caleb’s power. Maggie can be around a dozen or more Delphi adepts in the common areas, most of whom aren’t psychic lightweights, and it doesn’t seem to tire her out at all. But put her in a room with Caleb for a couple of days, and she comes out looking like death warmed over.

Eventually, Magda purchased the southern half of the uninhabited island in Currituck Sound where we first met Jasper Hawkins and Peyton, and a Quonset hut was set up for Caleb and Ashley. A new guard was hired, and one of the nurses goes over a few times a week to give Ashley a break. And Maggie still visits. It’s partly to help Ashley, but I think she also realizes how desperately lonely Caleb is.

Ashley doesn’t usually come to Sandalford, however, or if she does, she steers clear of the Quinns. Daniel doesn’t blame her for pulling the plug on his life support, and yes, she was trying to save her sister. I can’t be certain I wouldn’t have made the same choice if Deo’s life was in danger. But Daniel’s little sister isn’t exactly the forgiving type. Ashley’s probably wise to keep her distance from Taylor.

When Maria spots Ashley, she heaves a dramatic sigh. “Good. You are here. Finally. We are cutting it very close now.”

“Sorry,” Ashley says. She doesn’t seem to have any more idea why we’re here than I do. “I had to wait on the nurse to arrive. It’s not like I can just pick up and leave the island anytime I want. It’s ten miles in the boat, and another five in the truck.”

Maria nods at a girl near the back, who locks both sets of double doors and the side door. Then she taps loudly on the floor with the butt of one of the pool cues to get everyone’s attention. The kids playing table tennis break off the game and take their seats, all eyes on Maria.

She leans forward, holding the pool cue in one hand like a scepter. “Okay. We must take vote today. I thought there would be more time. But Fiver says everything goes crazy a few hours ago.” She gives me a look I can’t quite interpret, and then continues. “We need to move fast, and so we must decide now.”

One of the kids says, “Decide what?”

“If we . . . if you . . .” She huffs and lets out an annoyed string of Czech words I’m pretty sure are NSFW. “This will take too long. All of you be still and listen.”

Everyone in the room jumps slightly, except for me.

She stops and turns toward me, looking injured. “Why do you block me always? You need to hear this. I won’t peek at your thoughts. They are so boring anyway.”

Reluctantly, I pull down a few of my bricks, and Maria’s voice fills my head. Although voice isn’t exactly right. There are some words in the mix, but it’s more like she’s sending her thoughts to the entire room in a massive info dump. It reminds me of this show Deo and I used to watch called Chuck, where the guy gets terabytes of information loaded into his brain in a matter of seconds. Except the data Chuck received from the Intersect always seemed to be relatively well organized and coherent. This is more of a jumble. The perspective shifts, going in and out of focus. Then I realize she’s not just sending us her own original thoughts. She’s showing us snippets from other people’s thoughts at Sandalford.

We get a flash of a monkey being injected with something by one of Magda’s scientists. A snippet of an argument over clinical-trial protocols with human subjects. There’s a blurred image of a large white building. The street is cordoned off with construction cones and a low cement wall with STOP written in red near the center. A large blue box in the background. The sound of a gunshot. A scream that ends abruptly—so abruptly it feels censored, like that bit was something Maria didn’t mean to let slip. Then we’re back in the lab with the scientists. A fight breaking out in the monkey cage. A dead monkey. Another argument between the scientists. Frustration . . . back to the drawing board.

When the onslaught of images eventually slows, Maria pauses for a minute and then speaks aloud. “As some of you know, the doctors—scientists—who I show you just now are working on cure. Or what they call cure.”

She lets that sink in for a moment, and I survey the expressions in the room. About half of them are excited about the prospect, but at least as many seem anxious, maybe even angry.

“Exactly,” Maria says. “Is not easy question for everyone. We need to think about what this means. If we want this cure. I decide not to call in little kids—the junior varsity, as Taylor says—because someone else will decide for them. But all of you here are old enough to make decision for yourself.”

“You didn’t call in the other adults, either,” Ashley points out. “Why was I invited when they were not?”

“That’s a good point,” I say. “Kelsey should probably be here.”

To be honest, I’d rather not face Kelsey right now, but she’d be on our side. She’d be a voice for the younger kids. She’d want everyone to have a choice.

Maria shrugs. “Your doctor friend meets with the scientists. She works for Magda. One day I think maybe we can trust her, but the next day I think maybe not. She is like . . . the wind. Different directions. But Ashley—you were a helper to The Warren. Some of us would have burned up in that place if you did not help us to escape. You earn my trust, so I think you get a say, even though you have no ability for these scientists to cure.” Maria grimaces with the last word as though it leaves a bad taste on her tongue. “Plus, you will be deciding for Caleb, and . . .”

She trails off, her face coloring slightly. As hard as it may be to imagine a toddler being part of any sort of resistance, Daniel and Jaden both believed Caleb is the strongest of all the adepts. I’m not sure if everyone in the room follows Maria’s implication, but I suspect most of them do. They all know how powerful Caleb is.

Ashley doesn’t respond, but her eyes narrow. She knows exactly what Maria is leaving unsaid, and she obviously doesn’t like the possibility that Caleb might be pulled into the fight. I have to agree with her on that point. He’s practically a baby. He should be watching Sesame Street and playing with Duplo blocks instead of being pulled into calculations as a potential weapon.

Taylor steps in with a question. “Okay, I get why you’re concerned about this cure. But why are we rushing into action without discussing it first with the training team?” She raises her eyebrows on the last phrase, and I suspect even the youngest kids in the room understand that what she really means is why Maria decided to take this step without discussing it with Taylor.

Although, for all I know, the training team consists of just Taylor and Maria. I feel like I should know more about this. How much have I missed?

“From what you’ve just shown us,” Taylor continues, “the scientists aren’t even close to a cure. I agree this is something all of us need to begin thinking about. Maybe we even need to increase training hours.” A few boos meet this comment, but others look pleased at the prospect. “But is it really so urgent we couldn’t have discussed it ahead of time?”

Maria shoots a look at Stan. “It is urgent. Soon we will be at . . . how you say? Fork on the road? Anna will have vision tonight, and if Magda learns what Anna sees, she will send Miller and his men to get her father, this Scott Pfeifer man, and bring him here. He created this ability, so likely he can fix, no?”

No one seems surprised at the mention of my father, even though it takes me aback for a second. It’s not that I was keeping the fact that my father was the brains behind the Delphi Project a secret. I just didn’t think it was common knowledge. Now that Maria is at Sandalford, however, it seems like everyone knows everything.

I have no idea whether my father can undo what his Delphi serum created. But Maria’s logic is sound. As the scientist behind the formula, he’d probably have a better chance than anyone else of unraveling the effects and figuring out how to mitigate them. Still, it’s usually harder to restore order than it is to create chaos. Plus, the man killed my mother fifteen years ago and has been in a mental hospital ever since. I think it’s safe to assume his brain is no longer in tip-top shape.

But since I really don’t want to talk about any of that in a roomful of people, I focus instead on the first part of her comment. “What makes you think I’m going to have a vision tonight?”

“Fiver tells me.”

“Wait,” Taylor says. “Stan had a vision about Anna having a vision? It’s like we wandered into one of those M. C. Escher paintings.”

Stan pushes his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. “Well . . . Maria is oversimplifying things. It was a group effort.” He nods toward a girl in the front row, apparently acknowledging her contribution. “The key issue is that it syncs up with minor path splinters I’ve been sensing for the past few weeks. But something has . . . changed.”

He looks over at me. It’s only a brief glance, but it almost feels like he’s accusing me of something. “The entire picture is out of focus,” he says, his eyes once again fixed on the floor. “So I told Maria we need to call a vote now. Because I get the feeling time is running out.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Carova, North Carolina

April 23, 2020, 11:48 a.m.

Maria has divided the whiteboard behind her into two columns—Yes and No. One of the other adepts suggests adding an undecided column. Maria argues against it for a minute, then gives up and adds a narrow strip down the right margin with a big question mark at the top.

“So . . . you vote yes, that means you will take a cure if they find one. That you want to lose your ability.” Maria tosses her dark curls over one shoulder. “Is not my choice, but I know the gift is more pain for some of you than it is for me. For others, it is pyrrhovo vítězství . . . a mixed-up blessing? For me, though . . . I say no. I will not let them take part of me.”

The fact that Maria views her ability as a gift rather than a curse puzzles me. She isn’t a second-generation adept like most of us. I don’t know all of the details, but she was one of the kids that Cregg’s company, Decathlon Services Group, “rescued” from an orphanage in the Czech Republic. Maria is nearly sixteen, which means she was brought over with the first group of girls—the same group as Dacia Badea—when she was around ten. So for most of her life, Maria wasn’t fully psychic. Clearly she had some nascent ability, or she wouldn’t have passed the tests that originally placed her in the Delphi program, but getting occasional psychic flashes isn’t really the same as having everyone’s thoughts laid out before you like an all-you-can-eat buffet.

I’ve spent far more time than I’d like with multiple voices in my head, and it seems to me that having so many people’s thoughts buzzing around would be a distraction for Maria. But then her gift is more like Taylor’s—she can shut it off at will, although she’s said it’s much harder to do when she’s around Deo, given his ability to amplify psychic signals. Maria actually bounced one of the other adepts from a room in the north wing so she could sleep as far away from Deo as possible.

Still, Maria can remember a life without her ability, a life when the only thoughts in her head were her own. I can’t. Neither can Aaron or Taylor or the vast majority of kids at Sandalford. As second-generation adepts, this is just how we’re wired. We inherited the ability from our parents along with our eye color and a host of other attributes. A cure might be fairly straightforward for first-gen adepts, but what kind of side effects would it have for those of us who were born this way? If it simply ended my propensity to pick up stray ghosts, I might be tempted. But that’s not the only aspect of my gift. I currently house the memories of at least ten hitchers. Some of those hitchers shaped who I am today—Emily, Molly, Jaden, and yes, even Bruno. Would those memories remain, or would I have massive holes in what I know and remember? Would I be able to function? Would I be me?

Maria draws one hash mark in the No column. “This is my vote. But listen to me. Those who put their mark with mine in this column—you do not just say no to taking cure. If you vote no, it means you will fight if they try to force this change on us.”

One of the older kids shakes his head. “Why do you assume anyone will force us to take a cure? No one forced me to come here. My father just felt I’d be safer, given the current . . . mood . . . of some of our neighbors. Were any of you actually forced to come to Sandalford?”

A few of the kids say no, but I can tell from their expressions that most of them aren’t sure how to answer the question. The kids who were housed at the special school on Fort Bragg weren’t given a choice between returning home and coming here. They were drugged, then scooped up by Vigilance Security, the group Magda hired, and moved to Sandalford while they slept. I spent a few days in the Fayetteville area, and this gorgeous beach is a definite upgrade, but they didn’t exactly come here voluntarily.

Many of the other kids, like those who were held by Cregg, don’t have family. Or at least not family in this country, because they were trafficked in from Eastern Europe. It’s not as though they have a lot of options. Like Maria, they’ve spent most of their lives here, with this group of people. The Warren is their family.

I expect Maria to answer the boy’s question. But Aaron beats her to it. “Those of us who are adults may get a choice, but I can easily imagine Magda justifying the use of force on minors by saying it’s for their own good. I doubt the authorities on Fort Bragg gave up all control when they transferred those of you who came from that school, so the decision would likely be theirs, not yours. Same goes for those of you with parents or guardians.”

The kid who asked the original question says, “We have rights, though. Even if we’re not adults, they’d have to give us some say if we fought it in court. My cousin was fourteen when her parents divorced. She said she wanted to live with her dad, even though her mom wanted custody. And the judge said okay.”

“Maybe,” Aaron says, “but your cousin didn’t pose a threat to society, as they claim—with some justification—all of us do. So again, I think some of us might get a choice, but if they come up with a cure, I’m pretty sure the people in charge will view it as something unpleasant but necessary, like vaccinations. And I’m certain the military scientists Magda is working with would enforce that for the sake of the good ole USA.”

“Military?” I ask him in a hushed voice.

Aaron gives me a puzzled look. “Yes. You know that.”

I don’t remember any discussion about the scientists being in the military. I was under the impression this was a team Magda brought with her when she came here from London. That’s apparently yet another thing I’ve missed during these stupid gaps. But Maria is talking again, so I make a mental note to ask Aaron about it later.

“They will force us,” Maria says, surveying the faces in front of her. “Fiver believes this from his visions, but even if he saw nothing at all, I know they will force us. I know because I see this before. Most of you never hear how I came to be here. How I came to be orphan who was happy to get on the boat to America, happy to take these tests and play the psychic games for Graham Cregg and his Fudds.”

There are a few confused looks, but most of the adepts get the reference. The adepts called themselves wabbits because they were stuck underground and basically treated like lab experiments. The guards were the Fudds, in reference to Elmer Fudd, the intrepid wabbit hunter who was always foiled by Bugs Bunny. I suspect the Fudd nickname originated with the tan uniforms they wore, and the fact that even though the guards talked tough, they usually weren’t allowed to kill the wabbits. Most of the adepts were reasonably happy at The Warren until that last part began to change.

“I come to The Warren from Česko,” Maria says. “The Czech Republic. But my people are the Roma. You know them maybe as gypsies. In Europe, the Roma people are thought to be bad. The Czech government force many Roma women to be sterile. Good jobs never go to Roma people. The floods happen when I was little girl, and many Roma people lose their homes and shops . . . sometimes to the flood, but more times to other people—the gadjos, the not-Roma—because the flood takes their house, their shop, and now they want ours. When the men come to put us onto street, they say we stole our house. That all Roma steal, that we’re all just no-good cikáni. Before the flood, these are same men who buy food at my family restaurant. They act like friends. But when my father stand up to them, try to speak reason with them, to defend his family, they shoot him. They shoot my mother and older brother. They would shoot me too, but I am hiding under bed, quiet like mouse.”

Maria’s eyes grow distant for a moment, then she says, “That is how it always is. If there is problem, they blame the ones who are different. Like us. And if we say no, if we say you cannot treat us like animal, they kill us. If they can. If we let them. So this is why I vote no. And this is why I do not like having maybe as an option for our vote. All of you maybe people will have to make decision very soon.”

I feel a strange shiver at her emphasis on the last two words. I know Stan had another vision, or maybe several of them, when they were being held in the silo. Maria knew all about Sandalford because Stan had seen the adepts here in one of these visions. She told me he’d seen all of us “fighting the bears” here.

A surreal image of bears lumbering down the beach flashes into my head. I doubt Dacia’s people would actually wear their bear masks. And I’m certain they won’t casually stroll over the sand dunes. They’ll be in jeeps or Hummers. Those who aren’t weapons themselves will definitely be carrying them.

Magda’s security force has weapons, too. Currently they are on our side, but Magda pays their salary and she is also funding the search for a cure. I can imagine several scenarios where this group of adepts ends up fighting not just Cregg’s people but Magda’s as well.

Graham Cregg believed this, too. Just before Jasper shot him, Cregg warned me that Magda would turn on us if and when our interests diverged. That she would side with his father. He called her a wolf in sheep’s array, another of his pretentious Shakespearean phrases. Normally, I’d discount anything he had to say, but on this issue, I’m inclined to believe him. As vicious and vile as Cregg was, he didn’t want the adepts killed if it could be avoided, especially the young ones. And while I don’t think Magda is necessarily a bad person, her main concern is finding a cure for her daughters. I have no doubt whatsoever she’d sell everyone else out if that’s what it takes to accomplish her goal.

Maria is calling for the vote, but Deo holds up his hand. She sighs, and motions for him to speak.

“Two things,” he says. “First, we don’t even know if there’s gonna be a cure, right?”

A brief shadow of . . . something . . . crosses Maria’s face. I’m pretty sure she knows more than she’s letting on, but she nods and Deo continues.

“Second, you left out one of the options. The most important one, actually.”

Maria frowns and taps the board. “Yes. No. Maybe. What else can there be?”

“My point is, you’re making it a false . . . dichotomy? At least I think that’s what they call it. You’re dividing us into those who will fight to avoid taking this cure that might never happen and those who will take it without fighting. I don’t know about the rest of you, but neither of those options accurately describes me. I don’t want this ability in my head, and I don’t like getting shot up with medicines constantly to keep it from killing me. So, yeah . . . they offer me a cure, I’ll be first in line. But people I care about might make a different choice.” He glances first at me and then at Taylor. “And I would absolutely fight to keep them—to keep any of us—from being forced to take something against our will. I’m guessing a lot of you feel the same way.”

There’s a low murmur of consensus in the room. And while it would be easy to dismiss them as children who have no idea what they’re agreeing to, these aren’t exactly typical kids. Most are from military families, so they have a better understanding than many people their age of what a battle might entail. More importantly, however, they’ve forged friendships in the foxholes. A few of them were together at the “special school” the military set up at Fort Bragg to deal with the wave of Delphi offspring. They claim they weren’t mistreated, but when they showed up here, they were all tagged with ankle bracelets, most of them a year or more behind on their academic work. They don’t have fond memories of the place itself, but they’re a fairly tight-knit bunch.

An even larger group was held captive by Graham Cregg, first at The Warren and later at the silo. Again, they were generally not mistreated, and some were even relieved to be somewhere their abilities didn’t make them stand out as freaks. But they all felt the pressure to cooperate, to hone their abilities and show they could be useful. Older adepts who were not useful had a way of disappearing once they reached adulthood. The guards at The Warren told the other kids they’d been “relocated,” and maybe some of them believed that. But several of these kids were reading minds before they could read Dr. Seuss. They saw straight through the euphemism and word spread through the psychic grapevine.

I don’t know the kids who were at the military-run school very well, so I’m only working on conjecture there. But I have Jaden’s memories of The Warren. There was a strong sense of esprit de corps, of us-against-them, along with a good deal of gallows humor. And the group from The Warren has been in battle already. I’m fuzzy on the details, since I was locked in a mental struggle with Graham Cregg at the time, but I do know Cregg would most likely still be alive and we wouldn’t have escaped that airfield relatively unscathed if not for the quick action—and teamwork—of several other adepts when we fought Cregg’s guards at the airfield in New York. Two of them turned Cregg’s own helicopter into a weapon against him.

A stocky boy with blond hair nods toward Deo. “I agree with him. And I’d fight to get the others back, too. If they’re really still alive.”

Maria rubs her forehead wearily. “Your brother is alive. I tell you this before.”

“So . . . we don’t need to vote on anything,” the boy says. “You claimed we were coming here to fight. That’s the only reason I agreed to wait, instead of cutting out on my own to find Nate after we left the silo.”

“We will fight when it’s time,” Maria says. “Today, we vote. We vote on whether we fight. On whether Anna tells Magda about this vision she will have.”

“Wait,” I say. “You’re muddying the waters here. I thought the vote was whether or not to take the—”

“Is no mud in the water! This is same thing. If cure comes too soon, and if they force . . .” Maria glances again at Stan, who doesn’t speak but just nods solemnly. “When they force some of you. Your Deo, he says he will be first in line for cure, but still fight. With what will he fight? That sock full of pennies in his bag? Or the pepřový spray? All of us, even if we grab gun, our best weapon is here.” She jabs a finger against the side of her head. “They give us this weapon, but we decide how to use. So the vote on telling Magda . . . is really same thing. Stan says if your father comes here, if they do this cure too soon, we will lose.”

“Then we don’t have to decide today whether we’ll take a cure. Everyone can decide later, if and when it becomes an issue. The only question right now is whether I wait to tell Magda about this vision I’m apparently going to have about my . . . father. Whether we delay the possibility of a cure so we’ll be stronger for this fight you say is coming. But truthfully, given what you’ve said, I don’t see why we need to vote. I don’t want to tell her.”

“We vote. The Warren always votes. Not always in person like this, but we vote. We voted on whether to try and escape on our own or wait for you guys to finally arrive and help us. And we vote now.”

So we vote.

The Warren’s commitment to the democratic process apparently doesn’t extend to secret ballots. It also seems that their system is questionable on the issue of individual rights. What if the group decides I should tell Magda? That I should bring my father back here, even though I really don’t want to? Do I have the right to say nope, sorry, not gonna do it?

I guess we’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it.

Maria has made it halfway around the room, with the result unanimous at seven to zero, when the double doors on the far side of the room fly open with enough force to shake the wall behind my chair. Judging from the noise, I’m pretty sure the lock is broken as well. One of the girls who interrupted me and Aaron in the hallway earlier stands in the doorway, along with Bree Bieler and most of the other younger adepts. Peyton is missing, along with a boy who’s preschool age, and maybe one more, but otherwise it looks like everyone Maria excluded is accounted for.

“No,” Maria says firmly. “Meeting is not for you, Kara. I will explain all to you later.”

Kara shares a knowing look with Bree. She gives impressive side-eye for a kid still in elementary school.

“You’re talking about whether we will fight. And you need us,” Kara says with a defiant toss of her head. “That helicopter didn’t spin around by itself, you know. Just because you’re bigger and older doesn’t mean you’re the strongest.”

Deo snickers softly. “Judge me by my size, do you?”

Maria, who seems flummoxed by the younger adepts’ presence, turns to Stan. He just shrugs philosophically, which leaves me wondering exactly how much information he has about this confrontation they seem to believe is on the horizon. Jaden’s visions only give me one snippet at a time. Stan’s ability must work differently.

“You need us,” Kara repeats, then looks over her shoulder to the back row of chairs. “And if Snoop gets a vote, so do we.”

With that, she drops to the floor and folds her legs, crisscross applesauce. The rest of her crew follows suit, and we now have a pint-sized sit-in on our hands.

Judging from the shared glances between a few of the older kids, some of them are swayed by her argument—although I think many of them would like to exclude both the Lollipop Guild and Snoop.

In one sense, I agree. He combed through my brain—also Aaron’s, Taylor’s, and Deo’s—and passed along bits of information to Graham Cregg.

But he was under Cregg’s control, and the key phrase there is bits of information. There was a lot of information we know that he held back from Cregg, and that’s no easy task. I watched as Cregg forced Deo to turn a gun to his own head. When I processed Molly’s exit dreams, I felt him force her to snip off her own pinky finger with garden shears. The fact that Snoop was able to withhold anything if he was under Cregg’s control is pretty remarkable, and if he hadn’t fought as hard as he did, we might not have managed to rescue the others.

And to the best of my knowledge, Snoop hasn’t been using his ability since he arrived at Sandalford—at least not on us. There’s a telltale sign when he’s scanning for information, a sort of feathery brush across your forehead. I haven’t felt it, and I don’t think any of the others have, either.

He doesn’t need any kind of psychic ability to know what most of the kids think of him, though. I’m not entirely innocent in this regard—I’ll admit I’ve gone out of my way to avoid him the few times I’ve seen him walking down the hall or talking with Deo out on the deck. Many of the adepts don’t even bother to hide their animosity. So he keeps to himself a lot.

“Cregg tested all of us,” Snoop says. “He made all of us do things we didn’t want to . . . well, except maybe Maggie, since she could block him. Kinda wish you could teach me that trick, Mags.”

Snoop’s voice always reminds me of SpongeBob. But the effect is more eerie than comical, because it never fails to take me back to the airport. Snoop sitting on the ground, rocking back and forth, after telling Cregg that Bree and I were hiding in the shadows.

“Volunteer, then, Snoop.” It’s one of the older kids. “They were always looking for volunteers back at The Warren. That’s how half the older wabbits died. I’m sure Magda’s scientists are looking for—”

He breaks off in midsentence. Maria is staring straight at him. Wonder what she has on him to make his face turn so red.

“All I meant is that no one peeked into that man’s head if they could avoid it,” Snoop says. “He kept me out most of the time, but I got a few glimpses. The other Peepers can back me up on this. One minute he’s thinking about lab results or some political fund-raiser or having cancer. The next it’s all severed fingers, remembering his dead mom, and thinking about suicide.”

Snoop pauses at this point, glancing over his shoulder directly at me. I don’t know why. If he picked up my earlier thought about what happened at the airport, I would have felt the spiderweb sensation across my forehead. But I didn’t.

“Suicidal thoughts can be really contagious,” Snoop continues. “Took me a couple days to shake it off both times.”

His tone angers me—or maybe it’s the words. I can’t really pinpoint why, but I want to hurl something at his head. To make him stop talking about dead mothers and suicide, because he was taken in and treated kindly and yes, it really is sharper than a serpent’s tooth to have a thankless child . . .

What?

I shake my head to clear it, unsure where all that came from. My lousy night’s sleep is beginning to catch up with me. Or maybe I need to fortify my walls. There are at least three adepts in this room who can broadcast their thoughts, including Maria.

I don’t think it was Maria sending out that thought, however, because she’s too busy arguing with Kara to look my way. And she’s defending Snoop.

Deo chimes in, too. “Yeah. Not cool. If you’re going to say Jeffrey shouldn’t vote because he was once controlled by Graham Cregg, then I guess I shouldn’t vote either.” He nods toward Bree Bieler. “How about you, Bree? Anna has a tooth-shaped scar on the inside of her wrist from when Cregg took control of you, so . . .”

Bree looks hurt, and I’m not sure it’s entirely fair of Deo to blame her. The kid just turned seven last week. But I guess that’s kind of Deo’s point. If we start blaming everyone Cregg coerced at one point or another, that’s going to seriously winnow down the population with voting rights.

“Fine,” Maria says, throwing up her hands. “You all can vote on if we delay the cure so we can fight. But even if your power is big, you are still little kids. Too young to make decisions on how we fight. You are not velitel, not generals. You are . . .” She pauses, trying to find the word.

“Pawns?” someone near the front suggests, and laughs when the girl seated on his right whacks him on the arm. “Okay, okay. I meant privates.”

Maria frowns. At first, I think it’s disapproval of the kids goofing off, but maybe it’s just concentration because, after a moment, her brow smooths out. “Privates are soldiers. Yes, this is right word.” She says it so confidently that I’m certain she plucked the definition right out of someone’s head. “You are soldiers. Privates. You will follow orders or you will not fight.”

She exchanges another look with Stan, and I’m certain she’s about to add something else. But she bites back whatever she’s thinking and picks up the marker again to continue tallying the vote.

When it’s over, the decision is nearly unanimous in favor of delaying the cure, fighting, and me not telling Magda, or whatever the hell it was we were voting on. Not a single no vote, but we do have one abstention—Ashley. Maria doesn’t comment on the result, just gives a quick nod to Stan.

Which is kind of weird. Did Stan already know how Ashley would vote? And if so, why call her here in the first place? The Sandalford grapevine is truly impressive, but it doesn’t extend to the outpost on Long Point Island. Ashley would never have known we even held a meeting.

Having done their democratic duty, the adepts begin heading for the door, but Maria calls out, “Do not forget to log practice hours. If you meet objective, then try for stretch goals, yes?”

Practice hours? Stretch goals? I seem to be the only one who doesn’t follow her meaning, however, because most of the others are nodding.

And with that, Maria adjourns the meeting. Ashley heads for the exit as well, but Taylor calls out for her to wait. “You’re not just going to let her walk out of here, are you, Maria?”

I’m with Taylor on this one. We’ve seen firsthand the lengths to which Ashley will go to keep her sister and Caleb safe. Ashley was willing to pull the plug on Daniel’s life support. Magda will be back tomorrow or the next day. What’s to stop Ashley from simply telling her about our decision?

“I need to get back to the island,” Ashley says. “I won’t tell Magda or Kelsey about this meeting, if that’s what’s worrying you. But I’m not committing Caleb to any sort of battle. If there’s even the slightest chance this Scott Pfeifer guy can help fix what’s been done to these kids, I think you should bring him here immediately. Surely if there is a cure available, this battle Stan says he’s foreseen won’t happen. Right? I mean, I don’t trust Senator Cregg at all. Not after the way he manipulated me into hurting your brother.”

“Well, that’s a fun little euphemism,” Taylor says. “You killed him. And you don’t get off the hook just because he’s better now.”

Ashley ignores Taylor’s outburst. “My point is that once there is a cure, Cregg won’t have any reason to persecute the adepts further. The public will calm down. Things can go back to normal again.”

“That’s really naive,” Aaron says. “We’re in the middle of an election year. What makes you think the Senator wants a return to normal? He’s gone from being an extreme long shot to an actual contender in the past few months, something no third-party candidate has done in decades. He gets tons of free press for both himself and Unify America thanks to the panic over the Delphi program. He’s also done a decent job of obscuring from the public how deeply his companies were involved in creating the very problem that caused the panic in the first place. People were killed in order to maintain that cover. He won’t balk at killing more.”

“We’re talking about children, for God’s sake!” Ashley stops and holds her hands up. I’m pretty sure she’s remembered quite a few of the deaths that can be traced back to Senator Cregg were, in fact, children. “Fine. It doesn’t matter. My point is still the same. Caleb is not going to be a private in your little war. The one and only concern for me is getting a cure for him—the sooner, the better.”

“Do you really think it will be like flipping a switch?” I say as she retreats toward the door. “One second Caleb is a psychic anomaly in a toddler’s body, and the next he’s an average three-year-old, happily building LEGO castles?”

Ashley turns and glares at me. “Listen, my sister is still missing. I’m pretty damn sure she’s dead, and that means Caleb is my responsibility. Right now, we’re living on a freakin’ island, in a tiny hut, with a portable toilet and electric generator. His only hope for a normal life—and mine, for that matter—is if they find a way to reverse this. And that’s true for every single person who’s been affected by the serum.”

And on that note, she storms out, slamming the door behind her.

“Do not worry,” Maria says. “Ashley was telling truth about keeping quiet. I peeked to be sure. And we have to let her go even if she wasn’t. What else should we do? Lock her in closet for next few weeks?”

Stan clears his throat and Maria colors slightly. Another slip. Something else they didn’t intend to tell us. The cloak-and-dagger secrecy between these two is beginning to grate.

Aaron also looks annoyed. “So after Anna has this vision, we just keep quiet, go about our business as usual? No trying to locate Anna’s father or—”

“Oh, no,” Stan says. “You still need to find him. As quickly as possible.”

“And Deo must go, too,” Maria says with a note of regret. “But I need him back repede. Pronto. Wabbits can still train while he is away, but our strategy is kaput without our amp.”

“But . . .” I shake my head, totally confused. “Why? We just decided to wait on a cure, and for me not to tell Magda. I don’t see the point.”

“You still need to find Pfeifer,” Stan repeats. “You just can’t bring him back here. At least not until the other paths close.”

I stare at him incredulously. “What other paths? This isn’t making any sense!”

Stan exhales and turns to Maria. “Show them. It’s easier.”

Then Maria is in my head again, pushing that same scene. The image keeps flipping, flickering, like one of the old movie projectors my hitcher Emily used when she was a teacher. White office building, maybe ten stories high, with tall recessed windows. Construction cones and a barrier emblazoned with the word STOP block off the street.

This time, however, Maria doesn’t pull back, and things get even stranger. I kind of hear the gunshot again and the scream. At the same time, I also kind of hear the sound of a horn and the squeal of brakes. It’s not that I hear all of these things, one on top of each other. It’s more that I hear (and also don’t hear) the gunshot and the scream. And I hear (but also don’t hear) the horn and the tires screeching on the pavement. Two different, mutually exclusive realities.

In addition, the video feed, if you can call it that, is split into different layers. Two men in dark suits—one of them vaguely familiar—push a third man toward shelter, but then the group splits into two separate sets of three men. Set number one pushes the man in the center toward a blue shed between the building and a parking lot across the street. My first thought is that it’s a phone booth or the TARDIS. But since neither of those things currently exist in downtown DC, it must be a porta-potty. Set number two dives behind a concrete barrier, which is barely knee high. But before they can reach it, another shot rings out, and the man they’re escorting crumples to the ground.

And that’s not the only detail that seems to be changing. The building and scenery remain constant, but people and vehicles appear to jerk in and out of focus, or split off and go in two or more directions at once. A large, boxy shadow seems to be there but not there as well.

It’s a mind-boggling effect. It makes me queasy.

“Why is everything all . . . wonky?” Deo says. “Things . . . no, it’s more the people . . . are there, and then they’re not. Or they’ve moved.”

Stan nods. “What you’re seeing are different paths sort of layered on top of each other. Have you seen the computer projection models they use to track hurricanes? The ones most likely to happen cluster in the same area, but then you have outliers going off in many directions.”

I look at the others, and their expressions are as clueless as my own. Just as I’m about to ask Stan what hurricane predictions have to do with this, he speaks again.

“That’s how my visions work. I see paths. At the beginning, they’re blurred. Many different layers, many different outcomes. But the closer we get to an event, the more those paths merge. And right now, they’re merging into three different groups, like bundles of wires. In one, a gunman shoots Anna’s father. In another, she saves him from getting shot. And in the final group, he ends up with the Senator’s people out in Nevada. But by that time, he’s . . . not really Scott Pfeifer anymore.”

SHARED JOURNAL

3/16/20

Dr. Kelsey:

Per our discussion yesterday, jot down all odd behaviors you’ve observed when interacting with Anna.

3/16/20

Taylor:

If I take those instructions literally and jot down all odd behaviors, this will be longer than the entire Game of Thrones series, including that one he’s still writing. So I’ll give some highlights and patterns I’ve noticed.

Most of the weird behavior happens in the morning. She’s slipped by the guards twice in the early morning hours, and tried to get past on several other occasions. I’m usually up early, and I’ve caught her texting several times out on the deck.

She talks different most mornings, too. Has anyone else noticed that? Three times she broke into one of those Shakespeare quotes. Not the iambic pentameter stuff but just little comments I look up later, and sure enough it’s another quote from Old Will himself. “There is no darkness but ignorance” is one she said while we were watching the news one morning. And this one time when we’re all looking on as two of the younger kids—I think it was Kara and Bree—were engaged in an angry pushing match out on the volleyball court, Anna says, “Though she be but little, she is fierce.”

Yes, one of Anna’s former hitchers, that Emily woman, probably knew those quotes. But here’s the thing. We all remember getting the Shakespeare text messages from Cregg last year. Anna knows how much it creeped me out. I didn’t go around with tinfoil on my head because I liked the look. Those messages creeped all of us out, Anna included. So why would she toss out quotes like that? Anna gets on my nerves sometimes, especially when she’s keeping secrets (of course, when isn’t Anna keeping secrets?) but she doesn’t go out of her way to be cruel.

And there was that one morning in mid-January when I got a close enough look at her phone to see her deleting a text conversation from her iCloud. I’m guessing you don’t need a reminder of that occasion, since it’s probably logged under a separate file called Major Freak-Outs rather than Odd Behaviors. I swear to God I didn’t mean to set her off. I didn’t even say anything about it. All I did was glance . . . I don’t know, quizzically? . . . at the phone. Because anyone she might be texting, as far as I know, is right here at Sandalford. Anyway, next thing I know, she’s threatening to do a swan dive off the deck and you’re sedating her.

But you want to know the biggest tip-off, at least for me? She takes sugar in her coffee now. Not just a smidgen, but three heaping teaspoons. Mostly in the mornings, although it seems to me it’s happened a few times in the afternoon lately. Any other time, she drinks her coffee black, like she always has. She still kind of wrinkles her nose in that slightly superior way when I dump sugar into mine, totally oblivious to the fact she did the same thing that morning.

So, no. You aren’t going to convince me this is about some unprocessed memories. I don’t know what this Myron guy did to her, but I know to my very core this isn’t about him. Anna picked up Cregg in that airport hangar. He’s in her head, and he’s getting stronger. If the antipsychotic drug Kelsey suggested might help in any way to keep Anna in control, why not at least try it?

I don’t get why all of you keep avoiding reality. Unless maybe Anna is using Cregg’s ability on the rest of you, too? I’m telling you, we need to stop being alone with her, especially in the early mornings and especially when she’s sitting still. When you do talk to her, keep her moving. Everyone I’ve talked to says Cregg can’t focus unless he’s still. And for God’s sake, stick to the buddy system when you’re around her.

CHAPTER FIVE

Southern Shores, North Carolina

April 23, 2020, 4:17 p.m.

I wipe off the thin layer of dust that accumulated on the kitchen counter in our absence, then stash the roll of paper towels back in the pantry. This storage unit was supposed to be climate controlled, but it’s too hot and stuffy here in the RV for me to believe that. I’m pretty sure the AC was turned on a few seconds after we keyed our password into the security pad at the front gate.

All in all, I’d rather not be here. After we left the meeting with Maria and the other adepts, I went straight to Kelsey, hoping she would nix the idea of me leaving Sandalford. I’m not well enough to travel. As much as I hate admitting that, I know it’s true. This is something that should be left to Magda’s people or the police . . . okay, no, maybe not. Magda’s security would bring Pfeifer straight here, and we can’t involve the police.

But it should be the others without me. Aaron and Sam are detectives. What do I bring to the equation that’s worth the risk of me going with them? Not a damn thing. Just because Stan thinks I’m somehow at the center of what’s going down with my father doesn’t mean he’s right.

As I marched down the hallway to Kelsey’s office, I had no doubt where she would stand on the issue. She probably wouldn’t want any of us to go, but definitely not me or Deo. After all, we’re walking into danger, and that’s something Kelsey tends to oppose on general principle. Assuming Stan’s vision pans out, there could be gunfire outside that building. And while Scott Pfeifer is my father, he shot my mom. As awful as it sounds, I’m not willing to risk our lives to save him from what feels like poetic justice.

But something went wrong before I even reached Kelsey’s door. My head began to pound. The next thing I remember with crystal clarity is being in the back seat of the truck, squeezed in next to Taylor and Deo as we headed south toward Kitty Hawk where the RV is stored.

There was an argument in Kelsey’s office. Even if I can’t remember it, I know something is wrong simply from the way Aaron and the others keep looking at me. I don’t know how much Aaron told Kelsey about what we’re doing. Hell, I don’t even know how much I told Kelsey, and I can’t exactly ask without letting on that I’ve lost time again.

My head still hurts. But now it’s more from the tension of worrying I’m going to say the wrong thing and give away the fact that I’ve acquired another gap in my memory. That makes two in one day, which may be a personal best. Or worst, I guess.

I shove the paper towel roll back onto the holder and look around for something else to keep me occupied until Aaron can finish checking the outside of the RV for trackers and we can hit the road. Deo and Taylor helped him for a bit, but they came back inside a few minutes ago, since we only have one of the scanning devices that checks for unusual electronic signals. The RV has been parked here for the past four months, and even though this is an enclosed unit, one of the Senator’s goons could have bribed or threatened the owner and picked the lock. And I’d almost guarantee Miller, Magda’s head of security, has placed a tracker somewhere on the camper—although I’m not sure why he’d bother, since Aaron located and removed it the last time we left without Magda’s official sanction.

“This is beginning to feel like a pattern,” Deo says as he shoves a carton of milk into the fridge. “Maybe we should put together a departure checklist for the next time we have to take off at a moment’s notice.”

“That’s a good point,” I say. “Why did it have to be at a moment’s notice?”

“Because Stan’s paths were shifting all over the place,” Taylor says. “Apparently, he told Maria last week that something new was coming down the pike, but it was blurry. Then, about eight hours ago, everything started to converge.”

Taylor watches me as she says these last words, like she’s waiting for a reaction. I’m not sure why at first, then I remember that my morning jog on the beach was around eight hours ago. It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. As usual, Taylor has to assign blame to someone. And as usual, I’m at the top of her list. But it really feels like she’s reaching this time.

“We should have brought Ein,” I say, changing the subject fully so she’ll know I’m not going to take the bait.

“We’re only leaving him for a few days,” she says. “Although I’m guessing Stan wishes we had taken Ein. He nearly tripped over him this morning. Right around the time he said the paths got all out of whack. When you were out on the beach.”

She gives me a smug smile. Two can play the subject-changing game, and the conversation is now right back where she wanted it.

“That’s why Maggie had to walk around with Stan today. Even with the cane, he was really dizzy. He told me when the paths diverge as much as they did this morning, it’s like walking when you’re drunk. Or at least how he imagines that would be, based on movies. Which makes me wonder how much of what he says is even true. I mean, he’s older than I am. He has to know what’s it like to walk when you’re buzzed.”

“Well,” Deo says, “he’s been at The Warren for a few years, and before that, he and his brother were in a mental hospital.”

“He has a brother?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Taylor says. “He didn’t make it out with our group. He was in a different wing, with the other more . . . volatile kids. Stan gave me this stuffed animal so I could do a reading—a sock monkey with a Harvard T-shirt. That’s the brother’s name—Harvard. Apparently, his mom had Ivy League aspirations for her kids.”

Her expression and tone make it abundantly clear this is another of the many things I should remember. And yeah, if Taylor did a remote viewing, I’m guessing most of Sandalford knew. She goes into full psychic-diva mode, eating enough for three and becoming annoyed at even minor distractions.

“Last time I checked,” she says, “he was in Nevada with the Bear Brigade.”

Aaron enters while Taylor is speaking. “I think the RV is clean, aside from Miller’s stupid tracker, which I removed. Same brand as last time even. He must order the damn things in bulk.”

Once we have the RV hooked up to the truck and we’re out of the storage unit, I reluctantly join Aaron in the cab. Normally, I look forward to riding shotgun because we get to spend a bit of time alone. But I’m pretty sure he’s going to want to talk about whatever happened in Kelsey’s office before we left. And since I have no freakin’ idea what happened, I’d really rather not.

But he doesn’t bring it up. Maybe he’s worried I’m mad at him. For the most part I’m not, although the part of me that was ready to attack on the beach this morning still seems to be hovering around. Looking for a reason to get angry.

Even once we’re out on the highway, Aaron just keeps up a light banter, talking about the RV and the pros and cons of being back on the road. I pull up a Pandora station we both like and try to relax, but I remain on edge. By the time we pull through a Taco Bell near Norfolk, I’m almost hoping he’ll mention the argument just to get it over with. And by the time we reach Richmond, I’m ready to start the argument myself, even at the risk of revealing I have another memory gap.

But Aaron jumps into the breach first. “I’m sorry, okay? But I still think you shouldn’t be here. And you know it’s not because I don’t want you with me. You’re not well, Anna. If you have another of these weird . . . spells . . . you’ve been having, you’ll be a liability, not an asset. I don’t know if I’ll be able to protect you, and it will make it harder to protect the others. I’m really sorry if that hurts your feelings, but . . .”

I want to argue that I’m perfectly capable of protecting myself. That’s definitely what I would have argued a few months ago. The problem is, I know he’s right. I know I should have stayed at Sandalford. I even remember walking into Kelsey’s office hoping she’d veto the idea of me coming on this trip. Then . . . all of that changed, and apparently, I was arguing something else entirely. Must have been pretty persuasive, too, because here I sit.

Still, there must be a reason this angry side of my brain thinks I should be here. “Maria and Stan said I’m supposed to be with you. That he had a vision of me . . . having a vision—”

“Yeah, well, Stan’s ability isn’t like Jaden’s, is it? Maybe the path where all of this works out was the one where you stayed back at Sandalford.” He pulls his eyes from the road briefly to look at me, his eyes pleading. “But I really don’t like arguing with you, so let’s just drop it, okay? It doesn’t matter now that you are here. We’ll just have to make the . . .”

Aaron continues talking for a few seconds longer, but I can’t hear the last bit over the blood pounding in my ears. His eyes are on the road now as he tries to shift the trailer into the other lane to avoid a slowdown on the overpass up ahead.

I’m so sick of him and the others constantly belittling me and treating me like a child. I should grab the steering wheel. That would show them. Yank it hard to the right, and we’d crash through the guardrail. Sail through the air and all of this would be over—

NO!

Bricks fly from every corner of my mind. They line themselves into rows automatically, blocking that mad impulse, cordoning it off from the rest of my mind.

But my wall comes up too late for me to hide that crazy thought from Aaron. Even as the bricks are stacking, he instinctively jerks the wheel sharply to the left to compensate for what I thought about doing but didn’t. A horn blasts from the lane next to us, followed by the squeal of brakes. Our tires hit the rumble strip, but Aaron keeps the RV on the road. Two cars whizz past us on either side, both laying heavily on their horns, the driver on the right also raising an angry middle finger.

Aaron darts a glance my way, but he’s too shaken to take his eyes off the road. As he opens his mouth to speak, the intercom buzzes and Taylor’s anxious face appears.

“Not now,” he says, and punches the button to turn off the screen.

I stare straight ahead, frozen in place. Silent, because what can I say? Aaron clearly picked up on my urge to send the RV flying over the guardrail. There’s no way to sugarcoat it.

And it wasn’t simply a suicidal thought. It was also homicidal. Three other people are currently in this vehicle. Two of them are people I actually love. No, let’s be honest, three. Taylor is a pain, but she’s Aaron’s sister and my friend, and I would never willingly hurt her.

The blood drains from my face as I remember Kelsey’s question earlier. What about Myron?

I did hurt someone when Myron was in control. I hurt her badly. In fact, I very nearly killed her . . . and I was six at the time.

It was a lot easier back in Kelsey’s office to brush aside her fears that Myron’s memories had somehow leaked out of their containment unit due to my concussion. Now, however, I’m desperately afraid she’s right. The anger and the suicidal thoughts could be my way of processing those long-repressed memories. A truly stupid way of processing them, in my opinion, but still . . .

Thinking about Myron gives me a cold chill. I build a second wall, even though it feels pointless. There are no hitchers in my head to block. Memories, yes, but no hitchers. Can my walls protect me from me?

As soon as Aaron spots an exit, he pulls off and parks behind a McDonald’s. Taylor pops up on the screen again.

“Not now,” he says. “Stay in the camper. We’ll be back there in a minute.”

Taylor looks like she wants to argue. I guess his expression convinces her that’s not a good idea, however, because she just sniffs and switches off the intercom.

“What the hell was that, Anna?” He’s still gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles strain against his skin, and his voice shakes.

Tears burn my eyes, but I fight them. I understand Aaron well enough to know some of his anger will melt away if I cry, and I don’t deserve his sympathy. “You were right. I should have stayed home.”

I push the door open, shrugging off Aaron’s hand when he reaches for me.

“Anna, wait. We need to—”

The rest of his sentence is cut off as I slam the truck door and hurry back to the RV. Taylor peppers me with questions about the near crash the minute I step inside. I ignore her and retreat to the bedroom I share—or at least used to share—with Aaron.

I lock the door behind me and then realize I’m not alone. Deo is stretched out on the bed with his iPad.

“What happened back there? Taylor said Aaron was pretty freaked out. And do I smell . . . fries?” He trails off, having finally looked up from the tablet to see my face. “Whoa. What’s wrong?”

Shaking my head, I feel along the paneling behind me for the bathroom door. His mention of french fries was the final straw for my stomach. I barely make it inside before losing my dinner.

Deo waits outside the still-open doorway until I’m finished, then grabs a washcloth from above the sink and dampens it.

“Better?” he asks.

“A little,” I say, taking the cloth from him. “Thanks.”

Our hands barely even touch, but we both recoil, as if we’ve had a static shock. I feel myself slipping into the vision just as that odd metallic hum echoes in my head.

My foot catches on one of the bricks in the walkway, causing me to collide with the first bike. It tumbles off-balance, crashing into the second one. I grab the rail of the bike rack, partially breaking my fall, but still land on my butt.

The bus passes, headed for Union Station, according to the sign on the front.

Abbott rounds the building at the end of the block. His neck is a bright, blistered red, and he’s alone. Maybe Costello bled out on the floor. One part of me says that’s a good thing, and the other says I’m going straight to hell for even thinking it.

His hand slips inside his suit jacket, reaching for the gun, as he heads across Second Street. A blue banner spans the top of the building behind him, proclaiming a message the man with the gun clearly isn’t following: Love Thy Neighbor.

Across the street, a black sedan is parked at the side entrance of the Hart Senate Office Building. Three men move across the courtyard toward the car. I’m pretty sure they’re the ones from the flash Maria showed us. Two guys in dark suits. One looks vaguely familiar. Between them is a taller man. I only get a brief glimpse of his face, but I’m certain it’s my father.

The guard at the kiosk isn’t watching them. He’s looking down at something. His phone, maybe.

I could yell that Abbott is armed. But the street is crowded. I doubt the guard would center in on the correct person in time. And I know Abbott is perfectly willing to shoot innocent bystanders.

But he won’t shoot me. He doesn’t dare shoot the vessel. Costello made that clear earlier when they were arguing.

I can’t let him hurt anyone else.

And so even though every instinct says I should run away from him, I switch tactics and dash across Second Street, aiming to intercept before he can fire.

I feel a momentary pulse of rage from behind my walls, but I pull on my reserve focus to block it out. To stack the mental bricks higher so I can’t hear HIM. So he can’t manipulate me into doing what he wants.

My head, my body, my freakin’ decision. Back off.

A horn blasts, and the guard—

NNNNNNNnnnn

My eyes open to see Deo, now sitting on the far side of the bed to maximize the distance between us. Aaron is knocking on the bedroom door, calling my name.

“She’s sick,” Deo says, his eyes still on me. “Give her some space. We’ll be out in a minute.”

I press the wet cloth to my face and close my eyes, delaying the inevitable moment when I have to tell Deo what happened out there. The thought I had in the vision keeps echoing in my mind . . . stack the mental bricks higher so I can’t hear HIM.

“You want to talk about it?” Deo asks. “The vision? Or maybe you could start with whatever happened in the truck just now?”

I start to say no, my automatic response these days, but . . . I do want to talk about it. Not with Aaron. Not yet. Aaron loves me. I don’t doubt that. But he doesn’t know me like Deo does. That’s the thing about family, even—or maybe especially—chosen family. They know you. The light and the dark. The good and the bad. The past and the present. Deo understands my demons, maybe even better than Kelsey does.

“It’s him, D. Myron’s thoughts keep coming through. He wanted me to grab the wheel. Yank it so we’d drive off the overpass. I fought him off, but Aaron picked up on what I was thinking and, um . . . overcorrected. So thanks to me, we nearly crashed.”

“Partly thanks to you,” Deo says. “You didn’t actually grab the wheel, right?”

“No. Like I said, I fought him back.”

“So it’s partly on Aaron, too. He could have trusted you.”

I look down at my sneakers for a moment and shake my head. “Have I given him any reason to trust me lately? Have I given any of you reason to trust me? All of this is just so damned frustrating! Myron is gone. I remember him leaving. These are only memories, so there’s no reason for—”

Deo holds up a hand, interrupting me. “Are your walls up?” When I nod, he adds, “All the way up?”

“Yes. Double. What happened in the truck scared the hell out of me.”

Something scurries spiderlike along the back of my consciousness. I’d love to put up a third layer of protection, but I’m not sure I have the focus to do that and still listen to Deo.

“Okay, then,” he says. “I’m gonna try this one more time, and I want you to focus on me. Just me. You know I’d never do anything to hurt you. And I don’t lie to you—okay, well, sometimes little lies to protect you, like when my fever was so high. But not about the important stuff. Not when it really counts.”

I want to argue that his fever spiking to 105 was important stuff, but I nod for him to go on.

“So . . . yeah. One more try. Focus on me and try not to freak out like the last time.”

“What last time?”

“The last time I told you we don’t think it’s just Myron memories.”

“I know that. It’s the concussion combined with the—”

“Anna.” Deo stares at me intently, his dark eyes as serious, as worried, as I think I’ve ever seen them. “No. Not just the concussion. Not just the Myron memories. I’m talking about Graham Cregg. We’re pretty sure it’s Cregg manipulating the Myron memories. Daniel said . . .”

I don’t hear what Daniel said or anything else. The spider, and it’s definitely a spider of some sort, is at it again. It’s not just running against the wall now but trying to scale it.

And I can see it now in my mind’s eye. Big spider. Strong spider. Mutant wolf spider crossed with a giant rat. It chips away at the bricks in the inner wall until one leg extends through, moving back and forth to widen the crack.

The leg extends out toward the second wall. Instead of claws at the end of the leg, there are two tiny hands, pulling away pieces of the mortar.

“Anna! Stay with me, Anna.”

“No.” I shake my head furiously, shrinking away from Deo, back into the tiny bathroom. My shoulder crashes into the towel rack, and the linens come raining down on me, brushing against my arm and face like spiders, like giant—

“NO!”

“Stay. With. Me,” Deo says. “We can work through this, but I need you here. Present. With your walls up, okay? You beat Myron when you were six. You can beat this son of a bitch, too.”

He’s right.

I beat Myron. I beat him. I kicked him out. Evicted him. Myron kicked and fought, but I beat him. He’s nothing but memories now, and I’m working through those memories. That’s all this is, just the concussion and—

Taking in a deep, deep breath, I try to force the panic into something compact. Manageable. “But Kelsey . . . Kelsey said it’s Myron. It’s from the concussion. From . . .”

“I know,” Deo says. “And usually, I’d go with her opinion, since she’s the doctor. Kelsey’s had you under hypnosis, what . . . five times maybe in the past few months, so she should know. But . . .”

“Kelsey had me under hypnosis?”

He nods. “Like I said, at least five different times. And she doesn’t think you’ve picked up another hitcher. Says all of this is just you, finally working through the Myron stuff. The concussion even gives her a handy medical explanation. That’s why she’s clinging to it.”

“But why? If there’s other evidence, why would Kelsey ignore it?”

Deo gives me a rueful smile. “Wishful thinking, maybe? She watched you walk through hell when you were six. Kelsey loves you, Anna. She doesn’t want to think about the possibility of you having to go through that again. Or that it might . . . that it might be worse this time.”

Worse is right. Myron was a killer. Myron was insane. But Myron didn’t have Delphi powers. Myron couldn’t force someone to turn a gun toward his head the way Cregg forced Deo.

That chittering noise fills my head again, scrabbling, scrambling, hairy mutant legs chiseling away at the hole. Widening it. Three legs are poking through now, extending into the mental space between my walls.

I bring a brick crashing down from above, as hard and as fast as I can. The spider-thing pulls back, but not quickly enough to save that first leg, the one that was stretched out farthest, feeling, exploring. It snaps off at one of the knees, and the truncated limb goes spinning across the floor. The fingers on those creepy, incongruous hands continue to twitch, even after it comes to a stop inches away from the cabinets that store Jaden’s and Molly’s memories.

Each of those twitching hands is missing the pinky finger. It’s a very good thing my stomach is now empty.

“Anna? You still with me?”

Deo’s voice pulls me back again, an anchor holding me to reality.

“Yes.” I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, using the discomfort to keep my mind focused here, on the outside, rather than on the nightmare within. “You think it’s Cregg. You think I picked him up when . . . when we fought them at the airport.”

Inexplicably, Deo smiles. It’s a small, sad smile at first, but it morphs into a full grin when he sees my confused expression.

“Why are you smiling?”

“Because this makes me happy! It’s progress. It’s the first time anyone has gotten you to even admit the possibility. Every other time, you’ve flown into a rage. You threw a fork at Aaron so hard it stuck in the freakin’ wall. But I’m guessing you don’t remember that.”

He’s right. I don’t remember that at all. What I do remember is sitting down to breakfast one morning about a month ago and finding only a spoon. Taylor saying I’d have to earn back my fork privileges. Me wondering what the hell she was babbling about as I went into the kitchen to get my own damned fork.

“Oh my God, D. What else have I done during these memory lapses?”

“Mostly you just . . . you tried to play all of us against each other. We started keeping a diary of sorts—all of us jotting down notes when you were acting extra weird. When you’re ready, I’ll show you.”

“Did I hurt anyone?” What I really want to ask is whether I pushed anyone. Whether I made them do anything they didn’t want to do. I’m pretty sure they’d have locked me away by now if I was going around persuading people to snip off body parts, but there are a million more subtle ways to hurt people.

“No. You didn’t hurt anyone. We were worried you were going to hurt yourself a few times, and Taylor said you were a little . . . rough . . . with Ein one day. But Ein learned to steer clear when you got that weird look.”

For some reason, the fact that I was mean to Ein, that I might have given him a reason to distrust me, to fear me, is what finally brings the tears to my eyes. I don’t give in to them, though. If I allow myself to start crying, I may lose it entirely, and I know that spider-rat-thing—him, Cregg—is waiting to pounce the second my control slips.

It will slip eventually. He knows that. I can’t keep up this level of control indefinitely. Holding my walls at full strength is exhausting. I’m not sure how long I can manage it. At some point I’ll have to sleep.

“I shouldn’t be here. You guys need to take me back and have Kelsey and Magda put me on lockdown.”

The spider-thing doesn’t like that suggestion, but its movements are more cautious now. It doesn’t stick any appendages through that hole again. It hangs back, licking its wounds or whatever freaky mutant rat-spiders do.

“We sorta did suggest that to Kelsey earlier today.” Deo gives me a sheepish look. “Only you said you were fine. And Maria was there backing you up, saying she peeked inside your head and Kelsey’s right, it’s not Cregg. I don’t know if that’s what she really thinks or if it’s just because Stan and the other Fivers say you’re supposed to be here. And speaking of, is it just me or does Stan’s whole vision thing make your head spin?”

“Not just you.”

“Yeah, well, anyway—Kelsey might have listened if it was you against me and Aaron. But being able to peek inside your head makes Maria pretty damn persuasive. She counters every argument even before you make it.”

“Did you guys explain where we were going? I thought Maria wanted to keep Kelsey out of the loop on Pfeifer, at least for the time being?”

“Yeah. Maria wasn’t real happy about that part. But then she consulted with her walking Ouija board and decided things were still on the right track.”

“Well, either way, I’ve had the vision now. So I can go back . . . where I can’t hurt anyone.” My voice sounds totally unconvinced, even to my own ears.

Deo picks up on my hesitation. “Except the vision has something to do with your father, doesn’t it? He’s here . . . okay, near here. Not back in NC, at any rate. Which means you were here, too, because unlike Stan’s weird Sliding Doors, alternate-paths schtick, you only see things that actually happen. Things that happen to us. So . . . spill. What did you see happening to us?”

I debate whether to tell him the only one of us in that vision was me. Truth is, I don’t know why I was there on my own. Nor do I know the actual names of the men I was thinking about, although I can picture both of them clearly in my mind. The taller one really doesn’t look much like Bud Abbott. He’s a lot younger, for one thing. But the shorter, heavier member of the duo was a dead ringer for Lou Costello.

And I’m pretty sure he’ll soon be a dead dead ringer. In the vision, I remembered him lying in a pool of blood on a tile floor. The floor seemed kind of familiar, then I remember the blood on the white tiles in Lab 1, back at The Warren after Lucas executed Jaden and two other adepts.

The emotion I attached to that fleeting, split-second memory of this Costello guy’s body on that floor was barely even tinged with guilt. It was mostly a bizarre mix of relief and anger.

I don’t know that I killed the guy. The only thing I do know with absolute certainty is that, as Deo just noted, this vision will happen exactly as I saw it. As I felt it. If I tell Deo or Aaron I’ll be doing anything as patently stupid as intercepting an armed man, they won’t let me out of their sight. And that could get one of them killed trying to protect me.

“I saw the scene outside that building,” I say. “The same scene Maria pushed to us at the meeting this afternoon. Except what I was seeing was . . . maybe ten seconds earlier. It’s definitely downtown DC, but we figured that out already. Two bodyguards—private, I think. They’re not in any sort of uniform. And I’m certain it’s Scott Pfeifer in the center.”

At the sound of Pfeifer’s name, that thing in my head kicks into action again. He claws at the wall frantically, but he’s stuck on the other side. For now, at least.

There’s a soft tap on the door, and Deo raises his eyebrows.

“Just a minute,” I say, and whisper to Deo, “Can’t put this off forever, I guess.”

“You want me to stay?”

“No. I should talk to him alone. But I’d rather not have Taylor watch while I grovel. Could you distract her? We’re parked behind a McDonald’s. Maybe the two of you could go get some fries?”

He grins. “I think I can handle that. You want anything?”

My stomach churns at the thought. “No. Just . . . tell Aaron I’ll be out in a minute.”

I go into the bathroom. Towels are scattered all over the floor and the vanity. I don’t have the energy to pick them up, so I shove them to the side and splash some water on my face. Then I brush my teeth, keeping my eyes trained resolutely on the sink.

No way am I looking in that mirror.

CHAPTER SIX

Ashland, Virginia

April 23, 2020, 8:46 p.m.

Aaron is sitting on the bed with his head in his hands when I open the door. His anger seems to have dissipated and he mostly just looks tired. Deflated.

“Are you okay? I didn’t mean to—”

“Do not apologize. I nearly got us killed out there.”

“I overreacted.”

“No. You didn’t.” I sit down on the bed next to him, still clutching the washcloth. “I was a hair’s breadth away from grabbing that wheel. We both know it. Lying to each other about it isn’t going to change it.”

“But . . . you didn’t do it.” I give him a look, thinking he’s about to start making more excuses for me, and he shakes his head. “I’m not saying I want you riding shotgun with me again. Taylor was right. That was a really stupid call on my part. My point is, you pulled back . . . your anger.”

“Not my anger. You mean I pulled back Graham Cregg.”

An odd scraping sensation slides through my brain, almost like someone raking through it with a wire brush. The spider-thing is angry that I know he’s in there. Pissed he didn’t make it into the driver’s seat quickly enough this time. That he didn’t have a chance to make me forget.

Aaron’s eyes are wary. “Deo told you?”

“Yeah.” I smile weakly. “Don’t worry. No forks here in the bedroom for me to throw. The only thing I could hurl at you is a washcloth.”

“Last time—”

“Last time I went crazy, right? And then forgot everything?”

“Last time, Kelsey had to sedate you. You didn’t speak for nearly three days. And you packed up your clothes and took a room in the other wing.”

“None of which I remember.”

“Yeah. I’ll admit, I’ve gone back and forth on this. So has Deo. And Kelsey . . . she seems pretty firmly convinced this is just you working through the Myron stuff. Even Daniel isn’t entirely sure it was Cregg he saw—or felt, or whatever—inside your head.”

“Daniel?” I pause for a moment, confused, and then I remember. “Oh. At the hospital. He tapped out SOS, then he pointed at me. Do you think that’s what he meant?”

“I do. He started asking for you as soon as he got some of his speech back. Mom and Sam didn’t mention it until last month, because . . .” Aaron looks down at the floor. “Well, because of the whole competitive thing between me and Daniel. Mom thought he was trying to move in on you . . . romantically.”

I snort. “Oh, we would not make a good couple.”

Aaron’s shoulders relax slightly.

“Really?” I say, both exasperated and amused.

“Okay, okay, you’re right. But to be fair, Anna . . . this wasn’t just me being jealous of Daniel. You began pulling away from me, acting stranger every day. You didn’t want me to touch you. Kelsey said it was very common after traumatic brain injury for people to act different, to not to be interested in . . . well, sex. And—”

“Please tell me you didn’t talk to Kelsey about our sex life.”

I’m not sure why that bothers me. I’ve talked to Kelsey about sex before, even about my feelings for Aaron. And yes, I guess technically she’s his therapist now, too, but she was my therapist first.

“Babe . . . I’ve talked to Kelsey about pretty much everything you’ve done or said in my presence. All of us talked to Kelsey. We’ve got journal entries going back more than a month, and—”

“Yeah. Deo told me.” It’s only a tiny dash of anger—and not even anger, really. More annoyance than anything else, annoyance that I’ve been so out of control that the people I love have had me under constant surveillance. But that smidgen of emotion is all it takes to set the spider-rat-thing on alert.

Cregg, damn it. It’s Cregg. I’m completely terrified of rats and spiders individually, so it says a lot that I’m more comfortable thinking of my current resident as a giant rat-spider combo, with mutilated human hands, than I am with the notion that I’ve picked up Graham Cregg’s spirit.

And there it goes again. Scree-e-e-e-ch-ch-ch-ch. The noise is like nails scraping against a chalkboard. Human nails at the end of a spider’s weirdly human hands.

I clench my fists and bite down on that same spot inside my cheek, which is now sore enough to make me wince. “Never mind, Aaron. It doesn’t matter.” My voice is tight and too loud for the tiny room.

“No. It does matter. I didn’t like spying on you. Neither did Deo. But the surest way to set you off was to mention anything about Cregg. Anything about Myron, even. Bottom line is we were terrified of losing you. And what bothers me most is that, in the end, all the notes we kept were for nothing. Kelsey started you on some antipsychotic meds, something she’s said is good for dissociative disorders. Which you don’t have, but she thought if Cregg really was in there and you were having trouble blocking him, it might trigger that section of your brain. She said it was guesswork, really, as to whether it would be effective, and to be honest, it seemed kind of odd to me. It’s not like your hitchers are separate personalities, so . . .”

I shrug. “Drugs were part of the equation when I fought off Myron. And whatever is left of my hitchers is inside my head, so it’s at least in the same ballpark as separate personalities. The brain isn’t entirely a mystery. We know different parts have different functions. And we know which sections are most affected by the Delphi serum. So . . . it’s a very educated guess. Kelsey always prescribed fewer meds than the doctors who treated me at the hospital, and she was a lot more careful about monitoring for side effects. If she thinks something will help, I’m willing to try it.”

And I am willing to try it. What bothers me is that I have no memory of her ever discussing any of these options with me, and I’m certain she would have. She discussed things like this with me when I was six, explaining the advantages and disadvantages of any medication I took, doing her best to put it into terms I could actually understand. I’m an adult now. She wouldn’t have discussed my treatment with anyone aside from me unless she thought I was incapable of making an informed decision. And even then, she would have also discussed it with me.

Which I’m pretty sure means she did discuss all of this with me, probably multiple times. I just have no memory of those conversations—so there were more gaps than I thought. Plus, it seems Cregg did some creative rewriting of my memories.

How much time have I lost in the past four months? How much of what I remember is even real? The swarm of panic butterflies fluttering inside my stomach morphs into a frenzied wave of bats. I clench my fists tight and draw in a long, steadying breath through my nose, telling myself it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is I’m in control now. I know what’s going on. I can block him out.

Only . . . how many times have I had this same exact thought? How many times has it been overwritten?

“The medication is kind of a moot point now,” Aaron says. “Kelsey actually gave you an injection about three weeks ago. Rispera . . . something. I’m pretty sure Cregg was at the surface then, because it took me and Deo both to hold you down long enough for her to give you the shot. But it takes a few weeks to kick in, and you need another injection for full effect. You were supposed to be taking the oral form in the interim as well, but then Kelsey yanked the medication option off the table entirely. She seemed so enthusiastic about the possibilities at first, even discussed the pros and cons of different drugs, but then suddenly she tells us it won’t help. That this is just you working through an old trauma. And Kelsey was so stubborn about it. Wouldn’t listen to anything we said.”

“Kelsey’s not—” I break off, confused. “Kelsey didn’t use to be like that. You’d have a hard time finding anyone more open-minded. Maybe it’s just the stress of the past few months.”

“Deo said that too, so maybe.”

“Or . . .” I stop, feeling like I’m on the edge of making a mental connection, but it slips away.

“Or . . . what?”

“I don’t know. Lost what I was going to say. I’m having a tough time keeping my walls up, and . . . conversation makes it even harder. I know we have a lot of things we need to work on . . . to fix . . . between us, but right now maybe we should just focus on what we need to do in DC. Once my father is safe, you can take me back to Kelsey so I can work on getting this monster out of my head.”

“Sure,” he says, squeezing my hand. “Sounds like a plan.”

I give Aaron the same bare-bones account of the vision I gave Deo. And again, even though it twists my gut to do it, I leave out most of the important details. What good did it do for me to push Cregg back, to fight that impulse to hurl us off the overpass, if I’m going to put everyone in jeopardy anyway?

“That’s probably the Hart Building,” Aaron says. “The Senate website shows closed hearings scheduled today and tomorrow for that subcommittee. There have been rumors Pfeifer was testifying this afternoon.”

“I thought they’d decided to interview him from the psychiatric hospital?”

Aaron’s eyes narrow slightly, and I realize this is another one of the things I should know but don’t, thanks to the memory gaps. No, not gaps. Memory craters.

“You’ve told me all of this before, haven’t you?”

“Not . . . exactly. But you were there—physically there, at any rate—when Taylor told us about the article in the Post. They’re reassessing the whole issue of Pfeifer’s sanity. Most of the things that made the doctors question his competence at the time of your mom’s murder have turned out to be true. So . . . they want to find out what he knows. And there’s a good chance he’ll be ordered to stand trial now. I guess the real question is who wants him dead. Just . . . um . . . as a heads-up, I should probably let you know Taylor thinks it’s Cregg.”

“I guess. Although, he’s the one who started parading the Delphi adepts around like prize pigs. He’s the one who’s pushing for the hearings, too. So—”

“No. Not Senator Cregg.”

“Oh.” I wait, expecting a reaction from my hitcher, but he remains still. Too still. He’s listening. Lurking. Waiting for a split second when my guard is down.

Aaron pulls a folded bit of paper from his pocket. I don’t recognize it at first, but then I see the phone number. It’s the card he picked up on the beach this morning. “I had Sam try to track down the number, but he didn’t get anything. Probably a burner phone.”

“Did he try calling it?”

“Well, we thought about that but decided maybe it should come from you.” The panic I’m feeling must register in my eyes, because he quickly adds, “Not tonight. When you’re ready.”

It takes a moment for the full implication of what he’s said to seep in. “Wait . . . Taylor thinks that’s why I was on the beach this morning? That I was . . . arranging for someone to kill my father?”

“Yeah. Stan thinks so, too. That’s when this new cluster of paths . . . spun off, I guess? Not sure what you’d call it, but he says something happened this morning that made the whole future he was seeing really blurry. Ambiguous.”

“But . . . that’s good, though. Right? He was predicting this huge confrontation with the Senator and Dacia before, and—”

Aaron shakes his head. “Before, Stan thought we had a reasonable chance against them. Now his Magic 8-Ball has flipped to Outlook Not So Good.”

Some part of me—and I’m reasonably sure that part is actually me, and not Cregg—wants to argue against Stan’s entire premise. Wants to tell Aaron I would never give away the location of Sandalford. Would never put all of them at risk. Would never hire an assassin to kill my father, no matter what he may have done.

But I don’t. Taylor’s right, as usual. It’s the most logical explanation.

“You look beat,” Aaron says. “Maybe you should rest.”

“No. I mean, yes, I’m tired. I was up at dawn, and I haven’t been sleeping well anyway. But Aaron . . . sleep isn’t an option until we get back to Sandalford. If I fall asleep, my walls will come down, and that would be a very bad thing.”

The realization hits him, and he pulls me into his arms. “You can’t stay awake forever, babe. And you fought him off. You’re getting stronger—”

“Maybe. Or maybe I just caught him off guard. And that was before . . . before I knew it was him. If he gets out again, he’ll fight harder to keep control. I can feel it.”

“So . . . no sleep. Coffee, Red Bull, and 5-hour ENERGY.”

“Maybe not all at once, but yeah.”

I hear the front door open, followed by Taylor’s voice.

“Can you get Tay to ride up front with you? I’m not ready for the Inquisition yet.”

“Sure. We’ve only got about another hour until we reach the campground. I’ll put on a pot of coffee first, and we’ll take shifts to make sure someone’s with you to help keep you alert.”

“Yeah, coffee’s a good idea.”

“You need me to send Deo in while I make it, or are you okay?”

“I’m okay.”

It’s a lie, and not even a good one, since it’s followed by a very shaky exhale. I’m not even close to okay. Every muscle feels like it’s paper-thin porcelain that will shatter if I move. I want to curl up, pull the covers over my head, have a good cathartic cry, and sleep for a week.

But I can’t do that. I can’t risk losing control in any way.

“Hey.” He lifts my chin to meet my eyes. “We’re not going to let him win, Anna. You are not alone in this.”

I nod and give him the best smile I can muster. He’s right. I’m not alone. There’s a mass murderer disguised as a rat-spider in my head, and three other people in this RV.

Which means no tears, no anger, no sleep. I may not be able to put the last one off forever, but I can definitely delay it until I’m far, far away from anyone I can hurt.

College Park, Maryland

April 24, 2020, 1:22 a.m.

Aaron took the first shift in the Babysitting Anna Marathon. A little after one, he went to bed, tagging Deo and Taylor to take over. They sit on opposite ends of the couch, facing each other, their legs intertwined in the middle as they read. They make a cute picture, something I’m sure would have both of them rolling their eyes if they could read my mind.

Cuteness aside, their relationship still makes me uneasy. It’s not really the sex part. I’m sure they’re being cautious. I’ve talked to Deo on that front, as has Kelsey. And Aaron says Taylor is on the pill, too. So while I’m pretty confident they’re physically safe, there is unfortunately nothing to prevent emotional damage if this ends badly.

At first, I was most worried about Deo—and well, to be honest, I’m still most worried about Deo, because he’s my brother and I can’t stand the idea of him being hurt. But I’m starting to worry about Taylor, too. Several times in the past few hours, I’ve seen her glance up from her reading and watch Deo’s face, like he’s a puzzle she can’t quite figure out. Her eyes are so vulnerable when she looks at him—which again makes me glad she can’t read my mind, because Taylor wouldn’t want anyone thinking of her as vulnerable.

Taylor has been unusually solicitous, even making me an energy smoothie to help keep me awake. But she also seems on edge, maybe even more than I am. We pass the time by watching some Pixar movie and munching on microwave popcorn. It would be fun if not for the occasional movement I keep sensing behind my walls. Experimental taps at the bricks to see if they’re at full strength. And when my mind isn’t distracted by my unwanted lodger, it keeps straying to the question of how the hell I’m going to get out of here on my own.

Deo’s head begins to droop in the middle of the second movie. I’m surprised but also very, very relieved that he conked out so easily. Now I just have to find a way to distract Taylor.

An hour later, I’m at the point where I can’t help glancing over at the clock every minute or so. And then at my backpack, leaning against the kitchen bar. Then back at the clock. Luckily, she’s doing something on her phone, so she’s barely noticed. I’m half tempted to just snag my backpack and make a run for it. How the hell am I supposed to slip out when I’m under constant surveillance? And yes, I know I obviously do manage it, since I saw it in the vision, but thinking about causality loops in the wee hours of the morning is only going to worsen my current meta fog.

“You want another soda?” I ask.

Given that she’s already had two, I’m not entirely surprised when she shakes her head. So much for my strategy of plying her with enough liquid that she’ll be forced to take a bathroom break.

“I’ve had plenty,” she says. “But you should probably chug that cup of coffee and get going.”

My jaw drops and she waves her phone.

“Stan’s been keeping me updated on the paths since we left Sandalford. He’s annoyingly vague, as usual. There was some divergence earlier, but by the time Aaron went to bed, everything had gathered into two neat clusters. The largest one has me pretending to fall asleep on the sofa and you sneaking out the door. The rest of us catch up with you later.”

“What happens if I don’t go now?”

Her face grows grim. “According to Stan, two guys with guns show up and take you through that door. Aaron doesn’t fare too well on that path. I’m not willing to risk it for that reason alone.”

“Aaron is going to be really pissed at you. At Deo, too. I’m not sure he’ll believe you both fell asleep.”

“Pffft,” she says. “I can handle Aaron. And the melatonin I dissolved in Deo’s Dr Pepper gives him an excuse, so Aaron won’t have any reason to be mad at him. Just grab your backpack and go, okay? Let me worry about the fallout.”

SHARED JOURNAL

3/18/20

Deo: We were walking out by the pool with Ein this morning, and Anna gets that look. You all know the expression. Her face goes blank like she’s talking to one of her hitchers, but then it gets . . . calculating, I guess. Not like Anna at all. Then she asks me if I want to cut out, just the two of us. Head back to the city. I mention that we have zero money, no place to live, and there are still people out there who think she was involved with killing those kids back at Overhills. Plus the Senator’s people. Dacia and her damned Bear Army. We’re safer here.

Next she says she doesn’t trust Magda. Which I get. But here’s the bit where she lost me. She says Kelsey’s more on Magda’s side than ours. That Aaron and Taylor belong here, but we don’t. Says she can get her hands on a couple thousand bucks—a bank account left by one of her former hitchers. That’s bullshit or she’d have mentioned it back at Bartholomew House. For that matter, she’d have mentioned it when we were talking about replacing the power cord on our laptop last month, instead of wishing she had a way to contact Joe, her old boss, to get her paycheck for the final week she worked. And it’s not cash this Myron guy had and that’s why she’s just remembered it. He was homeless, right? I mean, he was also crazy, so I guess he could have been on the streets and still have some cash stashed away, but . . . no, not buying it.

So, anyway, I tell her I’ll think about it, and she gives me this weird sneer. Again, doesn’t look anything like Anna. A few minutes later, it’s Anna back, clearly confused as to why we’re suddenly on the other side of the deck. I wait a beat, then I mention us leaving. She looks at me like I’m out of my mind. Says it’s too risky right now. And anyway, we don’t have any money or anywhere to go.

I was on the fence about the whole Cregg vs Myron thing before. Now I agree with Taylor. I think Anna picked up Cregg after Jasper shot him. I’m not sure why you couldn’t get him to surface when Anna was under hypnosis, but today didn’t feel like Anna working through memories from a hitcher. It felt like someone else wearing Anna’s skin.

CHAPTER SEVEN

College Park, Maryland

April 24, 2020, 4:27 a.m.

My foot slips on the broken pavement, and I slow my pace to a light jog. The sidewalk ended a quarter mile back, and the city of College Park seems to have skimped on streetlights along this section of road. The lack of sleep is hitting me already. Every few minutes, I get spells where I’m woozy, off-balance. It doesn’t last long, but it keeps me from really getting into a good running rhythm.

A sliver of moon hangs in the sky, but the clouds have dimmed it to an insipid haze that never reaches the ground. The flashlight on my phone would be useful, but I handed it over to Aaron without argument last night. If Cregg is finding a way to break through my walls, there’s no reason to make it easy for him to communicate with his allies or flunkies or whatever these people are.

Aside from the piss-poor lighting, I don’t need the phone. I’m on home turf now. I spent four months in a foster home over in Eleven Cedars, not too far from here. The school bus drove down this road every day. I have thirteen dollars inside my backpack, and a Metro SmarTrip card with five or ten bucks’ credit in my pocket. I know how to get to the Greenbelt Metro station, which is about two miles from here. My pepper spray is in my hand, and my hair is tucked inside the hood of my jacket, because I also know this isn’t exactly the best place for an eighteen-year-old girl to take a predawn jog.

Before I left, I scribbled out a note to Aaron and one to Deo. Mostly to apologize for what I was about to do, but also because I felt bad about leaving Taylor to face the wrath of the guys when they discover I’m gone. Hopefully that won’t be for at least another hour, because I’m not the only one who is now on home turf. Aaron has connections in the DC area. Half his family are former cops. They have friends who are still on the force, including at least one who knows the claims of me being involved in killing the kids at Overhills and the attack on Daniel at the hospital are both false. I need to get some distance between me and the RV, because it wouldn’t be hard for him to set up a dragnet and pull me in.

The road widens up ahead, and I jog past a small apartment complex, a Home Depot, and a smattering of other suburban stores. Just after I cross Baltimore Avenue, I spot a gray sedan that seems to be following me. I pick up the pace, aiming for a twenty-four-hour BP station just ahead. Keeping one eye on the car, I slip into the store and grab a bottle of water from the cooler. As I’m paying for the water, the car pulls up outside the door.

I get a brief flash of yellow from the license plate. Pennsylvania, I think, but my view of the rear bumper isn’t clear enough to confirm. The guy on the passenger side is easily visible, short and tubby, with a doughy face. That weird feedback loop kicks in because I’m thinking he looks like Lou Costello, the old-time comedian that Abner, one of my former hitchers, used to watch when he was a kid. At the same time, I’m remembering the vision last night where I was already thinking of these two as Abbott and Costello.

My resident rat-spider kicks into motion as soon as I see Costello. He scurries back and forth along the wall, tapping each brick. There are no holes big enough for him to reach through with his spindly legs—or maybe he’s simply not willing to risk losing another one. But there must be some sort of chink in the armor, because a clear thought reaches me. The voice sounds like Cregg’s . . . but higher. Fainter.

Let me handle this. We’re more alike than you know. Your father killed your mother. My father killed mine. And if your father lives, we have no hope of defeating mine. You don’t want that. Neither do—

“Shut up,” I say aloud as I shove the door open.

The clerk, who is pushing a broom down one of the aisles, gives me a dirty look. “Shut up your own damn self.”

Walking directly toward the car, I open the rear passenger-side door, as though this is the Uber I’ve been waiting for. Costello gets out before I can even slide into the back seat and holds out his hands. “Finally,” he says. “Give me the backpack.”

“What?”

“You said it might have a tracker? Here, I got it.” He snatches the pack off my shoulder. My first instinct is to knock his hands away, and I fight to keep my face neutral as Costello shoves it into the trash container between the gas pumps. I’ve had that pack for years. It’s been with me almost as long as Deo. My ID is in there. My freakin’ pepper spray is in there. Even the damned bottle of water I just bought was in that bag. But all I can do is watch. Otherwise, I’ll tip them off to the fact that it’s me, and not Cregg, in control.

You’re in control for the moment. It won’t last, Anna.

He’s right. I can’t keep these walls up indefinitely, and even now, with so much effort going toward blocking him, his thoughts are still getting through to me. And the reverse was definitely not true. When Cregg was in control, he used my own walls against me, blocked me out, leaving hours-long gaps in my memory.

Hours? Why lie to yourself? I was in control for days—well, a day and a half was the longest, if we’re being technical. But I stepped back willingly in order to keep the others from catching on before I had everything planned out. I could have blocked you for longer. I’m stronger than you are.

Shut up!

I expect a retort similar to the one I got from the store clerk, but Cregg obediently retreats into silence. It’s not a retreat based on fear, however. It’s based on confidence, and that ratchets my panic up another notch.

“Thought you were going to break out last night,” Abbott says. “Or at least call if you couldn’t. If we hadn’t spotted you back there, we were planning to storm the campground before daybreak. And that could have gotten messy.”

“Couldn’t call. They confiscated my phone.”

Costello, who is now sliding back into the front passenger seat, says, “Why didn’t you do your mind thing and make ’em give it back?”

Great. Ten seconds in, and he’s already questioning me. I fight down panic and try to look disinterested.

“It wasn’t worth the bother,” I say. “I told you I’d get away, and I did. I’m not paying you to second-guess my actions.”

“Sorry, boss.” Costello’s voice takes on a wheedling tone. “You’re right. You pay the bills, you make the rules. And, hey, I gotta hand it to you. You ain’t a tightwad like your old man. I woulda come with you in the first place, but things got so royally screwed up when The Warren caught fire that I just ran for the closest chopper, which happened to be his crew. But he’s got Dacia pretty much runnin’ the operation, and she’s gone full soup sandwich without Lucas to . . . well . . . keep her happy, if you know what I mean.”

If I didn’t know what he meant simply from his tone of voice, the leer would have filled in the blanks. I don’t respond, partly because I don’t want to encourage him, but also because I don’t think Cregg would respond either. He made it very clear he didn’t like Lucas’s extracurricular activities with the girls at The Warren.

“Dacia was already halfway there, anyway,” he adds. “I ain’t inclined to trust nobody crazy enough to snip off her own damn pinky finger.”

Abbott glances at me in the rearview mirror as he pulls onto Baltimore Avenue. I feel like I need to say something, respond in some way, but I don’t really know what Cregg would say. It’s clear Costello was one of the guards at The Warren, but how well does Cregg know these two men?

The Cregg-spider presses forward again, ready to argue that I should let him handle this. That we have so damn much in common. That I need to trust him. The enemy of my enemy . . .

Abbott’s eyes keep darting from the road to the mirror, very obviously keeping tabs on me. Costello seems fairly chill, but I’ve obviously done something to make Abbott suspicious. So I grasp at the one sure thing I know about Cregg and toss them a line from Hamlet.

“Dacia is too erratic to lead. She’s descended into madness, wherein she now raves.”

I’m pretty sure I’ve mangled the quote, but I can’t access my hitchers’ memory banks without giving Cregg an opening. And I doubt either of these guys spends his Saturdays at Shakespeare in the Park.

“Man, you got that right,” Costello says. “She raves.”

I keep my eyes trained on the lights outside the windows, resisting the temptation to look at Abbott and see whether invoking The Bard appeased him. Aside from the fact that we appear to be headed toward I-95, I have no idea where we’re going.

“Alex sent the research you ordered and some other files over to the townhouse a few days ago. Said to call once you’re settled and to be ready by eight thirty so you two can take care of the bank stuff. Oh, and it turns out you were right on the whole Port Deposit thing. Your old man’s got people camped out up there today right on top of the Delphi site. They’re waitin’ on something or somebody, and I’m guessing it’s Pfeifer.”

I nod, wishing I could think of something neutral to say, but apparently Costello doesn’t need a conversational partner. He’s perfectly capable of rambling on without any input at all from me.

“So,” he says, “if Pfeifer is another one of these vessels, same as his daught—” He stops and barks out a laugh. “Now, see, that’s how weird this is. I was gonna say same as his daughter, but I guess I should say same as you, right? We were just sayin’ earlier we don’t even know what gender pronoun to use for you anymore. You got a preference?”

“She will suffice,” I say, trying to replicate the slightly prissy tone I remember Cregg using when Lucas irked him.

“Yeah,” Costello says. “Prob’ly better to get used to it. But that’s what I was saying before. I think I’d have waited and just jumped into Pfeifer. I mean, sure, with this one you get a few extra decades. But you have to live them as a girl, and you’re gonna have to get used to all sorts of female stuff. I don’t think I could live as a woman.”

“A small mercy for the men of the world,” Abbott says drily, and I notice he’s watching me in the mirror again. “You’re a lot more tolerant of his chatter than you were this morning.”

“I’m not really listening.”

He gives a nod of admission. “Yeah. That’s the best way to deal with him.”

Costello just laughs good-naturedly. “You sure you don’t want us to grab Pfeifer instead of shooting him? Seems like a waste. I mean, some of those so-called gifts I saw back at The Warren were kinda pointless. I can’t start a fire with my head, but, hey . . . I don’t consider that much of a handicap. Five bucks’ll buy me a can of charcoal lighter and a box of matches, y’know? This, though . . . I could see someone paying a whole lot of cash to buy a spare body. A lot of rich old bitches would have given top dollar for the skin you’re wearing right now.”

Costello ends his sales pitch by giving me a creepy head-to-toe assessment, followed by the kind of wink a guy might give a buddy he sees out on the street with a hot date. Like my body is just a thing. Like I’m nothing more than what he just called my father. A vessel.

“Stick to the plan.” The words come out much angrier than I intended, and I’m worried for a moment that I’ve blown my cover. But if anything, my tone seems to put Abbott more at ease. Cregg isn’t the sort to suffer fools gladly, so the anger must strike him as more genuine than my silence.

As an added bonus, the harsh tone silences Costello. He doesn’t speak again until Abbott pulls up in front of a townhouse on Constitution Avenue. “You got the keys?” he asks his partner.

“Yeah.” Abbott fishes out a key ring with two keys—one large, one small.

“So,” Costello says, “we’re obviously gonna be busy this afternoon setting up for the Pfeifer thing. You want me to get Marky or Peterson to drive you around later, or are you all set with Alex?”

“I’m set.”

“And . . .” He looks uncomfortable. “You’re sure you got total control? You been awake for a while now, and Alex said you were still having some trouble holding it if you were awake more than—”

“I napped this afternoon,” I say, opening the car door. “I’m in control. Just do the job and let me know when it’s done.”

He gives me a curt nod and I exit the car. They’re both watching as I unlatch the gate and approach the door. An automatic light pops on, scaring me so badly I nearly drop the stupid keys. I manage to get the larger key into the slot after a couple of tries and slip inside, closing the door behind me.

One of those weird spells of light-headedness hits me as I watch their taillights gradually disappear through the narrow windows beside the door. I lean against the wall, trying to steady my pulse, and wait for the dizzy feeling to pass.

It does, after a moment, but I’m still seriously on edge. I guess that’s to be expected, though. This is a strange house, in a strange neighborhood. For all I know, this could be a trap. Someone could be lurking upstairs in the dark.

I should probably go up and check. Make sure it’s safe.

On the other hand, last night’s vision indicated I’m still alive and kicking later this afternoon. That thought is comforting, and I hold on to it.

“If anyone is up there,” I say aloud, “bring it on. Because you either lose or I outrun your ass.”

It’s a pathetic taunt, given how my voice quivers, but I feel braver simply for having spoken. I flip on the interior light to reveal a nearly empty living room. Nothing but a sofa, an office chair, and a bare computer desk with a single drawer.

Inside the drawer is an iPad and a large manila envelope. When I pull them out, I notice something else near the back of the drawer. A small wooden chest. A man’s jewelry chest, maybe, for cuff links.

Opening the envelope first, I dump the contents onto the desk. It’s mostly legal papers. But what catches my eye first is a bundle of documents in a plastic bag. On top is a Pennsylvania driver’s license with my face. The picture is from my old school ID, taken long before Taylor gave me my current neo-punk makeover. It’s been altered slightly—the cheekbones are a bit more pronounced, and there’s less softness around the jawline. Something about the nose is different, too. This looks more like an older sister or cousin than it looks like me, but the goal was probably to age me up so I’d match the new date of birth: April 25, 1998. That makes this version of me almost twenty-two. I guess Cregg wanted to be sure he could order his Harvey Wallbangers or whatever middle-aged body thieves are drinking these days.

The name on the license is not Anna Elizabeth Morgan. In typical Cregg fashion, he went full Shakespeare: Ophelia Beatrice Duncan. How fitting that he’d opt for the crazy girl’s name.

Phee Duncan’s Social Security card and birth certificate are also inside, along with a generic receipt for the fake IDs. I shove all three documents into my pocket along with the key ring. No point in wasting a perfectly good fake identity. Given everything I’ve been through in the past year, I can certainly envision scenarios where it could come in quite handy. But I don’t need the receipt, so I push it out of my way in order to inspect the other papers. As I do, the date at the top catches my eye: 12/1/19.

My first assumption had been that Cregg set all of this up recently, but from the date, it appears that Cregg was still alive when he ordered these documents. On December 1st of last year, when this receipt was written, I was at Sandalford waiting for Taylor to get a reading on the location of Bree Bieler, one of the kids Graham Cregg was holding hostage. This was weeks before Jasper shot him and I had the great misfortune of taking him on board as a hitcher.

He was still alive, but he was on chemo. And from what Maria gathered when she was bold enough to peek into his poisonous head, chemo wasn’t going so well.

Cregg knew he was going to die, but he also knew a way to cheat the reaper.

All this time I’ve been assuming he had Lucas kill Jaden and others to test whether I could be some sort of mega-weapon, a walking toolbox of secondhand psychic abilities courtesy of my hitchers. And maybe that was part of the plan. But what he wanted most was to learn whether he’d still be able to play his mind games after he stole my body.

He’s been planning this ever since he learned about my ability. Jasper putting two bullets into his chest just sped up the timeline.

That also explains why Abbott, Costello, and presumably this Alex person were willing to accept the possibility that their former employer was now in the body of an eighteen-year-old girl. It was something they were expecting. Something they had planned for.

I look through the rest of the papers, hoping to find cash or a credit card. No luck, although there’s a lease for this apartment, registered under the new identity. Two phone numbers, as well, with names I don’t recognize. Neither of them is this Alex guy Costello told me to call.

The last item in the stack of papers is a medical brochure. Pauley Plastic Surgery. Specialists in facial reconstruction.

Smiling faces stare back from the image on the front of the brochure. New body. New identity. Just tweak the facial features a bit so you can really own the look. So no one suspects.

The brochure makes me furious, far more so than the other documents. It feels invasive, like a violation. I wad it into a tight ball and hurl the damned thing across the room.

Scree-e-e-e-ch-ch. Tap, tap, tap, tap, TAP.

That brief burst of anger seems to have energized my new parasite, just as it did last night. The scraping sounds were frightening enough in the familiar setting of the RV, with Aaron and Deo close by. Here in this strange (hopefully) empty house, however, they have me on the very knife-edge of panic.

I force myself to focus on things here, in this room. Things that are outside my head, solid and real and not woven from the fabric of my nightmares. The sofa is blue with white stripes. The chair—black, probably fake leather. Brown desk. Hardwood floors. A small chandelier on the ceiling that casts little dots of light on the beige walls.

Take deep breaths, Anna. Focus.

I repeat all of the things Kelsey would tell me if she was here. There are no holes in your wall. The rat-spider in your head cannot get out. It’s not even a real rat-spider. Just another hitcher.

But, of course, my walls aren’t really walls, either. They’re every bit as much a mental fabrication as the rat-spider. Just a handy way of blocking off the hitchers inside my head.

And yes, this is just another hitcher. Only he’s a hitcher who can force people to mutilate themselves, even to kill themselves, using only his mind. Myron was your everyday, ordinary psychopath, and he turned me into a weapon when I was six. How much more could Cregg—

Nope. Not gonna go there.

Deep breaths. Focus. Chill.

My resolve sticks this time, and even though I can still hear faint scritching noises, my pulse gradually drops to a normal range.

But I know even this tiny bit of calm is unlikely to stick unless I find a distraction. Something to focus on, rather than sitting here staring at the walls.

I pull the iPad toward me. A welcome screen pops up, asking for a six-digit code. It’s probably his friggin’ birthday, which I might be able to find out if I had my phone. I key in 000000, 123456, and 654321, basically just to try something, anything. Then I stop because I have no idea how many random guesses it will take before I’m tossed into a password jail.

It’s now 6:19 a.m. according to the otherwise useless iPad, and a giant yawn hits me. I need to stand up. Splash some water on my face. Find something to drink. And then I have to get out of here. If I stay put for much longer, I’m running the risk that Taylor will be able to track me via remote viewing, especially since she has Deo to amplify her ability.

The kitchen is down the hallway, just past a half bath. It’s still dark outside the window over the sink, but the sky is closer to navy than black, and there are faint hints of purple around the low-lying clouds. There are no glasses (or anything else) in the cabinets, so I cup my hands under the faucet and drink from the tap.

I rub my still-wet hands over my eyes. It helps, but it’s no substitute for a large black coffee.

When I look up again, my reflection stares back from the windowpane. The face is slightly misshapen, but that’s probably just distortion from the double-hung windows. There’s no rational explanation for the eyes, however. Six perfectly round, jet-black eyes—two large orbs on top and a row of four smaller circles below.

My hands fly back to my face instinctively, and for one awful second, I feel the spider’s face and those cold round eyes instead of my own.

Stop it! You don’t scare me!

I sound like a terrified child, and Cregg calls me on it. His voice is loud and clear, piercing through my walls as though they’re made of paper.

But obviously I do scare you. I scare you very badly. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have me in this ridiculous horror-show getup, now would you? You can’t win this battle, but if you stop this nonsense, stop blocking my thoughts, we can work together. I’m perfectly willing to share.

He’s right. He scares the hell out of me. But he disgusts me even more, and that emotion allows me to get a grip on my fear.

You’re willing to share? Willing to share my body?

I shove backward on those last two words, with every bit of force I can muster.

How generous. But you know what? You are wrong. I do win this battle, Graham Cregg. Maybe not the war, but I know that was me in the vision. Me in control this afternoon. So keep your body-thieving ass back behind the wall unless you want to lose another leg.

The words sound brave, but my knees are barely holding me upright. I hurry back into the living room, scoop the iPad and papers into the manila envelope, and stuff them into the lining of Aaron’s jacket.

I turn for the door, but then I remember the locked chest in the desk drawer. It might not be jewelry. Maybe it’s thumb drives, or the password for the iPad. The chest is too big to carry easily, so despite how badly I want to get out of here, I force myself to dig the keyring out of my pocket.

The smaller key is dull and well-worn. It fits easily into the lock, but I have to jiggle it a few times before the tumblers click. Black velvet lines the inside of the case, and I’m pretty sure my original guess is correct—it’s intended to display cuff links.

Instead, it displays fingers. Pinkies, to be precise, lined up neatly and perfectly preserved. All various shades of beige except for one—dark brown with chipped purple nail polish. And off in the corner, one that is nothing but bone.

Barely stifling a scream, I drop the box back into the drawer like it’s a hot coal. Two of the fingers fall out, but I can’t bring myself to put them back.

The only thing I can do is get the hell out of there.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Silver Spring, Maryland

April 24, 2020, 8:48 a.m.

By the time the train pulls into the station, my panic has subsided. Despite my desire to run, that wasn’t an option with an iPad and an envelope full of documents stashed in the lining of my jacket. So I settled for walking and then collapsing onto the seat of a Metro train headed for the suburbs. Red Line. Home turf.

I’m hit by a wave of nostalgia as I exit the train at Glenmont, coupled with an awareness of how very much has changed in the six months since I last entered this station. Molly was inside my head back then, not Cregg. Deo and I were still living at Bartholomew House. I’d never met Aaron, or Taylor, or Daniel.

I’d never seen a dead body except in my dreams. Now I’ve seen around a dozen. The fact that around a dozen is the best descriptor I have for the number of bodies I’ve seen tells me how much I’ve changed. I seem to have lost count, and that really feels like something a person should be able to pin a specific number on.

And after this morning, I’ve now seen the partial remains of at least a dozen more. I should have counted. Again, it feels wrong—disrespectful and dehumanizing—not to know the number of fingers in that box.

But I’m not the only one who has changed. The people around me in the subway are also subtly different from the crowd back then. Six months ago, the vast majority of people pushing their way into the train for their morning commute would have largely ignored everyone else as they read, listened to music, or talked on their phones. Today, they still don’t interact, but their eyes dart from one person to the next. Alert. Suspicious.

Is that man one of them?

Why is she looking at me like that? Can she hear what I’m thinking?

A year ago, most of these people would have said that psychic abilities were the stuff of fiction. They would have laughed at the notion that anyone might be reading their thoughts. Might be feeding them thoughts. The possibility that one of their fellow commuters might be able, with a single touch, to flick out the lights inside the train—or worse, cause it to burst into flames—would have seemed ludicrous.

I spot a few other changes scattered about the station. There have always been public service messages alternating with the paid ads, but there are a lot more of the See Something, Say Something variety than before.

The Sanctuary for Psychics ad is also new. In the center of the white sign is a purple drawing of an adult with arms spread wide to encircle dozens of children. The figures are rounded blobs, similar to those old toys called Weebles, and the purple is clearly meant to evoke Senator Cregg’s Unify America party. A 1-800 number and web address are at the bottom, along with the words You Don’t Have to Bear This Alone.

Deo once noted that the motto is a terrible choice, given the bear masks worn by the groups perpetrating the various terrorist acts, or at least claiming credit for them. And some Metro customer apparently agrees. A picture of the WOCAN flag, with the grizzly bear at the center, has been taped under the words Bear This Alone.

Oh . . . and the hats. That’s definitely something new. Taylor’s fashion statement from last fall seems to have caught on. It’s a bit warm for hats today, but maybe a third of the people are wearing them. And if you look closely, almost all of them have a literal silver lining. There’s no evidence tinfoil deters Delphi powers, but I’m sure that claim is being made on the conspiracy sites, which have spread like a virus over the past few months. And, hey, tinfoil is cheap. Why take chances?

I emerge from the escalator to the sound of traffic on Georgia Avenue. Carver’s Deli is a half hour’s walk from the station, a walk I can make on autopilot. I need food and, more importantly, caffeine. Every penny I had was in my backpack, and Joe still has my last paycheck. It’s only for a few days’ work, but it will keep me fed, hydrated, and alert until I meet up with the others. When I called back in October to tell Joe I had to quit without notice, he promised to hold the check until the next time I was in town. He usually goes to the bank around lunchtime, and since the morning rush is over, hopefully he’ll have enough money in the register to cash the check for me. And if not, I know he’ll give me a bagel and a cup of coffee.

I’m not entirely happy with this plan, but it’s the only one I have. I switched trains three times, and I’ve kept a close watch since I left the station. If anyone is following me, they’re damn good. My plan is to slip in, collect the money, and go. Five minutes, tops. Joe will probably want to catch up, but I’ll have to cut it short. Tell him I’m in a rush and promise to get back with him later.

And I will get back with him later. I miss Joe.

The smell of freshly baked bagels hits my nose as I approach the door. I close my eyes for a moment and imagine myself back to this time last year. Walking through the door, slipping into my Try Carver’s Cravers! apron, and joking around with Joe for a few hours while we prepare for the lunch crowd.

The place is fairly empty, which is the norm at nine a.m. on a weekday. Most of Joe’s weekday-morning business is over by now, as people grab coffee and something portable to wolf down on their way to work. On weekends, customers linger, read the news, or just relax over their food. But during the workweek, it’s strictly in and out.

Joe looks up when the bell over the door rings. He doesn’t recognize me until I’m at the counter. When he realizes it’s me, his face doesn’t break into the smile of welcome I expected. In fact, it sort of tightens. Even though I left him shorthanded when I quit, he was sympathetic when we spoke on the phone. I thought he’d be happy to see me, and my smile fades at his uneasy expression.

“Hey, Joe.”

“Anna.” He casts a nervous glance around the small dining area and the one occupied table near the door. A woman is reading something on her phone while her toddler sits in his stroller, watching the cars roll by as he happily gnaws on a half bagel.

The sight of the kid eating stirs up a sympathetic growl from my very empty stomach. Joe must hear it, because he sighs and shakes his head, a tiny hint of a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “Come on back to the office,” he says, then yells into the kitchen. “Andre! Watch the front.”

“But . . . you said to sauté the onions.”

“Leave them. Go wipe down the condiment stand. I’ll only be a minute.”

Andre, who looks about Deo’s age, wipes his hands on a nearby towel. Joe and I go back to his “office”—a small desk in an alcove behind the walk-in fridge, next to a waist-high filing cabinet. His computer is even older than the one Deo and I share. Joe still does a lot of his bookkeeping the old-fashioned way. I’d almost convinced him to upgrade and let me computerize everything when I had to quit.

“He’s half useless,” Joe mutters once Andre is out of earshot. “Third kid I’ve hired since you left. But hold on, let me find that check.” He rifles through a file in the top drawer. “You did something different with your hair. Nearly didn’t recognize you.”

“It’s been a . . . strange couple of months.”

“Yeah. So I’ve heard. Ah, there it is.” He pulls out the check and then turns back to me, looking me directly in the eye for the first time. There’s a bit of challenge in that look, along with something very close to anger. “You do know the cops came ’round looking for you, right? You and Deo both. Also some federal investigator. Asked a whole lot of questions I didn’t have answers to. I told them I couldn’t picture you working with no terrorists, and no way in hell either of you would hurt any kids. So you want to tell me what you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in, girl? Are you really one of those . . .”

He pauses and I brace myself. He’s about to say freaks, or maybe mutants.

But Joe doesn’t say the words. He simply leaves the sentence unfinished and holds out the check.

I want to shove it into my pocket and just go, get out of here, before he says something else that shreds the pleasant memories I have of working with him. Before he says something that makes me cry, because until this moment I would have said Joe was a great guy. One of the best.

But I can’t leave. The check has my name on it, and there’s no way I’ll be able to cash it with the fake ID in my pocket.

“Could you . . . cash it?” I don’t want to look at him, worried I’ll see fear or disgust in his expression. So I keep my eyes pinned on the floor that I mopped so many . . . times.

The white tile floor. The one that’s almost identical to the floor in Lab 1 at The Warren. The familiar feeling I had during the vision comes rushing back. Costello. Blood on a white tile floor.

“Never mind,” I tell Joe, not even bothering to take the check. I rush back to the kitchen, even though I know anything I do now is pointless. But there are plenty of places with white tile floors, right? I just have to get out of here and find another one for Costello to bleed all over.

Except . . . when I look through the order window toward the dining room, I see two men getting out of a gray car parked in front of the little Indian market across the street.

The mom and baby are still at the front table.

“Get out!” I yell through the window. The woman looks up from her phone, clearly about to protest, so I add, “Gas leak!”

That gets her moving. She spins the kid’s stroller around so quickly it knocks over the chair she was in. Ramming one shoulder against the door like a linebacker, she hits the sidewalk running, just as Abbott and Costello catch a break in the traffic and start across the street.

“Get Andre and go out the back,” I yell to Joe as I head for the revolving door that separates the kitchen from the dining room. If I can reach the front in time to turn the lock, it will buy them a few minutes to get out of here.

But Joe grabs my arm. “Why did you tell that customer there’s a—”

I glance back to the window. They’re almost across the road now. No time to lock the door.

“Joe, those men are armed. But they won’t hurt me.” I wrench my arm out of his grasp. “You and Andre need to get out.”

Andre comes over, a rag in one hand and the metal cream pitcher in the other. “So . . . is there really a gas leak or what?”

The bell above the door rings. Damn it. Now I’m going to have to rely on my acting skills.

“I told you I had personal business to take care of,” I say, moving purposefully toward the two men entering the door. “I’m not paying you to follow me around. Why aren’t you dealing with the Pfeifer matter?”

Costello looks uncertain. Abbott, on the other hand, smirks. “You had an appointment at the bank almost an hour ago. Alex says you never showed up. Never even called.”

“I called. He didn’t answer.”

There’s a pause and they exchange a look.

“Oh, wow.” Costello makes a pained face. “Seriously wrong answer, Anna.”

He pulls a handgun from inside his jacket and points it toward me. Abbott quickly follows suit.

As soon as Andre sees the guns, the pitcher he’s holding tumbles from his hand. It clangs against the floor, sending an off-white plume of half-and-half sailing into the air.

I don’t know if it’s the sound or the metallic glint of the pitcher as it moves in Abbott’s peripheral vision, but he spins toward Andre without hesitation and fires. The bullet hits the boy in the shoulder. He cries out, and that’s what finally gets Joe moving. Joe was a medic in Vietnam, so maybe it’s the training from fifty years ago that kicks in. He catches Andre before the kid hits the ground and drags him back through the swinging door.

Both guns are again pointed at me. I know they won’t shoot. Even though they realize Cregg is no longer in the driver’s seat, there’s no way they’ll risk serious harm to his precious vessel. Not if they want to get paid. But they’re clearly willing to hurt Joe or Andre. In fact, they may feel they have to eliminate the two of them as witnesses. My secondhand tae kwon do skills, inherited from Jaden, probably aren’t going to cut it.

I take two quick steps backward through the swinging doors and give a hard kick in the other direction. The left door hits one of them, maybe both. There’s a loud oof, followed by the sound of someone staggering backward.

Behind me, I hear a creak from the door that leads to the alley. It’s not a loud sound, and I doubt I’d even know it was a door opening if I hadn’t opened it so many times to take out the trash. Joe must have gotten the boy outside. I send up a silent prayer that Abbott and Costello don’t think to circle around to the back.

That prayer is answered instantly, although not necessarily in the way I hoped, since I now have opponents on two fronts. Costello comes through the swinging door as expected, while Abbott, by far the more athletic of the two, begins climbing through the service window.

The cutting board where Andre was slicing onions is only a few feet away from the service window. As tempting as it is to go after the knife, I can’t risk moving closer to Abbott.

One of those odd bits of déjà vu runs through my mind when I take my next breath. There’s a hint of smoke in the air from the now-burning onions, and I remember the red mark on Abbott’s face as he crossed Second Street in my vision. I can’t reach the knife, but I can reach the stove.

Yanking my jacket sleeve down to protect my palm, I grab the handle of the pan and swing it in a wide sideways arc, spraying the contents in front of me. Halfway through the swing, I release the handle and the skillet goes flying.

Even though the bottom layer is burned, most of the onions are still moist. Abbott catches about half of them on his neck and face. They stick to him like scalding plaster. He falls backward into the galley between the counter and the order window as he screams, trying frantically to scrape the molten mess from his neck and hair.

The remaining onions rain down in the kitchen, along with droplets of oil from the pan. I catch a few bits on my arm, and one giant glob hits Costello in the stomach a split second before the hot skillet connects with his shoulder. He falls, landing hard on his right arm. The pistol he was holding careens across the floor until the grip lodges behind the wheel of the bagel rack.

Costello recovers quickly, though—much more quickly than Abbott, judging from the whimpering noises in the other room—and we both dive for the gun at the same instant. He’s closer, but I’m less injured and about a hundred pounds lighter.

I get to the gun first, but only by a fraction of a second. No sooner has my hand closed around the grip than Costello’s hand—hot, damp, and slimy from the onions—smacks down on mine.

Let him have the gun, Anna. They won’t hurt you if I’m in control.

The words in my head are accompanied by a faint buzzing noise. My walls are still up. I’ve been building them so long that I can do the basic level without even thinking, the same way you don’t have to think to add two plus two. I can almost—but not quite—maintain a basic wall against ordinary hitchers in my sleep.

But Cregg isn’t an ordinary hitcher. He’s punched a hole somewhere, a hole big enough that his suggestion—his very strong suggestion—gets through.

I quickly reinforce the barrier, but for just an instant, my hand relaxes. It’s enough to tilt the balance in Costello’s favor. He pulls the gun toward him, and I’m about to lose my hold, but then his hand slips.

When I yank the gun away, I realize why. The handle is now slick with residue from the onions. I’m pretty sure that’s the only reason I’m now pointing the gun at his head instead of him pointing it at mine.

Pushing with my elbows, I scoot backward on my stomach, away from Costello. I barely make it six inches, however, before my feet hit the bagel rack.

The mewling from the galley has quieted now. Abbott’s voice, still shaky, says, “Give him the gun, Anna.”

Even without looking, I know Abbott’s pistol is aimed at me. Knowing he can’t shoot me, that he doesn’t shoot me or else I wouldn’t be in DC a few hours from now, doesn’t make that any less unnerving.

I roll slightly so I can watch Abbott at the same time. He’s almost behind me, though, and I can’t retreat any farther with the bagel rack—and for that matter, the wall—blocking my path. There’s no way for me to see both of them fully from this angle, so I have to settle for shifting my eyes back and forth between the two.

“Give me the gun.” Costello, who is still lying on the ground, holds out his hand, palm up. “Give it over and we won’t go after your friends who ran through the back. No need for them to get hurt.”

“Why should I believe that? You already shot one of them.”

That faint creak comes from the back of the deli again. I wish I had Maria’s ability to send a thought, so I could tell Joe to stay out. To focus on getting Andre to safety, because I know I walk out of here unharmed. All I can do, however, is hope I’m the only one who recognized that sound and that Joe has the good sense to stay out.

“Pretty sure I just winged the boy,” Abbott says. “And the old guy will have called the cops. You can’t afford to get caught any more than we can. So give us the gun. You won’t be able to hold Cregg off forever.”

Cregg’s faint murmur of agreement is barely audible behind my walls, but the fact that I can hear him at all means Abbott is right. I won’t be able to hold him off forever.

That fear must show on my face, because Abbott nods. “Yeah, you know I’m telling the truth. When you sleep, it’s really easy for him to take over. He told us he could’ve slit your boyfriend’s throat in his sleep and you wouldn’t have been able to stop him.”

The words are clearly meant to catch me off guard, and they do. Is that why I moved to a separate bedroom? Did I know subconsciously that Aaron was at risk and acted to protect him?

I’m so caught up in this thought that I nearly miss the blur of movement from Costello. He now has the skillet in his hand, and it’s coming straight at me.

A shot rings out, and then the tiles shake as the pan smashes down, inches from my head.

For a second, I’m certain I pulled the trigger. I should have pulled the trigger. That would have been the smart thing to do when someone is trying to crack your head with a still-smoking skillet.

But I didn’t fire. While I’m not a gun expert, I’ve heard several weapons fired at close range in the past few months. This sounded more like the rifle Grady fired in the woods at Overhills.

And the wound is on the opposite side of Costello’s neck. Blood flows from his shoulder onto the white tile floor, a trickle that almost instantly becomes a pool, spreading beneath his head. Déjà vu all over again.

Abbott must also think I’m the one who fired. His eyes are fixed on the gun in my hand. But instead of putting the pieces together and searching for the actual source of the gunfire, his head whips around toward the front of the deli.

Now I hear it, too. A siren.

Not close. Not yet. But definitely a siren.

“You okay, Anna?” It’s Joe. I can’t see him, but his voice comes from back near the walk-in cooler.

Abbott turns to me, his eyes darting around as he tries to pinpoint Joe’s location. He must not be able to find him, because he ducks down behind the wall. I hear footsteps, but I’m still on the floor, so I can’t see which way Abbott is heading. Certain he’s about to enter through the swinging door, I whip the gun in that direction. But the door remains still and the footsteps retreat.

“You can’t hold him off, Anna.” Judging from the sound, Abbott must be near the front of the deli. “And I know you can hear me, Cregg. Since I’m doing the Pfeifer job solo now, my price just tripled.”

The little cowbell over the door jingles. I’m pretty sure Abbott’s gone, but I push up onto my feet and crouch-walk toward the door, nudging it open a crack to be sure. The dining room is empty, everything in its place except the cream pitcher, which is still on its side in front of the counter. Abbott is already sprinting across the road to his car, one hand held against his scorched neck.

When I look back toward the kitchen, Joe has moved out of the shadows. A rifle hangs down at his side. It looks strange, almost alien. That hand should be holding the large slotted spoon he uses to scoop out the bagels, not a rifle.

He crouches down and rests two fingers against Costello’s neck.

“Is he dead?”

“Not yet. There’s a pulse, but it’s weak.”

“What about that kid . . . Andre? Is he okay?”

Joe nods, laying the rifle on the counter. “Cut a pretty deep groove in his shoulder. Need to get him to a hospital and get it bandaged up.”

“You should have stayed out there with him, Joe. Now you’re in the middle of this and the police are on their way.”

“Not yet. That was a fire truck.”

I didn’t think about the difference in the heat of the moment, but he’s right. The sound was a long, consistent wail, without the pulsing wap-wap-wap in the middle that marks the local police sirens.

“I’m guessing we’re going to get some police attention pretty soon, though,” Joe says as he pushes open the door to the dining room. I start to follow, but that wobbly sensation, almost like vertigo, is back. So I stay put, leaning back against the wall for support. I need sleep or, at the very least, coffee.

Joe comes back a moment later with a small stack of bills and a take-out bag full of bagels. “You need to get going.”

I stare down at Costello. “No. This is my fault, Joe. I shouldn’t have come here. I can’t let you take the blame for this.”

“I’m the one who shot him. And . . . it’s better this way. Even if you could have pulled the trigger, I wouldn’t want you to have killing someone on your conscience.”

“But if he dies, you’ll have it on yours.”

“Yeah, well, I’m old. Less time for it to bother me, although I doubt this one will. I killed guys in ’Nam, and that haunted me because they were in the same boat I was—drafted and stuck fighting for a cause they probably didn’t believe in. But I learned sometimes you have to kill to keep yourself and your friends alive. This guy, though . . . if he dies, I don’t think I’ll lose much sleep.”

“What are you going to tell the police?”

“Asshole tried to rob me. Shot my assistant. I’ll wipe your prints off that gun and I’ll tell Andre not to mention you. But . . . he’s pretty scared and not nearly as bright as the employee I had this time last year who ran off on me. He could easily let something slip. So . . . you might want to switch the hair color again or buy a new jacket.”

I glance down at the bills in my hand. It’s nearly two hundred bucks, way more than the three days’ pay in my final check. “This is more than you owe me.”

“Consider it a bonus. Given the quality of workers I’ve had in the past six months, I was clearly underpaying you.”

“I’m really, really sorry for—”

“Just go! I need to call 911.”

“Sure.” I’m a few steps from the door when he calls my name, and I turn back.

“Whatever you’re mixed up in, just . . .” Joe shakes his head. There’s still doubt in his eyes, but it’s tempered by concern. “Just be careful, okay? And save one of those bagels for Deo.”

INTERVIEW FROM THE US SENATE COMMITTEE ON HOMELAND SECURITY AND GOVERNMENTAL AFFAIRS WEBSITE:

Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations

Threat Assessment on The Delphi Project

Excerpt from the Testimony of Dr. Scott Pfeifer

April 23, 2020

Sen. Elena Rodriguez: How many of your subjects died as a result of these experiments?

Dr. Scott Pfeifer: There were no direct casualties. But fourteen of the roughly two hundred people who participated over the lifespan of the project committed suicide.

Rodriguez: Those suicides killed a few other people too, I believe?

Pfeifer: Yes.

Rodriguez: Were you under the effects of the Delphi drug when you shot your ex-wife?

Pfeifer: On advice of my attorney, I decline to answer.

Rodriguez: Okay. Let me ask you this, then. Is it standard for someone in your field to be a subject of his own experiment?

Pfeifer: No.

Rodriguez: During the time you’ve been a patient at Perkins, were you at any point contacted by your former employer or anyone else requesting your help in developing a cure for the so-called Delphi serum?

Pfeifer: No. And even if I’d had access to a lab, I doubt I’d have been much help. While I did conduct the original research, there have been a lot of advances in my field during my . . . absence. If they had contacted me, however, I’d have told them what I noted in my opening statement. I don’t think a cure is possible, at least not in the sense of erasing the impact of the drug. You might be able to mitigate the symptoms—suppress the effects—but a cure would imply reversing changes to the brain structure. Based on my research, when the drug works, the changes are permanent.

Rodriguez: So you’re saying this drug you created causes permanent brain damage?

Pfeifer: No. I said permanent changes to the structure of the brain. To the wiring, if you will. Whether that’s damage or enhancement is a judgment call.

Rodriguez: And what is your view, Dr. Pfeifer? Damage or enhancement?

Pfeifer: That depends on the individual’s reaction, and to some extent on the variant of the drug used.

Rodriguez: Okay, so in your view, a cure is unlikely. What about a vaccine?

Pfeifer: I . . . I beg your pardon? Could you repeat the question?

Rodriguez: A vaccine? To prevent further spread of—

Pfeifer: It’s not a communicable disease. A person would actually have to be injected with the serum at least once for the drug to have any impact at all.

Rodriguez: Four cases of infection have been reported in Arizona. One in California.

Pfeifer: I’m sorry, but that’s simply not possible.

Rodriguez: Maybe. Or maybe your earlier assessment was correct, Dr. Pfeifer. There have been a lot of advancements in your field in the past fifteen years. I yield the remainder of my time.

CHAPTER NINE

Washington, DC

April 24, 2020, 2:43 p.m.

Another gust of wind whips at the umbrella anchored to the table. I’d love to move inside, but I have to watch the street. To be honest, though, I’m not sure what I’m looking for. All I know is that, at some point, something is going to make me head toward the Hart Senate Office Building, about a block away. I need to stay alert for that something.

Or not. I mean, the vision has already told me I’m going to end up there. That’s one reason I’m here, drinking my third coffee of the afternoon and eating another of the bagels Joe gave me, rather than camped out across from the Hart Building, waiting.

After I left the deli, I went to the secondhand store where Deo spent most of our money over the past few years and replaced all of my clothes, right down to my shoes. D would be proud—my new red-and-black hoodie actually matches the knock-off Chuck Taylors. I also ducked into a CVS to buy a small knapsack to hold the iPad and the envelope from Cregg’s townhouse. Abbott has managed to locate me twice, so they must have placed some sort of tracker on me yesterday when I was on the beach. I changed and then shoved everything I had been wearing into a trash bin outside the drugstore.

Now reasonably certain I was free of tracking devices, I took the Metro downtown and then walked around until I found my favorite place to hide when I was on the streets—a library. As long as you keep quiet and you keep reading, no one will run you out. I didn’t stay long, however. It was hard to focus on reading, partly because I’m nervous and partly because I’m exhausted.

Food and coffee do seem to have warded off the dizzy spells, though. I was beginning to wonder if they were something Cregg was causing, somehow, from behind my walls. But maybe it was just the aftereffects of no sleep and losing my dinner last night.

For the past few minutes, I’ve been trying to guess the password on Cregg’s iPad—an iPad that now has a cracked screen. I didn’t even think about it being in my jacket when I dove for the gun back at Joe’s place.

I wish I could call Joe and see how things went with the police. Make sure Andre is okay. But I should probably hold off for a while. Let things cool down.

When I finish the last of the coffee, I decide to start walking toward the Hart Building. I don’t know exactly what time it was in the vision, but the level of light seems about right to me. And sure enough, as I’m tossing my cup into the trash, I spot Abbott’s gray sedan easing into one of the metered parking spots on the other side of Massachusetts Avenue, half a block up.

At least . . . I think it’s the same car. I pull the jacket hood over my hair and slouch down into a nearby chair, waiting for the driver to get out.

It’s Abbott. I freeze in place, waiting for him to turn in the direction of the Hart Building. For the longest time, he stands outside the car, looking down at something on his phone. Finally, he leaves. Once I’m sure he won’t spot me, I head for an alley I noticed earlier that comes out directly across from the Hart Building.

It’s also right near the bike rack where I’m going to trip and bust my ass. Something to look forward to.

As I hurry through the alley toward my rendezvous with gravity, it occurs to me that the visions I inherited from Jaden are more like those that Stan gets than I’d thought at first. True, I don’t actually see multiple paths the future might take. Everything I see in the vision is going to happen. But I do get this odd parallel train of thought with alternative courses of action I can’t take no matter how hard I try. In some flipside universe, I could turn left and head back to the Metro. I could duck into that women’s history museum next to the Hart Building and stare at memorabilia from the suffrage era while Abbott delivers long-delayed justice for my mother. Or I could keep running onto Second Street into the path of that big red bus.

That last thought is the one that brings my feet skidding to a halt and causes my sneaker to catch on the brick. My calf collides with the first bike. My hand flies out to grasp the bike rail. My ass hits the ground, and my brain enters that weird dual track where I remember having the vision as I watch myself act it out movement for movement, line for line.

The bus drives on toward Union Station, and while I’m still trying to figure out whether that brief suicidal thought came from me or from Cregg, Abbott walks into view at the corner of Second and C Streets, just as he did in the vision. His neck is a bright red, like a splotchy sunburn. And again, I experience that same feeling of relief mixed with only a tiny smidgen of guilt when I get the flash of memory where Costello is bleeding on the tile floor.

Déjà vu swings into full force as I watch Abbott reach for the gun inside his jacket. He crosses the street with the blue Love Thy Neighbor banner visible behind him. Three men exit from the Hart Building and move toward the black car idling at the curb—two guys in black suits flanking a third man, who is definitely Scott Pfeifer. He’s maybe six two and wearing a navy jacket and tan pants. The guy on his right is muscular, but the one on the left looks like he eats Frosted Steroid Flakes for breakfast. And something about the shape of his head seems familiar.

All possible actions I could take run through my head. Even though I know I don’t yell to the guard that Abbott is armed, I consider it, because in some part of my brain, this is all happening for the first time. The street is crowded. About a dozen people in all, mostly adults in business attire but also a few who look like tourists. One teenage girl walking her dogs. The guard is focused on his phone, so I have zero confidence in his ability to snap to attention and figure out which person I’m talking about in time to save my father. And I know beyond any doubt that Abbott will shoot innocent people to accomplish his goal.

But Abbott won’t shoot me. If he shoots the vessel, there goes his big fat payday.

So even though I want to run away, I run toward him.

The rage building up behind my walls is also both current and remembered. I push it back and reinforce my walls, telling him it’s my body and he has no control over me. And as much as Cregg wants to stop me, he knows he can’t change anything, at least not until . . . now, when the horn I remember from the vision blasts the warning that ended my sneak preview. The guard at the kiosk is finally looking this way. I don’t know if he sees the gun, but he definitely sees me tackle Abbott from behind. Abbott staggers and tumbles forward onto the asphalt. I fall on top of him, bracing myself for the sound of gunfire beneath us when his hand hits the ground.

Instead, I hear the squeal of brakes and screeching tires as a white delivery van skids to a stop mere inches in front us. It’s an older van, with a dented side panel near the front tire. The woman behind the wheel is young, maybe a few years older than I am. Pink sunglasses hold back her shoulder-length brown hair. And she must have seen Abbott’s gun, because she dives at the passenger-side floorboard before the wheels even stop spinning.

Abbott pushes up abruptly, tossing me to the road as he scrambles to his feet. The gun twitches toward me, and I realize I may have made a very serious miscalculation. On the one hand, he wants the cash Cregg promised. On the other hand, I’m the reason his face and neck are a bright, blistered pink, the reason he missed his chance to complete his assignment, and the reason he was just nearly decapitated by a delivery van. His expression leaves no doubt about how badly he wants to squeeze the trigger.

He shoves the gun back inside his jacket. Either greed wins out or he simply realizes it will be easier to escape if he doesn’t draw further attention to himself. I expect him to turn and run back toward his car, but instead he opens the driver’s-side door and dives into the van. Great. Now he’s got the driver as a hostage.

Abbott peels off, nearly taking out the guard and a woman on a bicycle. The guard runs after them at full speed, slowing slightly when the light at Constitution Avenue turns red. He probably thinks Abbott will stop, but he doesn’t. The van whips through a narrow gap in traffic and hangs a sharp left.

A horn blasts, reminding me I’m still in the middle of the street. I stumble to the sidewalk and look toward the black sedan parked at the side entrance. Apparently convinced the danger has passed, the two men escorting my father are again leading him toward the car.

As they round the guard kiosk, Scott Pfeifer’s eyes lock onto mine. His head tilts to the side as he stares at me. One of the bodyguards, goons, or whatever he is, opens the door, and Pfeifer starts to get in, but then he stops, wedged between the door and the body of the vehicle, still staring at me.

And yes, I’m staring back. I need to get the hell out of here, but I can’t pull my eyes away. For the first time in my life—or at least the first time I can remember—I’m looking at my father.

I am ten yards away from my father.

Ten yards away from the man who killed my mother.

The two bodyguards follow his gaze. One of them says something to my father. I don’t catch the words, but he finally breaks eye contact and climbs inside the vehicle. Then the larger man heads toward me.

Now that I see his face, I realize why he seemed familiar. It’s the guy from The Warren. Daniel and Jaden called him Whistler, although I don’t know if that’s his actual name or a nickname. He was with Dacia when she questioned me at the police station last October. He was also with Dacia at the Senator’s press conference. And he was with Dacia and Grady at Overhills when they killed Hunter Bieler and the other five kids.

I’m pretty sure Whistler was also the one Hunter heard say he didn’t sign on for killing kids, but I can’t double-check that fact because the Cregg-spider-rat is right smack between me and my memory banks. Although, on second thought, I couldn’t check even if Cregg wasn’t there, since Hunter’s memories seen to be MIA.

The kiosk guard is back now, out of breath. His gun is still drawn, and it’s pointed at me. I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe because he saw me tackle Abbott in the middle of the road, or maybe he simply needs someone to point it at now that the van is gone.

I’m not stupid. My hands go up.

In the distance, I hear a siren. Maybe Abbott won’t get away after all.

“Who was that man?” the guard asks, panting heavily. “Why did you shove him into traffic?”

Whistler has paused next to the kiosk, which is about halfway between their car and the corner where I’m standing. I’m pretty sure he recognizes me, even though my hair was longer, at least five shades lighter, and far less blue when he last saw me.

“I don’t know who he was. He stole my bag. I was trying to get it back.”

The guard casts a skeptical eye at my knapsack, still across my shoulder.

“My shopping bag. From the Apple store. I just bought a new iPad, because mine has a cracked screen.” At least that’ll check out if necessary.

Whistler walks toward us. Whistling. Now I’m certain that’s not his real name.

“Excuse me, Officer. Could you raise the gate?” He nods toward the barrier arm blocking the exit. “We need to get this witness back to Perkins.”

“Sure thing,” the guard wheezes, tapping a control attached to his belt. The parking arm slides upward.

Whistler thanks him, then says, “You need to hold that girl for questioning. She’s a mutant.” He gives me a smug grin and retreats back toward the car.

“He’s lying! I can show you ID.” I reach one hand into my windbreaker, planning to retrieve the Ophelia Duncan driver’s license.

But the guard, whose name tag reads Guffey, is having none of it. “Keep . . . your hands . . . up!” he says as he reaches down to his belt to retrieve a handheld radio.

The car pulls out of the drive. Whistler grins at me as they pass, but I’m focused more on the man they shoved into the back seat. He’s alive, so I guess I achieved my objective. But it’s really hard to see this as a win, given that Abbott got away and I’m stuck here with the federal government equivalent of Paul Blart: Mall Cop.

“I have ID,” I repeat. “He must have mistaken me for someone. I took the blood test and everything. I’m not a mutant. Just let me get my—”

“Save it,” Guffey says. “Otherwise, you’re going to have to say it all over again.”

“You don’t need to call this in.” The voice behind me is so very familiar, I almost think it’s coming from inside my head.

“Her ID checked out.” Daniel’s words are slurred—but not much, and I’m not even sure I’d have noticed if I hadn’t heard his voice almost nonstop when he was my hitcher. “The girl didn’t see anything. Go back to your booth.”

Guffey looks confused for a moment, but then says, “You’re clear to go. Just be more careful next time, okay?”

I nod and take a few steps toward Daniel, who is leaning against Aaron. Neither of them looks happy, but I don’t know whether that’s due to their close physical proximity to each other or to our current situation. Probably both.

“Nothing to see here but a dumb girl who ran into the street and nearly got herself killed,” Daniel adds. Guffey doesn’t hear him—he’s already back inside his little hut—so that sentence was 100 percent for my benefit.

Aaron looks like he’s on the brink of exploding. “We need to go,” he says.

And that’s all he says. He doesn’t even look at me as he pivots Daniel back in the direction of C Street.

Once we’re well past the point where the guard can hear us, Aaron stops abruptly next to one of the oak trees along the road and half leans, half shoves Daniel against it. Daniel gives him a withering look, but Aaron isn’t paying attention to him. He whirls around to face me, staring directly into my eyes. He’s looking for something, the same way he did at the beach yesterday. Back then, I thought he was simply trying to see if I was telling the truth. But now I’m pretty sure he’s looking for Cregg. Do my eyes turn red or something when Cregg is in control?

Spider eyes. Flat black spider eyes like the ones you saw in the reflection last night.

I shove that memory away and hold Aaron’s stare defiantly. “It’s me, Aaron.”

I’m fairly certain he believes me, but there’s also a hefty dose of doubt. Maybe he can sense Cregg just under the surface.

“It’s me, damn it. I’ve been in control since last night. The whole time.”

Relief battles with hurt and anger in his hazel eyes. Eventually, anger wins out. “Which means you don’t even have an excuse.”

Before I can respond, Aaron stomps off toward his brother. Daniel gives me a confused but somewhat sympathetic look, and then they both start down the sidewalk again.

“Shouldn’t she be in front of us?” Daniel asks. “Given her recent—”

“She wants to leave, she’ll leave. Last night proved that.”

I bite back my retort, since I’d really prefer to have this conversation in private. To be fair, I can’t blame him for being angry. I would be, too, if he’d taken off like that, putting himself in danger without telling me.

But by the time I crawl into the Kia SUV they’re driving—which is parked very illegally in an alley two blocks down—I realize swallowing my anger isn’t the best idea at the moment. It seems to be strengthening Cregg, and it makes my stomach twist. Daniel and I don’t have many secrets anyway. He spent enough time in my head that he probably knows exactly what I’m going to say before it’s even out of my mouth.

So, once Aaron is on the road, I reach forward and touch his elbow. “I get that you’re angry, okay? I’m sorry I worried you. But I did what I had to do. I did what I saw in the vision. And Stan said—”

“I don’t give a damn what Stan said!” Aaron says, catching my eye briefly in the rearview mirror. “Not one single solitary damn. All I know is you didn’t trust me enough to tell me what you were up to.”

Daniel sighs. “Could this wait? Like, maybe, until he’s not driving?”

“No. Now you know how I feel when you guys get into one of your Quinn family battles royale.” I turn back to Aaron. “Do you really mean to say you’d have let me leave, knowing what I had to do? You’d have let me walk out of the camper alone knowing two of Cregg’s men were going to pick me up?”

“No, because you walking out alone was stupid. You could have been killed.”

“Not if they wanted to get the money Cregg promised them. I knew that. I also knew I’d get away from them unharmed in time to stop the attack on my father.”

“As much as I hate to spoil your victory party,” Daniel says, “your father is still in the hands of the Senator’s people.”

“Yes. But he’s not dead, which is what Graham Cregg wanted. And not dead means we still have options.”

Daniel gives me a point-taken nod, and I realize with a bit of surprise that I’m happy he’s here. He can be annoying, and that was doubly true when we were sharing a body, but Daniel is a good guy. And the fact that he’s up, reasonably mobile, and still in possession of his abilities is a big plus for our side.

“I’m glad you’re better, Daniel.”

“You and me both.”

“Thanks for the save back there.”

“No problem. I’m just glad it worked. My ability isn’t back to full strength yet. It’s a muscle, like anything else, and I wasn’t using it in the hospital. Even so, it was a hell of a lot easier to nudge that guard using my own body than it was when I had to work through yours.”

Aaron’s back stiffens. I wonder whether that was a deliberate poke on Daniel’s part. He knows how unhappy Aaron was about our previous living arrangements. No matter how unavoidable it may have been, having Daniel inside my head meant we had no privacy. Plus, their sibling rivalry doesn’t really need extra fuel for the flames. But Daniel actually looks somewhat chagrined at his word choice.

“Well, I’m definitely happy to be spared the post-nudge headaches,” I say. “Those were grueling. Are the others back at the RV park?”

The question is actually for Aaron, but he doesn’t respond. Daniel gives the two of us a sideways glance and answers for him. “Yeah, they’re still at the campground. Aaron picked me up this morning. Sam’s out doing a surveillance job, and Mom is at the New York office until Saturday.”

“Are they leaving you at the house alone when she’s at work?” Aaron asks.

He’s trying to keep his tone casual, but the Quinns’ house was broken into last year by someone working for Cregg. And Cregg’s people have killed three individuals who worked with the Delphi program back when it was connected to the government, including Jaden’s mother up in Boston. All of those killed knew firsthand exactly how involved both Graham Cregg and the Senator had been in that program. They also tried to kill Beth, a friend of Aaron’s dad, who handled a lot of the paperwork and contracts, but she’s tough.

“Don’t need a babysitter,” Daniel says. “I can get by on my own now. And I’m rarely alone anyway, between Sam, Porter, the guy who does my rehab . . . seems to be someone there all the damn time. But yeah, if you’re wondering about security, we’ve got it covered. I worry more about Mom traveling, to be honest.”

Aaron gives his brother a troubled glance and then focuses on the road again. He’s not even using the rearview mirror now—just the side mirrors. Worried he might catch my eye, and that wouldn’t mesh with his tactic of pretending I don’t exist right now. While it’s beginning to bug me, I know Aaron well enough to let him stew. He has a tough time staying mad. He’ll eventually step in to fill an uncomfortable silence with some comment that meets me halfway. I’ll simply wait.

So I lean back in my seat and watch the panorama of buildings and people and cars. It only takes a couple of minutes, however, for me to realize this plan is flawed. My adrenaline rush is fading fast, and exhaustion is closing in. Despite multiple cups of coffee, I want nothing more than to close my eyes. Just for a few minutes.

My resident evil has been rather quiet since I foiled his plans, just hanging out in the back of my head. But that stray thought about sleep perks him right up.

Nope. Can’t have that. So I rub my eyes, shake my head to clear away the cobwebs, and pick a fight. Or rather pick back up on the one Aaron and I were about to have earlier.

“Leaving by myself was the right choice, Aaron. You know it was. I understand why you’re angry, and you’re right. I’d be mad at you if the situation was reversed. But Stan said one of you would be hurt if I waited.”

“Here’s the thing, Anna. Stan’s visions aren’t like the ones Jaden had, that you have now. There are always options. Different choices that could be made. And you made the one that shut me—and everyone else—out.”

“But I saw myself here in the vision I had last night. Alone. I saw everything exactly the way it happened.”

“Including me and Aaron being there to keep that guard from carting you off to one of those Sanctuary for Psychics centers?” Daniel asks.

“No,” I admit. “The vision ended before you guys showed up.”

“So,” Daniel says, “we could have simply dropped you there, or maybe a block away, fifteen minutes ago.”

“Exactly!” Aaron says. “Rather than you running off in the middle of the night.”

Fabulous. The one time Aaron and Daniel Quinn take the same side on anything, it has to be against me. When I haven’t slept in about thirty-six hours.

“So, who was the man talking to the guard?” Aaron asks. “The one who was escorting your father? He knew you.”

I start to correct him, since I meant Abbott, but Aaron’s voice is still tight, on edge. That’s when I realize the anger I sensed rolling off of him in waves wasn’t just him being mad at me for leaving . . . again . . . without telling him. He was close enough to have picked up on any violent thoughts Abbott had during our struggle. Whistler may have had a few nasty impulses, too. He and Grady were colleagues. Maybe even friends. And while Whistler may not know the specifics of what happened that night in the woods at Overhills, he knows I was there and he knows Grady didn’t come out of it alive. Whistler might even have been friends with Lucas, also dead, and I’m sure he knows the role I played in that.

“It was Whistler.”

Daniel frowns. Aaron does too, although I think his look is more one of confusion as he tries to place the name.

“Not good,” Daniel says. “Even if we had gotten here in time, I’m not sure I’d have been able to nudge Whistler long enough for us to grab Pfeifer.”

“He can block you?” Aaron asks.

“Not fully. It’s more that anything I tell him won’t hold very long. Might not even take at full strength. He’s worked at Python for . . . hell, I don’t know how long he was there.”

Python Diagnostic was Graham Cregg’s business cover for his work on the Delphi Project. The company operated as a subsidiary of a much larger organization, Decathlon Services Group, which makes the bulk of its money from military and government outsourcing projects.

“He may even have been there from the beginning. More to the point, though, I heard Cregg put him in charge of watching Dacia a few years back because he was pretty good at keeping her out of his head. And he was also pretty good at keeping her in line. None of the other guards at The Warren wanted Dacia duty. Not even Lucas, and he was sleeping with her.”

“Who was the other guy?” Aaron asks. “The guy who would have gladly dismembered you right there in the middle of the street.”

As much as I hate having to tell them—or anyone—about the skirmish at Joe’s, there’s really no way around it. And it will keep me talking, which will help keep me awake.

So I spend the next few minutes explaining most of what happened since I left the RV in the wee hours of the morning. Amazingly, neither of them interrupt. I leave out the part about seeing rat-spiders in the mirror. And I play down exactly how close I was to getting my head bashed in at the deli.

“Oh, and I got this.” I pull the envelope and cracked tablet out of the knapsack. “Mostly legal documents, from what I can tell. The tablet still works, it’s just cracked . . .” I lean back into the seat as another one of those weird dizzy spells washes over me.

“You okay?” Aaron asks.

“I will be. Just . . . light-headed. Happened a few times earlier. It’ll pass.”

Aaron and Daniel exchange a look.

“Maybe it’s lack of sleep?” Aaron says.

“Yeah, and way too much caffeine.” I close my eyes and take a few more deep breaths. The two of them are mercifully silent, and the rhythm of the road is soothing. Another minute or two of this and I’ll be asleep, however, so I shake my head to clear the last of the fog away and keep my eyes pinned on the floorboard as I talk.

“Like I was saying, the tablet works, but I haven’t been able to figure out the password yet. Maybe Taylor can give it a go when we get back.”

“I’d be a lot happier,” Aaron says, “if this was information from Senator Cregg, rather than his son. Unless Cregg had some sort of a backup plan, in case this attempt failed, I doubt there’s anything in there to help us figure out where they’re taking Pfeifer. But I sent Sam the tag number to run through the system. Maybe he’ll get a lead.”

“Wait.” I feel something starting to click into place, but it’s not quite there yet. “Whistler told the guy at the kiosk that they were taking him back to Perkins. That’s the hospital where he’s been for the past fifteen years, right?”

“Yeah,” Aaron says. “Pretty sure he was lying, though. Sam and Porter have been taking turns surveilling the entrance. Yesterday, Pfeifer came and left with the doctor and two other guys, both medical security officers from Perkins. Today, he arrives with the doctor and the same two security personnel. But he leaves with Whistler. I think they’re headed—”

“To Port Deposit,” I say.

“What?” Aaron asks.

“Yeah,” Daniel says. “What makes you think they’re headed back to The Warren? There’s nothing of value left at the Delphi facility. It’s just a burned-out husk. There have to be other, better places where they could hide your father.”

“There may still be something they value inside that wreckage. They don’t want to hide Pfeifer. They want him because he’s a vessel. Like me. They’re taking him back to The Warren to fill him up.”

NEWS ITEM FROM THE COEUR D’ALENE PRESS

April 23, 2020

Charges will not be filed against Oscar Fray, the Kootenai County deputy who fatally shot a 17-year-old resident of Athol during a routine traffic stop on Interstate 90.

The teenager, who was identified on Friday as Isaac Eaton, was shot after the officer was hit in the head by an aluminum can. According to the officer, the can came out of nowhere, traveling at high velocity, and struck him on the temple.

“Deputy Fray remains convinced the youth hurled the can at him purposefully, using mental powers,” said Kootenai County Attorney Jessica Hebert. “While we were unable to confirm the Eaton boy is infected, the officer was wearing a body camera that supports his claim that he was indeed hit by a small metal object.”

There was one witness to the incident, 16-year-old Ellery Paul, also of Athol, who was a passenger in Eaton’s car. She asserts that the beer can was set into motion by a passing semitruck. The officer’s body camera did pick up the noise of a vehicle at approximately the same time, but video evidence was inconclusive.

Kootenai County Sheriff Bert McAfee said the situation was traumatic for everyone involved. “Deputy Fray was reasonably convinced he was under attack. It’s a tragic situation, but I’m afraid this sort of thing is going to be fairly common until we manage to round up those affected and get this problem under control.”

CHAPTER TEN

Laurel, Maryland

April 24, 2020, 5:53 p.m.

The camper is near the back of the Maryland Welcome Center lot when we arrive, parked next to a Metro DC police cruiser. The sight makes me nervous, even though I know it’s Detective Baker, Daniel’s partner during his brief tenure on the force. Daniel called him as we fought our way through traffic, asking if some of the other officers could keep an eye out for Whistler’s vehicle on the vague grounds of suspicious activity. He also mentioned the white delivery van Abbott hijacked, but I didn’t see the tag, so there wasn’t much for them to go on.

Baker being here shouldn’t put me on edge. Daniel trusts him. But my face has been pasted all over the news as a “person of interest” since last October. Plus, this taps into old anxieties. Deo and I spent a few weeks on the streets. There may have been one occasion where I failed to pay for peanut butter and a loaf of bread when we were desperate, and we were always worried about being picked up and hauled back to the place we’d taken great pains to escape. Fear is an automatic response, even if I haven’t (recently) done anything wrong. Maybe one day I’ll have a nice, peaceful, law-abiding life and my heart won’t start thumping like an unbalanced washing machine whenever I see a police car. But that seems like a pipe dream in the current environment where about a third of the country thinks people like me should be locked away.

Despite the fact that they’re also Delphi adepts, all three Quinn siblings are outside talking to Baker. Not Deo, though. I’m guessing he had the same reaction I did. Maybe this is a good time to talk to him, since we’ll actually have some privacy. For the second time in as many days, he’s going to be pissed at me, and rightfully so.

Deo is in one of the recliners when I enter the RV, peeking out the window at the others. He glances up when I walk in and then ignores me, which is pretty much what I expected.

I reach inside the knapsack and pull out the last bagel. It’s now cold and horribly squished. As peace offerings go, it’s pathetic, but it’s all I have.

“You want it as is or toasted?” I ask, holding it out to him.

“Really?” He narrows his eyes but takes the bagel. “You went to Joe’s without me?”

“Believe me, you would not have wanted to be there.”

By the time I finish telling Deo everything that happened, Baker has departed and the others are making their way back inside. The Quinns are arguing before they even reach the door.

“Has it ever occurred to you maybe they’re doing the smart thing and waiting until morning?” Taylor says to Aaron. “You know, so they don’t have to traipse around that abandoned wreckage in the dark? And for the record, Senator Cregg’s house—well, one of them—is right by the golf course maybe a half mile from the Alexandria exit.”

Aaron snorts. “You really think they’d be stupid enough to take Pfeifer to the Senator’s house in broad daylight? Baker said the cop who reported it wasn’t even sure it was the same car. He only got a glimpse of the tag as he passed the exit. By the time he backed up, it was lost in traffic. So yes, it’s possible they had to make a stop first and we’re ahead of them. But it’s also entirely possible the officer misread the tag and they’re halfway to Port Deposit by now.”

“Plus, how long can the doctor hold off reporting he’s lost a patient?” Daniel says. “That’s assuming he’s in on it, which isn’t a given, so alternatively, how long before they find the doctor and those two med techs’ bodies stashed in a closet somewhere? I think they’ll go tonight, if they actually are taking Pfeifer to that lab.”

“It’ll probably be a week before they find those bodies,” Taylor says disdainfully. “You heard Baker. He’s too afraid of losing his job to ask questions about—”

Daniel holds up one hand to cut her off. “Baker has already stuck his neck out enough, Tay. He has three kids. There’s really not much he can do anyway.”

I suspect Daniel is right. Port Deposit is several counties outside Baker’s jurisdiction. Plus, the human-trafficking case they were originally working on when Daniel was on the force was officially closed after The Warren burned down and they were able to neatly pin everything on Lucas and this imaginary WOCAN boogeyman.

But Taylor doesn’t seem to want to let Baker off the hook. “Having three kids didn’t stop Dad from doing the right thing.”

“Yeah, well, Dad had a whole lot more information on Delphi than Baker does,” Aaron says.

“And he was part of the damn program for five years,” Daniel adds. “He felt responsible. You’re just pissed Baker can’t do anything about the . . . evidence . . . in the townhouse. And I get that. I really do. But Anna’s prints are all over the place, including the box.”

“And even if they find Cregg’s prints, he’s dead, so reporting that box would only risk more trouble for Anna . . . for all of us, really.” Aaron shrugs. “Would you really want to upset Porter again?”

“I didn’t mean we should bury it with Molly’s body! Just . . . that we should bury it. Get it out of there.” Taylor turns toward me. “I’m sorry, Anna. I don’t blame you. I’m almost positive I’d have done the same thing if I’d found Cregg’s box of souvenirs. That doesn’t mean I’m happy leaving part of Molly behind. But fine . . . there’s nothing we can do about it right now. Let’s just go.”

“You’re not going,” Daniel says. “Aaron and I will go. The rest of you wait here.”

“We should take Deo,” Aaron says. “I mean, I’ll leave the choice up to him, but we’ll have a better chance of getting Pfeifer out of there with Deo’s amp ability.”

“Maybe we should pull in Sam,” Aaron says. “Porter, too.”

“Hold on,” Taylor says. “Let me get this straight. I’m staying here, when both of you know I can outshoot you?”

Daniel makes a pfft noise.

“When both of you know I can outshoot you,” she repeats. “But you’re going to call in two seventy-year-old men, one of whom had a heart attack last year and the other whose blood pressure puts him at serious risk of stroke?”

“She has a point,” Daniel says reluctantly. “Plus, we need someone to start looking into the whereabouts of Pfeifer’s doctor and the two hospital workers. Sam and Porter aren’t in any shape to be hiking around in those ruins.”

Even though Aaron doesn’t actually say anything, his eyes move to Daniel’s legs.

“I’m fine,” Daniel says angrily. “I got a cramp this afternoon because you were moving too fast. That’s it. And it’s not like I can sit this one out. We don’t know how many people they’ll have with them, and there’s no way you’re going to get Pfeifer out of there by yourself with only a gun and your feminine intuition.”

I’m thinking there’s a really good chance Aaron will take a swing at his brother when Taylor pounds her fist on the RV wall.

“Anna and I are going.”

I shake my head. “You might be an asset. I won’t be. I’ve got enough to worry about just keeping my walls intact. Everyone will be much safer if I wait here.”

“Yeah,” Daniel says. “From what Aaron told me earlier, this isn’t a good time for Anna to be . . . under pressure. So you and Anna stay here. I already asked Baker to tell the state police that we’ve got a mechanical issue with the RV, to justify parking here overnight if necessary.”

Taylor sighs and takes her phone out of her pocket. “We’re going. For one thing, I’m sick of your sexist attitude. Protect the women. Insult Aaron by calling his ability feminine. But all that aside, Anna and I have to go.” She pulls up a text message and hands the phone to Aaron, giving me a look that says something—even though I have no idea what—is all my fault.

“It’s from . . . Stan,” Aaron says as he reads, then scrolls back a bit. I can literally see the moment when he puts the pieces together. “You just let Anna walk out of here last night? Knowing that—”

“We can argue about that later,” she says quickly. “The only thing relevant right now is that Stan says there’s no reason for any of us to go unless Anna goes. Otherwise, her father will end up on the other side, and he’ll be crazy. Crazy strong, too. He’ll have someone named Oksana and maybe three dozen others inside. If Anna goes, it’s roughly even odds you’ll get him to the mountain place, whatever the hell that means.”

“Sounds like a bunch of garbage to me,” Daniel says.

“He says the mountain place?” Aaron asks. When Taylor nods, he scrolls back through the messages. After a moment, he gives her back the phone and sighs, leaning against the pantry door. “I’ve been trying to think of a place to hide Pfeifer for a while. I just heard back from Beth. Wasn’t even sure if they still owned the house. They were talking about selling it last year.”

Taylor and Daniel seem to follow what Aaron is saying, but Deo and I exchange a clueless look. I do know that Beth Wilcox is the family friend who worked with Delphi. She got sideswiped when she was jogging around the same time Jaden’s mother was the “accidental” victim of a drive-by shooting.

“Stan may have a point,” I say reluctantly. “About my father. He seemed to recognize me, or maybe it’s just that I look like my mother. And Stan’s been right twice now. He knew I had to leave last night, and he saw me stopping Abbott today—”

Aaron’s mouth tightens. “You said you didn’t know their names.”

“I don’t, okay? One tall and thin, the other short and fat. Abbott and Costello. And as I was saying, one of the paths Stan saw—”

“Stan said there’s not a single path where Pfeifer ends up with us unless Anna is at The Warren,” Taylor interrupts impatiently. “And if Pfeifer isn’t with us, we lose. If we stay here, Anna might as well have grabbed the wheel and hurled us off that overpass last night. It would have been a quicker, kinder ending for everyone.”

“Okay, okay.” Daniel holds up one hand. “I need you guys to explain this to me. This Stan kid was at The Warren, but I don’t know what he does. What exactly is a path cluster?”

Taylor launches into the same explanation Stan gave us yesterday. Daniel’s arms are crossed, with the one arched eyebrow that seems to be a Quinn family trait. You’d think, with everything he’s seen, his inner skeptic would have died long ago, but he seems to be hardwired to doubt anything he hasn’t experienced personally.

But he’s kind of right in this case. The underlying problem is that Stan’s visions aren’t definitive. They’re just probabilities. Likelihoods. That makes it harder for any of us to take his advice. I wish we had something more solid to latch on to . . .

Except, we do. Why didn’t I think of it sooner? I motion for Deo to join me in the back of the RV where he and Taylor usually sleep.

“What’s up?” he asks.

I pull the door closed. “I need a hug.”

He gives me a quizzical look and then realizes what I mean. “You sure? You really want to trigger a vision on purpose?”

“Yes. We need some certainty. Stan’s ability is so nebulous. So . . . fuzzy and unlike the glimpses I get from Jaden. Having that vision last night clarified what I needed to do today. I know you and Aaron didn’t like it, but I knew what would happen and followed my instincts to get to that point in time. And it made me realize I’m not really using Jaden’s gift at its full potential. Daniel—and even Taylor and Aaron, to some extent—question Stan’s visions because he has to admit there are other possible paths. But we’ve all seen Jaden’s visions play out in real time. Maybe I’ll see something that can help us.”

“Okay, but I have one question. You were saying just last night we need to take you back to Sandalford. That you don’t need to be involved in this. That was . . . your smart side talking.” He grins slightly at my expression. “You know I’m right. Even if this medicine is having a positive effect, I’m still right. So my question is how much of you wanting to be directly involved in this is simply because he’s your dad?”

“He’s not my dad. He’s my father. Big difference. I don’t even know him. Plus, he killed my mom . . . my mother.”

Deo’s expression makes it clear he caught my stumble. But he doesn’t call me on it. Apparently, I do think of Leah as my mom, and I’m pretty sure it’s not just because she didn’t—to the best of my knowledge—kill anyone. It’s also because I can conceptualize a mom. In my first foster family, the man wasn’t around much. Most of all I remember the woman. And the little Yorkie who liked to lick my hands. Plus, there’s Kelsey, who’s the closest thing to a mom either of us has ever had, including Deo’s still-living mother. I can’t really wrap my head around the concept of a dad, though.

“Like I said before, I’d just as soon stay here. In fact, I’d prefer it. That’s why I need to push a vision—to see if Stan is right that I have to be there. If not . . . then I’ll happily back off. It’s a long shot I’ll even see anything relevant, but it’s worth a try, right?”

“Okay,” he says. “I guess you get a hug. With one condition.”

“You’re putting conditions on your hugs now? We’re going to have to do something about that ego, kiddo.”

“Not joking, Anna. The condition is that you tell me exactly what the vision is. Not just the bits and pieces that are convenient or that you think keep me safe. Everything. The condition is that you trust me so we’re actually in this together, the way it used to be.”

I give him a doubtful look. “I’m not sure you know what you’re asking. If I see something that deals directly with you and I tell you about it, you can’t change it. You’re going to feel yourself doing things that make no sense.”

He stares at me, not budging.

“Okay, fine. I’ll give you the freaking play-by-play action.”

“I’m actually going to need you to promise.”

“I promise. But . . .”

He rolls his eyes. “Nope. No buts.”

“I have a condition, too. Mine is that this is between us. I don’t want everyone second-guessing themselves all the time.” I glance toward the living room. They’re talking over each other again to the point where it’s hard to even tell what they’re saying. “Can you imagine how many more arguments that would cause?”

“Yeah. You have a point. I accept your condition. Come get your hug, Short Stuff.”

“Hey, watch it. I can just as easily trigger a vision by punching you. Or tickling you.”

“You’d better not.”

He still smells like ozone, but it’s really nice to be able to hug my brother again, even if it’s only for a second.

nnnnNNNNN

Black. Pitch black. The air is stale, like the townhouse last night, but worse.

At least I know the rungs are solid, not broken. Taylor, Abbott, and Alex have all gone down this way ahead of me. Unless, of course, there are broken rungs and there are three bodies at the bottom of the—

Which is crazy. Taylor’s right below me. I would have heard her scream.

I lower one foot and wrap my arm around the next rung. If the dizzy spell hits, please, please let it be after my feet finally hit the ground.

Something brushes my hand, and I scrub it vigorously against my jeans before taking the next step. Maybe it’s just as well that Taylor forgot the stupid headgear. The four senses operating right now are freaking me out enough without adding sight to the mix.

Just keep moving. Aaron could already be in trouble, and every second we waste is—

NNNNNNNnnnn

“Anna?” Deo is sitting on the floor a few feet away. He gives me a moment, then asks, “So . . . what did you see?”

“Nothing. Don’t give me that look. I literally didn’t see anything. I was going down a ladder in the pitch dark. Couldn’t even hear much. I’m pretty sure I felt a spiderweb on my hand. Taylor was with me. We were . . . following Abbott and someone named Alex. They mentioned him before, some associate of Cregg’s. We were trying to get to Aaron, who might have been in trouble, and . . . that’s seriously all I’ve got.”

“Might have been?”

“I was thinking he might be in trouble. That we needed to hurry. But nothing else.”

“If that’s all you’re seeing, the two of you could be going into a trap. You could get killed.”

“We could. Or we could be the ones who keep Senator Cregg from getting his hands on a very powerful weapon. Because Stan seems to think that will happen, and . . . Deo, I felt how strong the Furies were when they were inside my head. They weren’t the only ones in that room, either.”

“I thought you said that spirits eventually go to their last happy place?”

“That was my experience, yes. But I don’t know how long it takes. What if they only end up in a happy place when they’re close to moving on? Or what if they go there because it’s close to the things that will help them move on? Maybe everyone killed in that lab can’t move on until they’re sure this is over. Jaden said he felt that to some extent, but . . . he had other things pulling him forward, not simply a need for revenge that pinned him to the past. And you know it doesn’t really matter, right? Taylor and I are going to end up on that ladder one way or another.”

I glance at the door. Things seem to have settled down in the other room. There’s just one voice speaking now—Aaron’s.

Deo follows my gaze and says, “Yeah. They’re going to wonder where we are.”

When we join the others, Aaron is on the phone with Sam. Daniel and Taylor are looking over some maps they’ve spread out on the kitchen counter.

“Aaand . . . Taylor persuaded them all on her own. I’m thinking we just wasted our time.”

I nod, but I don’t really think the time was wasted. I’ve spent the past few months avoiding contact with Deo, dreading the fact that I’ll get another vision. Yes, those flash-forwards are inconvenient. It can also be really frustrating when you know things will happen and you want to change them, but you can’t. Still, they’ve been one of the few sources of certainty we’ve had in the past few months, and I’m beginning to realize they’re much more a gift than a curse. Maybe I need to embrace them instead of pushing them away.

LETTER TO THE EDITOR, EVANSVILLE COURIER & PRESS

April 24, 2020

If you ask most people what they want, deep down, you’ll find they want security. They want their families to be safe. They want to know that when they put money in the bank, it will be there when they need to withdraw it. They want to know our police will keep hardened criminals off the streets and our military will protect our shores from invaders.

And so we lock our doors, lock our vehicles, and lock our places of business. We purchase computer security programs and jealously protect our passwords. We pay taxes to ensure that our lives, our possessions, and those we love are secure.

But what good does it do if the person who lives next to you is a psychic? He can rob you blind without you even knowing it. Your bank account numbers, passwords, and pretty much anything else of yours is his for the taking.

The president and Congress have done nothing to protect us from this threat. Our local and state officials are useless as well. It’s time for a new leader who understands the only way we can be protected is by universal testing and removal of anyone infected with this plague. Senator Cregg has promised he will mandate testing on day one if elected and that all Delphi psychics will be housed in facilities where they cannot prey on law-abiding Americans.

—Dwight Witcher, Elberfeld

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Port Deposit, Maryland

April 24, 2020, 8:21 p.m.

“Up there. At the streetlight.” Daniel nods toward what appears to be a small trucking company just ahead on Tome Memorial Highway. “Slow down! You’re going to miss it.”

Aaron cuts his headlights and whips the wheel to the left a little harder than necessary to make the turn, probably just to irk Daniel. Gravel crunches under the tires as we enter the lot and drive past one sign that reads Portal Development and another that reads Private Property No Trespassing. A small white trailer sits at the far end of the lot, near the tree line. It’s dark, and aside from a couple of vehicles that look like they haven’t moved in months, the place appears empty.

Of course, this is just the back entrance. And not even an actual entrance but a facade that kept people from wondering who was poking around the supposedly abandoned naval center. Daniel said he’d covered a couple of guard shifts in that trailer. It was a cushy assignment, aside from the boredom. If the phone rang or someone stopped by, both of which rarely happened, all they had to do was claim the company’s calendar was booked and point them to another local construction firm.

“Turn the parking lights back on once we round the bend,” Daniel says. “And keep to the right. There’s a wicked”—the left wheel drops suddenly, tilting us slightly to the side—“pothole.”

There are actually quite a few wicked potholes. The truck would have taken these bumps in stride, but we didn’t want to waste any more time unhitching it from the RV. So we’re back in Sam’s Kia, an olive-green SUV that looks like it’s seen better days. Deo and Taylor are in the third-row seat, so I think they’re probably getting the worst of it.

“The gate’s just ahead,” Daniel says. “My passcode should still work. I doubt anyone bothered to change it since they evacuated.”

We stop in front of the security gate. Daniel gets out, hobbling a bit, and punches in the code, twice. Nothing happens. He pokes around for a minute and then finally comes back to the truck. Getting into the cab seems to be even harder for him than getting out was. It’s clear Aaron isn’t going to do anything to help, so I start to open my door, thinking I can give him a boost or at least steady him.

“I’ve got it, Anna! Get back in the damn car.”

Nope. Hasn’t mellowed at all.

“There’s no power to the gate,” he says once he’s back in his seat. “Battery backup is dead too, so I don’t think it’s a temporary outage.”

“Wouldn’t be much reason to restore power up here after the fire,” Aaron says. “I mean, no one lives up here. Or works here. Could be good news, actually. I was worried we might end up tripping some kind of silent alarm that notifies the local police. But if the power is out, that may mean the whole security system is down.”

I hear two almost identical sighs. One from Deo, in the seat behind me. The other from Daniel, in front of me. Neither of them actually says anything, but I’m pretty sure they’re both thinking the same thing that I am, and it’s something that might not necessarily occur to Taylor and Aaron. They’ve never actually been inside The Warren, only above it. The only way the power being out is a plus is if we discover they’re not already here and we actually manage to grab my dad before they get him underground. The Warren was hellish enough with the lights on.

“So what do we do now?” I ask.

Daniel grins and nods toward the gate. “I say we just back the car up and ram right through it. Unless you’re too chicken?”

Aaron stares at the gate for a second. He cocks his head to the side in a way that almost looks like Ein when he’s trying to puzzle something out. After a moment, Aaron’s eyebrows go up and he grins back at his brother. “Challenge accepted.”

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Deo says. “You’re not really going to crash through that gate, are you?”

Aaron doesn’t respond. He just pops the thing into reverse and begins backing down the road.

“Seriously?” Taylor says. “Sam just paid this thing off. He’s going to flay you alive if you mess it up.”

“They’re right,” I say. “That gate is iron. This is a truly bad idea.”

“Why have a bull bar on the front bumper if you’re not going to use it?” Daniel counters. “Yee-haw!”

“That’s a lousy Duck Dynasty impression,” Taylor says.

“I was actually going for Dukes of Hazzard, but . . .” Daniel grins even wider as Aaron accelerates. I brace for impact, but I’m actually thinking he needs to go faster if we’re really going to do this. I’m not sure we’ll hit the gate hard enough to take it out at this speed.

When the front of the Kia connects with the metal bar, however, there’s a faint clang and that’s it. The gate swings back, and we sail through without the slightest resistance. If I hadn’t been watching, I probably wouldn’t even have known the bar was there.

Aaron and Daniel aren’t just grinning now. They’re laughing.

“You can all let go of the oh-shit handles now,” Daniel says.

“I’m sorry,” Aaron says, flashing me a contrite look over his shoulder. “It’s just . . . if the power is out and there’s no battery backup, open is usually the default setting on most security gates.”

“Usually the default?” Taylor says. “On most gates?”

“Plus . . . I have a better view from up here and—”

“And he could see I pushed the gate open a tiny bit,” Daniel says. “But it was tough to shove it all the way out, so . . .”

“Should have seen your eyes, Tay,” Aaron adds, making a circle with his fingers and thumb. “Like someone out of that Sailor Moon cartoon you used to watch.”

Taylor flips him off, but she and Deo are chuckling. Even though I don’t join in, it’s a close call. Not because I think it was particularly funny, but because Aaron is laughing. Deo, too. When was the last time I heard them really laugh? I can’t even remember.

Of course, the fact that I can’t remember means nothing. They could have been laughing constantly the past few months, yukking it up on a daily basis, and Cregg just took all of the fun slots in the daily schedule.

We continue down what’s left of the road. It was paved at one point, but large chunks seem to have eroded, and there’s no moon to speak of, so it’s hard to avoid the hazards. Daniel acts as tour guide as we drive, pointing out where to turn but also what used to exist here based on the pictures and maps he’s seen. The area was originally a private boys’ academy, but the school and surrounding acreage were purchased by the US government to serve as a training center during World War II. Nearly two hundred and fifty thousand recruits—both military and civilian—were processed at Bainbridge Naval Training Center. Offices, dormitories, and even small homes were located here at one point, along with a commissary, dining halls, and a movie theater. Now they’re just concrete slabs.

The facility continued to be used by the government for a variety of purposes until the mid-1980s when it was finally abandoned. Some claimed the place was contaminated by chemical-weapons testing. Those rumors seemed to be confirmed when it was designated a superfund site and scheduled for a complete environmental overhaul.

Most of the oldest buildings, the ones that were part of the Tome School for Boys, are little more than burned-out husks now, thanks to two separate fires. Local residents tend to steer clear of the place, with the exception of teens looking for a thrill or somewhere to hide out for some underage drinking and other recreational pursuits. The authorities blamed teenage mischief for the first fire, but it was really a Delphi experiment that got out of control. We’re still not certain whether the second, much more extensive, blaze spread from the fire I helped set inside Lab 1 or whether Cregg’s people set it to cover their escape. Or whether it was the group with Graham Cregg or the one with his father, since the camps seem to have split by the time of the fire. The blame for it was conveniently placed on the so-called WOCAN terrorist group purportedly using the facility as a sex-trafficking ring to raise money for their separatist agenda.

The place was given a clean bill of environmental health a few decades back, but it remains undeveloped, possibly because of the other rumors. Area residents who worked at the Bainbridge Center before it closed down said they sometimes heard noises belowground. That spurred rumors the place was haunted.

I don’t know if they were right about that back in the 1980s. It’s possible the noises were just from the underground tunnels that led to the secret lab a bit farther uphill, run by CIA contractors. But it’s definitely haunted now. When I picked up Jaden’s spirit in the lab, I sensed many others in that room. Four of them, Jaden’s friend Will and three women I call the Furies, took up temporary residence in my head. They opted to stay when Deo and I ran from the lab, disgusted I wasn’t able to shoot Graham Cregg as he lay on the floor, writhing in pain.

Dozens of others were killed in those rooms. A few were second-generation Delphi adepts like me. But most of them were young adults, many brought in illegally from Eastern Europe and elsewhere. If they couldn’t be controlled, couldn’t be shaped into some form that furthered the younger Cregg’s agenda, those adepts didn’t leave the labs alive.

Aaron parks in a small clutch of trees about fifty yards from the dormitory.

“We should be over the cafeteria about now,” Daniel says. I nod absently, thinking he’s talking about some World War II–era building, but then he adds, “The old dorm we just passed sits right on top of the testing rooms. Ashley once told me there was an old stairway going from that building down into an office near the testing center, a relic from the 1960s where there were still workers who came topside for lunch or a smoke break. But they boarded it off, along with a few other entrances, when they started using this place for the Delphi experiments.”

“I think . . . I think I’ve been in this section before,” Aaron says. “When Taylor and I were—”

“Yes,” Taylor says. “Back when we were trying to find Deo. This is the building I sketched. I recognize it from those things up on the roof.”

“Those castle-looking barrier . . . things?” Daniel says.

“They’re called crenellations.”

“Yeah,” Daniel says, rolling his eyes at my comment. “Tell Emily thanks for the assist.”

The last bit annoys me. He’s right that I learned the word originally because of Emily and her crossword fixation. But it’s stored in my memory now. It’s not like I had to go digging through the file cabinets to find it. Daniel makes it sound like my head is empty without the memories of my hitchers. Like I’m just an empty vessel.

Aaron glances back at me in the rearview mirror. I don’t know if he understands why Daniel’s comment made me angry, but he seems kind of glad it did.

“Anyway,” Daniel says, “during my first month undercover at Delphi, I was on grounds duty. We used that building—the one with the crenellations—for surveillance. From that rooftop, you can see clear down to the riverfront and the back entrance. Some of us will still need to cover the side entrance, though.”

“There’s also a decent chance they’re already here,” Aaron says. “So we split up. Who goes where?”

“You and I should head down toward the side entrance,” Daniel says. “It’s closer to the main road, and if I had to bet, I’d say that’s the way they’ll come in. We can also check the garage area while we’re over there and see if there’s any sign they’ve already come in. Deo’s with us, since we’ll probably need his amp power. Taylor and Anna stay here as lookout. And I do mean lookout. If you see anything at all, do not investigate. Just call us.”

“No. Not on the roof,” Deo says. “Anna said she was dizzy earlier.”

I have a sudden flashback to the first part of that odd dream I’ve been having about the woman sprawled on the patio. The memory of the dream chills me, and even though I still think it’s most likely symbolic, I’m relieved to know it couldn’t have happened here. The house in my dream is newer, the lawn carefully manicured, not wild and overgrown like the grass in the courtyard. A smaller patio, stone, not brick.

“They don’t have to go up on the roof,” Daniel says. “We usually did lookout duty on the top floor. You can see almost as much from there anyway, and it’s sheltered. Most of the windows are intact and the stairway is solid. Here.”

He tosses something to his sister as she exits the car. A key ring.

“What’s this for?” she asks.

“The lock they installed when Delphi set the place up as a guard station. Only one door . . . they bricked off the other entrances. We’d still get kids poking around up here occasionally looking for a place to get wasted. The locked door usually meant they’d head to another building . . . there are plenty to choose from. There’s also a dead bolt on the inside. Use it once you get in, okay?”

“The door wasn’t locked when Taylor and I were here before,” Aaron says. “But it did seem to be one of the only buildings that had been maintained. No debris, just a lot of dust.”

Aaron turns to face me. “Are you sure about this? You haven’t slept since Wednesday night. Are you really alert enough to keep watch?”

“I’ve been chugging coffee nonstop since noon. I’m more wired than tired right now, but if I sit in this car by myself doing nothing, I’ll fall asleep regardless of how much caffeine I’ve had. I need to keep moving.”

He sighs.

So do Daniel and Deo.

“Taylor?” Daniel says. “What do you think?”

There’s a long pause and then she looks at me. “You were feeling dizzy. How dizzy?”

“Just occasional light-headedness. It passes and I’m fine.”

“Any other weird symptoms?”

“Well, I’ve got a psychopath inside my head.”

She rolls her eyes. “New symptoms, I mean.”

“No new symptoms.”

“And,” she continues, “is it easier or harder to keep said psychopath behind your walls today than it was this time yesterday?”

I’m wondering exactly where this game of twenty questions is leading . . . and why everyone seems to know except me.

“I’m tired, but . . . keeping my walls up definitely seems easier. His thoughts aren’t intruding like they were before. And from what I’ve gathered over the past day, I’ve been in control a lot less often than I believed since Cregg came on board.”

Taylor nods, then reaches into the pocket of her jacket and pulls out a small plastic bag. Inside is a syringe, a vial, and a prescription bottle. She unzips the bag and tosses me the bottle.

I’m about to ask her why she brought my sleeping meds. That’s the only prescription I have, and I doubt I’d need anything to knock me out right now. But then I realize the top is a different color.

“It’s still a few hours before you’re supposed to take another one,” she says. “I didn’t give you anywhere near the maximum dose. I wanted to see how it would affect you first.”

“What is this?”

“The oral form of the shot Kelsey gave you,” Taylor says. “An antipsychotic that’s often prescribed for dissociative disorders. I put one in that energy smoothie you drank last night. You were supposed to be on it until it was time for a second injection. After that, you drop the pills. That’s the protocol Kelsey started, then she changed her mind. Or rather, Cregg changed her mind.”

Those words trigger a reaction from the rat-spider. Legs scraping against the walls and a steady thump-thump-thump for a few seconds. But then it gradually fades.

“If Kelsey changed her mind, how did you get this?”

“The same meds are also used for depression and post-traumatic stress. But Jasper quit taking it. Says it made him dizzy. From what I read online, that side effect usually doesn’t last, but . . .” Taylor shrugs and I nod. It’s Jasper. Patience doesn’t seem to be his strong suit.

“So . . . you swiped his meds and gave them to me without telling me?”

“Miranda swiped them during one of their visits with Jasper,” Taylor says.

Jasper Hawkins is still living at the little fishing cabin where we first met Miranda and TJ. Over the past few months, Kelsey has gradually approved longer visits between Jasper and his family. He may not be taking his medication, but he is meeting regularly with Kelsey for anger management therapy, and to the best of our knowledge, there have been no more bruises or other indications of abuse. They began spending occasional nights and weekends together as a family at the cabin. Even if Magda and Kelsey were willing to risk him staying at Sandalford, which they’re not, I doubt Jasper would agree. He still doesn’t like to be around me, and that probably goes double if he realized I picked up Cregg as a hitcher.

“Although,” Deo adds, “it was with his permission, so I’m not sure swiped is the right word. And anyway, it was a group decision. Taylor started you on a very low dose last week after we realized Kelsey might be . . . compromised. We’ve been sneaking it into your food and coffee, and we all watched for any reaction.”

Aaron nods. “After the deal with the steering wheel last night, we agreed Taylor should increase the dosage. And eventually give you a second injection. You should have been on the oral version this entire time for full impact.”

I’m pretty sure I would have taken the medicine voluntarily last night after the steering wheel incident. But probably not a week ago. And I get why they couldn’t risk letting me know. Cregg would have pulled out all the stops trying to get control if he’d had any idea what they were planning.

“You’re right. It was the best option. But do you really think Cregg was using me to influence Kelsey? Why didn’t it work on any of you? I know Daniel wasn’t there, but—”

Daniel cuts me off. “Taylor can explain all of this. We need to go.”

I grab my travel mug from the side holder and slip my arms into my jacket. “Be careful. All of you.”

“Yeah,” Deo says. “You, too.”

“Anna?” Aaron reaches out the window and takes my arm. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I’ve been so angry. I know this isn’t your fault. I know you weren’t trying to worry us, it’s just . . .”

“It’s just that I did worry you. I know. I’m sorry, too.” I press a quick kiss to his lips. “And please keep an eye on D. He’s new to all this.”

Daniel snorts. “Don’t worry. I’ll be keeping an eye on Deo. And he definitely won’t be armed.”

I can tell Daniel is joking, but I don’t laugh. It feels like kind of a mean joke, given the mental anguish Deo went through after accidentally shooting him. Deo and Aaron both snicker, however, proving I will never, ever understand guys. Deo, who has moved up to take my spot in the car, even prods Daniel’s seat with his knee. “Better watch your back, man.”

“It was my front last time, you jackass. And I’m—”

Whatever else Daniel says is lost as Aaron pulls away. I guess the bright side is that if Daniel is joking around with D, he must have made his peace with the fact that Deo and Taylor are together. A few months ago, I’d have been worried about Deo’s back if Daniel was nearby, given how angry Daniel was about their relationship.

It’s amazing how dark the night is now that the dim amber glow of the parking lights has vanished. I spot Taylor a few yards away, crouched next to a tree. A canvas bag and a gun are in front of her.

Taylor looks up over her shoulder as I approach. “This is mine.” She slings the canvas bag over her shoulder and clips the pistol to her belt. “Meds or no meds, you won’t be carrying a weapon around me until I’m convinced that son of a bitch is out of your head and on his way to whatever eternal punishment awaits him.”

I don’t have the slightest problem with that. Personally, I think the fact that I’m on meds is, in and of itself, an irrefutable argument against me having a gun. So is the lack of sleep.

“Understood.” I pull my new can of pepper spray out of my pocket. “Do you want this too?”

Taylor looks at it for a moment, then reluctantly shakes her head. “I guess you need something on you. Just know that if you spray—”

“You’ll shoot me. Yeah, yeah.”

“Didn’t say that,” Taylor says, and stomps off through the trees toward the building with the crenellated roof.

“But you would.”

“Maybe.”

I pick up the pace to catch up with her. We approach the building from the rear, and it’s so dark at first that it’s hard to see anything as we push our way through the low-lying trees and brush. The dorm itself sits at the end of a long courtyard that stretches maybe a quarter of a mile. Once we’re out in the open, my eyes identify some of the shapes in the distance that are slightly darker than the evening sky. Near the other end of the courtyard, I pick out the ruins of Memorial Hall. Two of the buildings on our end seem intact, including the one we’re headed toward, but most were devoured by the fires.

We climb the steps, and Taylor inserts the key Daniel gave her. The lock opens, but the door doesn’t. She tries again, even though we both heard the lock release.

Taylor curses softly. “The dead bolt. Someone must have locked it and gone out another door.”

“Except Daniel told us the other entrances were boarded up. No, actually . . . he said bricked. Maybe a window?” The windows on this first level are barricaded, but I nod up toward the second level where about half of the glass is out.

“Maybe. I’m going to see if I can reach a window from that fire escape. Stay here.”

I do stay at first, even after I hear the tinkle of breaking glass. But then something larger hits the ground, and I hurry to the side of the building, nearly tripping over a chunk of wood as I round the corner. I expect to see Taylor either on the fire escape ladder or flat on the ground. But she’s gone.

“Taylor?” I say, keeping my voice low. “Taylor!”

There’s a noise from above and her head emerges, framed by the window.

“Almost fell, thanks to that piece of rotted molding,” she says, nodding down toward my feet. “Go back around. I’ll unlock the door.”

Once I’m inside, she throws the dead bolt again and inspects it with her tiny pink flashlight.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. That lock just . . . bugs me.” Taylor takes puzzles she can’t solve as a personal offense. She stares at the thing a moment longer, then shakes her head in annoyance and turns toward the interior of the building.

We continue down the foyer into a massive open space. It’s empty now, except for a large pile of debris near the fireplace at the far end. Taylor gives the room a cursory sweep with the flashlight and then heads toward the staircase.

“Shouldn’t we search this floor first?” I ask.

“If anyone was here, they’d have jumped out with a gun by now,” Taylor says wryly. “My entry wasn’t exactly silent.”

I follow her up the staircase. Daniel was right about it being solid. Taylor’s flashlight picks up the gleam of newer boards and nails in several places, and the banister between the third and fourth floors looks like it was replaced recently. I guess it got a safety makeover from the guards who were working with Delphi before Daniel joined.

The top floor is one long room, lined with windows on all four sides. A thin layer of dust coats the floor, rising into the air with each step we take. The pathetic little sliver of moon manages to partially illuminate the side facing the courtyard, but it’s hard to even make out the edges of the windows along the sides or the back wall, which faces the woods.

Taylor drops her bag near the middle of the room and pulls out two pairs of night-vision goggles, both with Vigilance Security stamped on the side. As much as I detest Miller, I have to admit he has reason to be annoyed, given how often we borrow his equipment without asking.

“Maybe we should start by circling the room,” Taylor says. “I’ll go left and you go right, then we’ll cross over. That way two sets of eyes cover each sector.”

“Works for me.” I’m surprised she doesn’t just come out and say she needs to double-check everything I do. She’s rarely tactful, and it’s not like I’m going to argue the point in my present state.

“So . . . where’s the headgear?” I ask, feeling a tiny bit of déjà vu. I’d forgotten that part of the vision.

Taylor frowns, confused.

“The straps that hold the goggles on your head. So your hands are free?”

“Crap. I didn’t see those. We’ll have to do without.”

She sounds embarrassed. I have mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, Taylor doesn’t make a lot of mistakes, and she’s perfectly willing to gloat when normal mortals do. On the other hand, it means we’re going to be stuck lugging these things around. Plus, I feel somewhat guilty, since I knew she’d forget them and forgot to tell her. Not that I could have told her, anyway, but . . .

Jaden’s visions may be a gift, but they give me a headache.

I move to a window near the middle of the back wall and scan the trees for signs of movement. “To get back to what we were discussing in the car, if you think Cregg was able sway Kelsey, why didn’t it work on the rest of you?”

“I think it did work on Aaron a few times. Deo, too. Not anything that stuck, but enough that they were acting . . . strange. Daniel says it could be harder for Cregg to work through you, like it was for him. Anyway, once they seemed normal again, I told them—including Kelsey—to make sure they only talked to you if you were moving. Walking. Cregg has to hold still when he uses his ability. And they did. They started noticing the same weird stuff I was seeing from you. But Kelsey wanted to try hypnosis, to get a feel for what was going on inside that overcrowded head of yours, before continuing on the antipsychotic. She said hypnosis worked well for you in the past, back with this Myron guy. It didn’t occur to any of us that, in order to hypnotize you, you’d have to be—”

“Sitting still.”

“Exactly,” she says, moving to the next window. “And I think he turned the tables on her. After that, she was . . . different. She wouldn’t even discuss the possibility of the second injection. Kept insisting it was Myron.”

“Is Kelsey okay? What if he planted some sort of posthypnotic suggestion?”

Taylor’s phone buzzes with an incoming text. She reads it and then says, “The guys are in place near the side gate. No vehicles or any sign Whistler beat us here. And . . . as for Kelsey, Miranda and Maria are keeping an eye on her. We’re hoping whatever whammy he put on her might fade if you aren’t . . . Sorry. If he isn’t around to reinforce it.”

Once we move to the next window, we’re far enough apart we can no longer whisper, and talking loudly seems ill-advised. I keep scanning for anything that isn’t a tree, but the only things I spot are a few abandoned houses, a raccoon, and some traffic out on the road that leads into Port Deposit.

And my face with spider eyes. It’s only for a second. Just a brief glimpse of my altered reflection in the cracked window. But it rattles the hell out of me.

“Hey, Taylor?”

“Yeah?” She looks up from typing into her phone. Her face is illuminated from below by the light from the screen, and it almost looks as though her head and shoulders are floating, disembodied, in the darkness.

“When can I take another one of those pills?”

Her hand moves to the gun. “Technically in about an hour. But you could take it now without any problem. Is it getting harder to keep the walls up?”

“Not exactly,” I say, shaking one of the tablets into my palm. “More that . . . creepy thoughts are getting through.”

“Are we talking what-would-happen-if-I-grabbed-that-steering-wheel kind of thoughts? Or throw-myself-out-that-window thoughts?”

“Neither. I’m in control, Taylor.”

“Okay. Take just one. Don’t swallow it. Let it dissolve. And let me know if things get worse, because it doesn’t kick in immediately.”

“Yeah. I noticed. Things were shaky a little before dawn today, but they seemed to get better as the day went on.”

Of course, around dawn I was alone in a strange house. And now I’m almost alone, in the dark, in a different strange house. There’s a real possibility that circumstances are at least partly to blame for me getting spooked, but I can’t afford to take any chances.

I place one of the tablets in my mouth and stash the pill bottle back in my pocket.

“We could also do the second injection. It’s a day or so early, but . . .”

“Did you get that from Jasper, too?”

“Um . . . no. There may have been some minor larceny involved.”

“Kelsey keeps the medications in a safe.”

“And Maria . . . ?”

“Oh. She plucked the combination right out of Kelsey’s head. Please tell me that’s the only thing you took?”

“Why do you hear larceny and automatically assume it was me? It was Deo. And of course it’s the only thing he took. He’s not a druggie. Do you want me to give you the injection or not?”

“Here?” The word comes out as a squeak.

“Yes, here. It’s not open-heart surgery. I have a sterile wipe, and the needle just goes in the deltoid. It’s basically the same thing I did with Deo’s shots before they had Magda’s nurses take over. Easy peasy.”

“But . . . I just took one of the pills.”

“Doesn’t matter. It takes time for the injected form to get into your system. We can wait if you want. I just thought . . .” She shrugs. “You’re in control now. If it was me, I’d be doing everything I could to make sure I stayed that way.”

I slip off the jacket and roll up my sleeve. “I’m going to have to sit down. And please don’t wave that needle around.”

“Jeez . . .” Taylor says, crouching down next to me. She swipes my upper arm with the alcohol pad, and I look the other way. “What a baby. This would hurt a lot less if you’d relax the muscle, you know.”

I don’t bother telling her that this is one of the not-so-fun side effects of being a walking ghost hotel. People leave their phobias behind along with their memories. This particular fear is a relic of the hypochondriac I hosted. She was petrified of needles, but it was her deep and abiding love for pills that eventually killed her.

“We should wait until there’s someone else here.”

“Too late,” Taylor says as she presses the plunger.

As soon as the needle enters my arm, the clatter behind my walls escalates. I keep control, and in retrospect, it’s probably a good thing we didn’t try this with Aaron around. I’m pretty sure he’d have sensed Cregg raging right below the surface.

A second later, it’s over. “I don’t have a Band-Aid. Just hold your finger on the spot for a few.”

We both go back to our lookout duties. I take extra care to keep my eyes focused for distance vision so I don’t risk another encounter with my reflection. I’ve nearly worked my way back around to my original window when an audible gasp comes from Taylor’s side of the room.

“What?”

“Come look. Hurry, before they’re gone.”

Something is moving through the grass below us. When I raise the night-vision goggles, I pick out a herd of deer, nine or ten at least, running together through the courtyard. It’s a beautiful sight, but also eerie. Their movements are graceful, almost like a coordinated dance, and their eyes stand out stark white, while everything else about them is painted in shades of gray.

“Wonder what they’re running from?” Taylor asks.

“They’re not running from anything. I think they’re just running for the sheer joy of it.”

That concept is clearly a foreign one to Taylor. She sniffs dismissively and says, “They’re pretty, though. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that many deer at once.” Her phone buzzes again, and she tugs it out of her pocket as she shifts over to the next window.

Once the deer have moved on, I raise the night-vision goggles and zoom in on the cluster of trees behind the spot where they were grazing. I can just make out a small house set back into the woods. It looks like it’s on the other side of the road we drove in on. Daniel pointed out several of them, noting that they once housed faculty at the school and, later, the families of various naval officers who served at the Bainbridge Center.

The house isn’t what catches my eye, however. It’s the smaller shape behind the house, partially obscured.

“Taylor. I’ve got something.” When she comes over, I point toward the house. “Look behind it. Is that a car?”

“Maybe,” she says after a moment. “I’m not sure. I need a closer look.”

She heads toward the staircase, and I follow her. “Except . . . Daniel said we were only on lookout duty. That you should text him if we see anything.”

“Yeah, well . . . they’re busy,” she says, hurrying down the steps. “A car just entered the facility from that side entrance they were watching.”

“So why even check this out, then? If they’re bringing my father in the other way—”

“Aaron’s text said the car they saw is a police car. Someone must have called in a report. Maybe they saw us on the way in.” She draws the gun and pushes the door open with her shoulder. “You should wait here. Lock the door. I’ll go check it out and—”

“Nope. Buddy system.”

I don’t add that I’m more worried about staying here alone than going out there with her. And maybe she’s nervous about being alone, too, because she doesn’t argue.

“Fine. Stick close. And stay in front where I can see you.”

We work our way to the left side of the cluster of trees where Aaron dropped us off. Taylor crouches down and I follow her lead.

“Definitely a vehicle,” she says. “Most likely abandoned. But we need to make sure, I guess.”

She motions forward, and we both dart across the narrow road. One section of the house is entirely caved in, and vines wind in and out of what’s left of the frame. The car, which turns out to be a white van, is now fully in view. And once we get closer, I see the large dent just above the left front tire.

“It’s not a recent model,” Taylor says. “But I don’t think it has been here long.”

“No. It hasn’t been here long at all. In fact, the engine is probably still warm. This is the van that was hijacked by the guy who tried to kill my father.”

OP-ED FROM THE HILL

April 24, 2020

Can a third party win the US presidency? Prior to 2018, the consensus among political scientists (and political junkies) was a resounding no. The two major parties have maintained a solid lock on the Oval Office since 1860, and the reason goes deeper than simply party allegiance. Unlike many representative democracies around the world, the very structure of the US political system heavily encourages only two parties, due to winner-take-all districts in most states and institutions like the electoral college.

In the wake of the 2016 election and its aftermath, however, all bets are off. Opinion polls show both major parties well below 50 percent approval. Third parties performed better than expected in the 2018 elections. Some of these were perennial also-ran parties, like the Green and the Libertarians, but the biggest gains were made by a relatively new player—Unify America. Only one senator, Ronald T. Cregg of Pennsylvania, has switched to UA to date. Four members of the House of Representatives followed suit prior to the 2018 election—and all four retained their seats. The wave of victories was even more impressive at the state level. Three governors and over fifty candidates for state legislatures ran under the UA banner. To the surprise of many pundits and pollsters, most of them won.

But can Unify America take the White House? Senator Cregg and his opponent, Texas governor Juanita Breyer, are currently attempting to convince prospective major party voters that they can win. That is, however, pretty much the only point of commonality between the two candidates. This has caused some analysts to question whether UA is an actual political party or simply a collection of opportunistic politicians who sensed the winds of change and decided to jump before their ship went down.

Senator Cregg’s current lead in the delegate count is almost, but not quite, insurmountable, due in part to his central role in the ongoing hearings on how to best address psychic terrorism. Breyer, speaking yesterday at a campaign stop in Connecticut to an audience of purple-clad UA supporters, claimed that Cregg is manipulating the Delphi situation to his political advantage and blamed the media for allowing this. “Cregg was a major player in the company that created the serum. The evidence is there if the media would investigate. But all Cregg has to do is stage another fake attack with psychic explosions, and reporters are off like kids chasing after the ice cream truck, hoping they’ll be first to get a really big scoop.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Port Deposit, Maryland

April 24, 2020, 9:18 p.m.

Taylor presses her hand against the hood of the van. “I wouldn’t say it’s still warm. But the grass is mashed flat back there, so it was parked fairly recently. You’re sure this is the same van?”

I nod and crouch down next to the dented area, tapping it with my fist. “I got an up-close-and-personal look at this when it nearly decapitated Abbott earlier today.”

As I stand, the blood rushes to my head. I lean against the van for a moment and wait for the world to stop moving.

“You okay?”

I nod. “Just light-headed. It’ll pass. Could you take a look inside the van?”

Taylor peeks through the window. “Or I could just open the door, since they didn’t lock it.” I brace for a body or blood, but the van is empty, aside from a hand truck and a few moving blankets.

“Good,” I say. “Maybe Abbott just dropped her off somewhere.”

“Dropped who off?”

“The woman who was driving the van when he hijacked it.”

“Oh. Could you stop calling them Abbott and Costello? That doesn’t even bring up a visual for me.”

“Tall and thin. Short and fat. What should I call them? Is Laurel and Hardy better?”

“No. Bert and Ernie, maybe?”

“You okay with the fact that Ernie’s probably dead?”

“Ick,” she says, grimacing. “No.”

“Okay, then. I’ll stick with Abbott and Costello.”

Taylor checks the glove compartment but only finds a stack of fast-food napkins and one of those tire-gauge thingies. So we return to the dormitory. Once we’re back on the top floor, she calls to let the guys know about the van, holding the phone out from her ear as Daniel not-so-gently reminds her that we were only supposed to be on lookout.

She flips the phone to speaker mode once his outburst dies down. “It’s done. We’re safe. What’s up on your end?”

“Police car went straight to the underground parking area. But it did not come out. Aaron isn’t picking any vibes up, though.”

“How long have they been inside the garage?” I ask.

“Yeah, that’s kind of the problem,” Daniel says. “It’s already been more than ten minutes. We were about to text you that we’re going in to check it out. But, back to the van—you sure it’s the same one, Anna?”

“Positive. Same dent near the tire. You said there was an entrance to The Warren in this building?”

“No, I said there was a rumor of a stairway they blocked off years ago. I never saw it. It’s more likely this Abbott guy used the shaft that goes down from Memorial Hall.”

Deo starts talking in the background. I can’t tell everything he says, but he’s clearly disagreeing, and two of the words that I do pick up explains why he disagrees: second floor.

Aaron’s voice breaks in. “Taylor. We’ll call back in five.” Then they’re gone.

Taylor sticks the phone in her pocket and stares down at her feet before looking back up at me. “So . . . do you think Tall-and-Skinny used the entrance in Memorial Hall?”

“Not unless he’s got climbing gear. That’s what Deo was trying to tell Daniel just now. Without power, elevators are useless. So there’d have to be stairs . . .”

Or a ladder, I think, remembering the vision. A ladder that extends into a pitch-black hole in the ground. I don’t say that, however, since my mouth and part of my mind is stuck on that other track, the one where all of this is happening for the first time.

Instead, I say, “I still think Abbott came through here, given that the van is nearby and the door was bolted from the inside when we arrived. So, now we’ve just got to . . . figure . . . out . . .”

“Ah, we have processor pauses,” Taylor says. “Those tiny little hamster wheels in your brain are spinning, aren’t they?”

I flip her off and extend my hand. “Flashlight, please.”

“Nope. In case you’ve forgotten, this isn’t just a flashlight.”

“Oh, right.” I’d forgotten it was a gift from Sam when Taylor went on her first date. Push one button, and it will light your way. Push the other button, and you can deliver a few million volts of electricity to an attacker.

Taylor motions toward the stairs and follows me. When we reach the ground floor, I point out the pile of junk near the fireplace.

“Aaron said earlier there was no debris in this building when you guys searched it. Do you remember seeing this pile when you were here last October?”

“I don’t think so.”

The junk pile turns out to be a mix of boards and drywall. When Taylor nudges one of the boards, it slips to the side, scraping a line through the layer of dust on the floor. Underneath is a crowbar and a hammer.

“Looks like someone left tools behind. But if they were uncovering a door or a passageway, where is it?”

She’s right. Despite the trash all over the floor, I don’t see a door. Just the walls and the fireplace. And . . . aha. Footprints. In the dust. Not just one set but two.

Taylor uses the flashlight to follow the prints. They lead directly to the fireplace and disappear. She runs the beam along the inside walls, and sure enough, there’s a large handprint on one side of the back panel.

We both step back and look at each other. I know what she’s thinking. Do we wait for the guys to call? Or do we follow Abbott and his hostage down the rabbit hole—the deep, dark rabbit hole—into The Warren?

After a long silence, Taylor says, “You know what pisses me off?”

A whole lot of things, I think. But I shake my head and wait for her to tell me what it is this time.

“This is sexist. I mean, making you stay here is one thing . . . there’s actually a very good reason not to trust you with any responsibility right now. But Deo is younger than either of us. He’s never even fired a gun—well, aside from shooting Daniel, and that isn’t exactly something that should count in his favor. But he’s there, with Aaron and Daniel, and I’m here.”

She doesn’t add the word babysitting, but I can tell she’s thinking it.

Truthfully, I don’t like that Deo is here at all. I’d far prefer that he was back at Sandalford or on his way to West Virginia with Sam, Stan, and Maggie. But he’ll be an asset if Daniel or Aaron need to expand the reach of their abilities.

And Taylor knows that as well as I do. She’s just trying to work up an argument for why we—or at least why she—should ignore Daniel’s instructions to stay put.

“Aaron said they’d call back in five. And it’s been at least two minutes already. So why not wait and let them know what we found? See what they’re planning. Then we’ll decide.”

She lets out an exasperated sigh and parks herself on the floor. I join her and, for distraction, pull Cregg’s tablet out of my knapsack. “Okay, Taylor, font of all wisdom. Help me figure out what this passcode might be. I’ve already tried his birthday, Shakespeare’s birthday, the birthday he gave my new identity, and a bunch of other possibilities. What else do we know about Graham Cregg?”

I expect to hear the scraping noise or feel some sort of movement when I speak his name aloud, but I don’t. Perhaps the rat-spider is sleeping. Or maybe I have to say his name three times while staring at my reflection in order to rouse the bastard.

“Well,” Taylor says, “aside from the fact that he’s a mostly dead psycho who’s currently hitching a ride with you . . . let’s see. Rich kid, followed in daddy’s footsteps working at the same companies—well, except Graham never did time in the military. Married in his thirties, two kids . . .”

“Married. That’s right. You said that before—back at Kelsey’s place—but I forgot. I mean, there was no wife or children with him in the silo, even though he was fighting cancer and dealing with the effects of chemo. I’d started thinking of him as a lone wolf.”

“I don’t think it was a happy marriage. Probably one of those merger weddings—does his estate take her estate, ’til bankruptcy do us part. That kind of thing. Anyway, his wife’s face popped up in a picture with him at an event every now and then, but they seemed to go their own way a lot. And the kids are grown . . . probably early twenties.”

“What about his mother?”

Oddly, it’s that question that hits a nerve with Cregg. There’s a faint increase in pressure along my back wall as if something slumps against it. I don’t like that he can still get any signals through to me, but I’m not seeing spider eyes, and he’s not getting full sentences through like he was yesterday. I’ll count that as a win.

“I think his mother’s dead,” Taylor says. “Or maybe they just divorced. The Senator remarried, so the woman behind that whole Sanctuary for Psychics scam is wife number two. Graham’s stepmom, and he may even have been older than she was. Actually . . .” She stops, taps something into her phone, and slides it across the floor. “Here. You want to check dates or whatever? Knock yourself out.”

Senator Ron Cregg’s face stares up at me from his Wikipedia page. I’ve read it before, but I wasn’t paying attention to family details. His first wife, Penelope Arnett Cregg, was the sole heir to an auto-parts fortune. She committed suicide at age thirty-eight. I try her birthday and date of death with no result. Then I try the keypad letters for GCregg: 427344. Nothing.

There’s no further information in the article, so I click on the link for Graham Cregg, which is little more than a stub—wife, Marie, and two children, Alexandra (twenty-one) and Jonathan (nineteen). I hunt for their dates of birth but come up empty. Then I try the keypad code for the first six letters in his kids’ names: Jonath and Alexan. Still no luck on the code, but as I’m typing in that last name, something else hits me.

“Alex. Damn.”

“Who’s Alex?” Taylor asks.

“A name that tripped me up today. I thought they were talking about a guy, but . . .”

On a whim, I check Google Images for pictures of Alexandra Cregg. There are several, most of them family shots from Ron Cregg’s last Senate campaign. Her brown hair is longer, but it’s definitely her.

I slide the phone across the floor to Taylor. “Cregg’s daughter, Alex. Who also happens to be the girl driving the van today.”

“So . . . not a hostage situation after all.”

“Nope. They told me to call Alex when I was getting out of the car this morning. And they said Alex would be picking me up to take care of some financial matters. Didn’t even think it might have been a woman.”

“Tsk tsk. See where sexism gets us? And speaking of sexists . . . it’s now been seven minutes. I’m going to call them.”

“Is that a good idea? What if it rings and they’re—”

“They’re not total idiots, Anna. Their phones will be on vibrate.”

“Hopefully they remind Deo. He’s not used to keeping his phone in stealth mode.”

Taylor ignores me and calls Daniel. No response. She tries Aaron next, with no result, and finally Deo, who answers but hangs up immediately without saying anything.

“So they can’t or won’t talk. Okay, then. That’s what the tracking app is for. Locate Aaron.”

After a moment, a pin appears on the map, showing Aaron less than a quarter mile to the southwest of us, near Memorial Hall. Taylor repeats the process for Deo and Daniel. They’re not with Aaron but are about the same distance away to the northwest.

She pulls a copy of the print map labeled Python Diagnostic from her bag, the same map that she and Daniel were looking at back in the RV. “That’s near the entrance to the garage,” she says, tapping at the paper. We scan this section of the map, but whatever is behind the fireplace in front of us isn’t listed.

Taylor rolls up the map and stashes it inside her bag. “Aaron shouldn’t be going anywhere without backup.”

“Right. And neither should you. I’m coming. It’s my father down there, and I’m as worried about Aaron and the others as you are. Plus . . . I’m not staying up here alone.”

Even though I know I’ll soon be following Taylor down through the dark on a ladder, I half expect her to say no, maybe even to pull out duct tape and leave me here strapped to one of the support beams. But she seems to be weighing what I said. Maybe she doesn’t want to be alone either.

“I can’t give you a gun. You’ll just be a liability.”

“But I’d be a second set of eyes.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I remember the spider face in my reflection. Not just a second set of eyes. Also a third set, and a fourth. I push that thought away. “More importantly, if I’m with you, you’ll have a hostage. Or better yet, I can pretend to be Cregg. Plus . . . I had a vision back at the RV. I do go with you . . . it will be dark and—”

Taylor snorts, shaking her head. “God, Anna. You are an unbelievably bad liar. That’s one reason I could tell when it was Cregg and not you. He can actually lie.”

Is she saying I’m lying about the vision or saying that they won’t believe me if I pretend to be Cregg? Maybe both. Either way, I’m not sure her claim makes sense. If Cregg was that good of a liar, how did Taylor know he was lying? But I don’t want to piss her off by questioning her shaky logic, so I simply stick to my point.

“I won’t need to convince them of anything, Taylor. Even if Cregg isn’t in control, they both know that he’s in here. Abbott won’t risk losing the paycheck that he’s put forth a lot of effort to get, and this . . . Alex . . .”

I stop, searching for words. It’s hard for me to reconcile the Graham Cregg who tortured Molly and was the cause of countless deaths with the image of anyone’s father, much less as a father who might be mourned by his offspring.

“I guess she loses what’s left of her dad? I don’t know. The point is, if you need leverage with them, you can threaten me because they do not want me dead. I don’t even think Whistler will kill me if he can avoid it. They consider me and my father valuable commodities. Not just as weapons but as potential . . . second skins, I guess?”

Taylor wrinkles her nose. “Very glad that the Delphi gods made me a lowly sketch artist. And I wasn’t actually planning on leaving you here.” She pulls up a message on her phone and holds it out to me. “This came in when we were still in the car.”

It’s from Stan:

If you listen to your brothers, the path clusters unravel.

“I don’t know about you, but I like Jaden’s style of visions a whole lot better than Stan’s,” Taylor says, echoing my earlier thoughts. “These are way too iffy. I kind of hoped he was talking about us checking out the van. And maybe he was. There’s no way to tell.”

The phone buzzes in my hand, startling me to the point that I nearly drop the thing. It’s Deo.

“Deo? Where are you?” I answer out of habit, not even thinking about the fact that it’s Taylor’s phone until she snatches it away. Which is silly, because she’s right next to me and I can hear every word he says.

“Um. Not entirely sure? . . . somewhere between the gar . . .” There’s about a second of silence, and then he says, “Pfeifer to the lab . . .”

“You’re breaking up,” Taylor says.

“. . . tunnel on fire. Daniel saw something different. We’re still . . . were supposed to meet Aaron”—another, longer break—“through Memor . . .”

The call drops this time. Taylor tries again, but no luck.

“So,” I say. “I’m getting that they dropped Aaron off near Memorial Hall. They were going to meet at the lab—”

“And Daniel and Deo can’t get through the tunnel. But why did they separate? And why didn’t they grab Pfeifer before he got into the building?”

“No clue.” I nod toward the fireplace. “Guess we’ll have to go ask them.”

“Yeah.” She sighs. “Go unlock the front door. I’ll text and tell them we’ve found a way in. They can circle around.”

I start to protest that we haven’t actually checked yet to determine whether this is a way in. But it seems kind of pointless when I’m 99 percent sure there’s a pit and a ladder somewhere on the other side of that fireplace wall.

When I return, Taylor is finishing up the text. After she hits send, she says, “There. I feel better with them knowing either way. In case they can’t find another route in . . . and in case something happens to us. I don’t know if they’ll even get the text if they’re already underground, but . . .”

“Worth a try.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Before we go, here are the rules. You stay where I can see you. That means you go in first and at no time do you get behind me. Nor do you point this”—she holds up the flashlight/stun gun—“or your pepper spray toward me. Are we understood?”

I nod, then I place my palms over the current set of handprints on the fireplace wall and push. It creaks a bit as it slowly pivots inward to reveal a small room, no bigger than a broom closet. She hands me the flashlight, and I crouch down and squeeze through the opening.

Taylor comes in gun first, which I guess is logical, but it also reminds me that I need to be careful. Taylor does not want to shoot me. I’m quite certain that she will have a tough time living with herself if she does. But I don’t doubt for a second that she will pull that trigger if she thinks my control has slipped and she’s in here with Graham Cregg. And I don’t blame her one bit.

I shine the light around the tiny space as Taylor slides the fireplace back into position. We’re inside a plain wooden room, decorated with nothing but cobwebs. At the back, I see a door marked Caution. There’s a metal slide bolt at eye level.

And the bolt is closed.

Taylor and I both stare at it for a moment, thoroughly confused.

“The footsteps led into this room,” I say. “This is the only door. If they went through it, then how the hell is the bolt closed on this side?”

“She’s a Mover,” Taylor says. “Or Abbott is. Telekinetic. That’s the only rational explanation.”

I’m tempted to argue that it’s really not a rational explanation, because nothing about the Delphi program feels rational to me. Taylor, on the other hand, has been around this insanity her entire life.

“It’s not Abbott. If he’d had any sort of ability, I’m pretty sure he’d have used it back at the deli.”

Taylor frowns, and I remember that she may not have heard all of the gory details of my day. But she just shakes her head and slides the bolt back. “Later, okay? After you.”

I’m so focused on the mystery of the locked bolt that I almost forget the Caution sign on the door. The flashlight beam bounces off the raised rails of a metal ladder that disappears downward into the dark. Aside from the ladder’s edge, there is absolutely nothing beneath the toes of my sneakers. Just a deep black pit. If I’d moved any faster, I’d have fallen straight into it.

Even though I knew there would be no staircase, it’s disappointing. The loud sigh from Taylor lets me know the feeling is mutual.

“Well, then. We have a ladder.” She pushes me back. “Which means I have to go first. You follow when I tell you to, okay? And give me some space. I don’t want you close enough to kick if your hitcher makes a surprise appearance.”

I hand over the flashlight and move back toward the center of the tiny room, still unnerved at nearly stepping into that empty chasm. Although it’s completely irrational to question my decision to follow Taylor, given that I know I do follow her, my mind continues running along two parallel tracks, and one of those tracks is freaking out right now. Even under normal circumstances, descending a ladder into a deep, dark, possibly spider-filled hole would rank pretty high on my oh-hell-no list. On a day like today, however, when I’ve had maybe a dozen dizzy spells . . . it’s borderline crazy.

But Aaron’s down there without backup. And Taylor will be safer with me along.

Taylor zips up her hoodie to the very top. “We’re on silent mode from here on out, since we don’t know for certain where this ladder leads, and anything we say could echo. At some point, I’ll have to turn off the flashlight, too. So step softly and carefully. And if you’ve got a hood on that jacket, you might want to use it. I’m guessing there are creepy-crawlies.”

“Any idea how far down?” I ask.

“None whatsoever.” She starts down the ladder, flashing me a cheerful smile that I add to my growing list of evidence that Taylor Quinn is quite insane.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Port Deposit, Maryland

April 24, 2020, 9:54 p.m.

I sit on the edge of the pit, waiting until she taps the rail before I turn and follow her into the abyss. For the first twenty or so steps, she leaves the flashlight on and pointed upward. The beam catches on every single strand of cobweb, but I only see one spider. Thankfully, it’s a spindly, long-legged creature with a body so small I can’t even tell if it has eyes.

Strangely enough, I’m glad when she turns the light off and also glad that she didn’t pack the headgear for the goggles. In the pitch black, it’s easier to forget where I am and just focus on putting one foot below the other.

The air is heavy and stale, like the place needs airing out. Like the townhouse last night but worse. As I enter the time period from my vision, one track of my mind is thinking it’s nice knowing that the rungs are intact, since three other people—Abbott, Alex, and Taylor—have already used the ladder. Next comes that stupid fleeting thought that maybe they did fall, and maybe they’re all lying crumpled at the bottom, even though I know I’d have heard if Taylor fell.

Even though I’m expecting the cobweb or spider or whatever the hell it is when it brushes against my hand, that doesn’t stop me from nearly shrieking and frantically rubbing my hand against my jeans. I’m glad I can’t see right now. I just need to keep moving, because Aaron could already be in danger, and every second I waste on this ladder will only make the situation worse.

When the vision ends, all I can think is that I wish it had been longer. I wish it had given me some idea what to expect when we finally hit the ground.

Taylor is moving quickly. I have to be cautious, looping one arm through the rungs as I travel downward, to provide me with extra stability if one of the dizzy spells hits. Soon, Taylor’s footsteps and breathing are so faint that I can barely hear them at all. It’s all I can do to make myself continue downward, instead of bolting back toward the surface.

Then I hear something. Not from Taylor, below. It sounds like someone above me on the ladder.

I completely forget about looping my arm through the rungs and scurry down as fast as possible. Cregg is still sluggish, but he’s alert enough to sense my impending panic, and I feel him tapping away at my mental walls. It’s more of an idle exploration than a full-fledged barrage, but my nerves are already stretched to the breaking point and it really isn’t helping.

Something latches on to my ankle, and I barely manage to bite back a scream. It comes out as something between a squeal and a hiccup. My foot lashes out instinctively, but Taylor, I assume, blocks the kick, smacking my shin against the bottom rung.

I press my lips together yet again to keep from crying out. On the plus side, the pain in my leg makes me forget my terror a few moments ago.

“Shhhh.” Taylor hisses in my ear, moving back so I can take the final step down.

The noise I heard from above seems to have stopped, and the more I think about it, the more I wonder whether it was coming from the surface. Taylor was on the ladder too. Maybe I heard an echo of her footsteps. Or maybe I imagined the entire thing.

Opening my eyes slowly, I realize that even though the flashlight is off I can see, at least a tiny bit. Taylor runs her hands along the wall, moving toward the left where thin lines of light outline a closed door.

Is the power actually on down here? Or is someone simply waiting on the other side with a flashlight and a gun?

Taylor presses her ear against the gap, and I try to calm my heart down enough to listen, too. After a long moment, she nudges me and points at the doorknob.

Oh, right. We’re on the ground now, so it’s back to me going first. I pull the night-vision goggles out of my knapsack so that I’ll have them ready and then turn the knob in tiny increments, nearly jumping when it finally clicks open. There is light, but it’s off in the distance and very faint. A flashlight, or maybe a lantern. And the stale odor is now mixed with the smell of smoke.

I don’t hear anything, though. Taylor nudges me, and I push the door open slowly. Goggles raised, we creep forward into what looks like a break room. There’s a fridge, a coffeepot, a sink, and a round table with three cheap cafeteria chairs. Condiment packets, napkins, sporks, and other debris are scattered on the counters and the floor. Most of the cabinet doors and drawers gape open, as though someone rifled through them and couldn’t be bothered to put the contents back.

After lowering the goggles, I see that the light is yellow and flickering. More like a candle or maybe multiple candles. And it seems to be concentrated in one vertical strip of light.

A shadow breaks the light pattern, and I hold my arm back to halt Taylor. The candlelight is coming from a room on the right, maybe twenty feet down the hallway. The door is partially open. I’m starting to pick up sounds now, mostly furniture scraping back and forth against the floor in a steady rhythm, but also some very heavy breathing.

I glance back at Taylor, who is staring at the door through the goggles. She motions for me to do the same. There’s a metal nameplate in the center. I zoom in and read: Graham Cregg.

The rhythm picks up slightly. This could be our best chance to get past without attracting attention, so I move a bit faster. Taylor must agree, because she’s right on my heels. We’re maybe ten steps from the door when there’s one last screech of wood on tile and then silence.

Taylor grabs my arm. We stop and press our backs against the wall, although I’m thinking that, if that was what it sounded like, we’d be better off running while they’re getting their clothes back into place.

A giggle from inside the room is followed by a roar inside my head. The roar is muted by my walls, much the same way that the giggle is muted by the partially closed door, but there’s no mistaking either sound.

“Oh, perfect. Light one for me, too. I’ll flick the ashes all over his chair. He always got so mad when people smoked.” The woman has an accent I can’t quite place. New Jersey? No, I think maybe it’s Philly. Her mad is almost mid, and smoked leans toward smooked. “Especially women. Pretty sure the only reason Mom took up the habit was to piss him off.”

Cregg is butting his spider-rat shoulder against my walls now, a dull, frustrated thud. The sound is vaguely reminiscent of the racket the two people in that room were just making on what must be his old desk. That thought must get through to Cregg, because the thudding instantly stops.

Taylor nudges me and mouths, “Are you okay?”

When I nod, she points forward. We don’t even manage a step, however, before I hear Abbott’s voice. “They should have called by now. The agreement was that they’d check in every fifteen minutes unless they see activity over there. It’s been nearly twenty.”

“Maybe they got called out on a real police emergency,” she says.

“They’re off duty tonight. You think I’m an idiot? I wouldn’t have hired someone who could be called away.”

“Are you even sure they’re bringing him here?” she asks.

“They saw two cars up here yesterday.”

“So? Doesn’t mean that Pfeifer is here.”

“I’m going to call them. Find that map you mentioned, okay? And be quiet, unless you want them to know you’re here, too.”

The shadows flicker wildly as one or both of them move about. If we’re going to go, we have to do it now. I half run, half tiptoe past the door toward the end of the hallway and then follow it to the right, entering a long, narrow room with several sofas. There’s a television mounted on one short side of the room. A curtained window takes up most of one of the long walls. Next to it is a door.

The layout of the room seems familiar, and after a moment, I realize why. I remember sitting on that couch with Dacia Badea as she tried to access my hitchers’ file. Her digging her nails into my arm, angry that Molly’s files weren’t available. And me discovering that it was actually Dacia who killed Molly, not Cregg. Dacia, who somehow made herself believe she was doing Molly a kindness.

I make it quick for you.

“Move,” Taylor snarls under her breath. She opens the door and half shoves me back into the hallway.

We both start to run, but navigating these corridors isn’t going to be as easy as it was last time I was here. Debris is everywhere. I suspect that much of this mess was the result of people who came in after the fire to investigate the mostly fictitious story that the Creggs concocted about a terrorist group and a human-trafficking ring in order to hide what was really going on here. A long strip of yellow tape cordons off the monitoring area where observers watched as researchers tested the adepts inside the neighboring rooms, and many of the computers seem to be missing.

“Hey!” a voice calls from behind us. Taylor looks back, but I don’t have to. It’s Abbott’s voice.

A beam of light, much brighter than the one that Taylor is carrying, crisscrosses the corridor. I move closer to Taylor, trying to keep my body between her and the gun that I’m pretty sure Abbott is drawing. He won’t shoot me, because that would be shooting Cregg.

Except how would he know that it’s me? It’s dark, and—

He fires. Misses. Fires again.

I pull Taylor to the left, and as soon as we round the corner, she turns back and fires. She doesn’t even take time to aim.

“Why did you do that?” I whisper.

“Warning shot,” Taylor says as she starts down the hallway. “Maybe he’ll back off if he knows we’re armed.”

“Abbott!” a man yells. “Drop the gun!”

“Who the hell is Abbott?” Abbott says.

Two shots. Then a third shot from a different gun.

“That was Sam’s voice,” Taylor says. “How did he get here? I could have shot him!”

I hear the faint sound of footsteps moving our way. Taylor pulls back toward the main hallway, but I grab her arm.

“We don’t know who shot who.” I shine the light back behind us. “Keep your gun pointed at—”

“Or,” she whispers, “I could just ask? Sam!” Her voice booms out the last word. “Is that you, Sam?”

There’s a brief pause and then: “Yeah, it’s me. Hold your fire.”

A few seconds later, he turns the corner, holding up his hand to block the beam from Taylor’s flashlight. He’s wearing goggles that are a bit smaller and older than the pair in my hand, but at least he remembered the headgear. He looks a little surprised, and not exactly happy, to see me. It seems Aaron and Daniel have filled him in on everything that’s happened.

“There were two of them back there,” I say, nodding at the hallway. “Abbott—or whatever his name actually was—and a girl. Alex Cregg.”

“Yeah. She was in the kitchen when I reached the bottom of the ladder. I . . . um . . . convinced her to go back into the office and then shoved a sofa and a love seat in front of the door. She’s a scrawny little thing. I think it will hold her.”

“Maybe,” Taylor says wryly. “And maybe not. She’s got muscles you can’t see.”

“Delphi?” Sam asks.

Taylor nods. “Cregg’s daughter. She’s a Mover—don’t know how strong, but she locked the bolt on that door from the other side. I guess to make it look like no one went down there.”

“Big difference between moving a tiny bolt and a couch, but yeah . . . we need to watch our backs. Speaking of, you want to explain that wild shot a minute ago?” Sam asks. “You could have taken my head off.”

Taylor huffs indignantly. “I didn’t know you were behind us. You’re supposed to be driving the RV to West Virginia.”

“Porter’s doing it. I may be old, but the day I let my grandkids walk into danger on their own is the day you can just go ahead and roll me into my grave. And that was doubly true after I got a text from that Stan kid.”

“Oh,” Taylor says. “Anything new?”

“Yeah. He said all of the paths were unraveling. I don’t know what the hell that means, but it sounds bad. The part that I did get was where he said to abort, only you were already headed down that shaft, so I followed. How confident are you that he knows what he’s talking about?”

“Way less than I was ten minutes ago,” Taylor says. “But Deo said Aaron is down here solo. So don’t even try arguing that we should head back up.”

Sam glances over at me, then back at Taylor. “I assumed you were down here with Aaron. Your brothers shouldn’t have left you alone, and . . . Anna shouldn’t be here at all. Both for her sake and everyone else’s. No offense, Anna.”

“None taken,” I say. “I’d actually prefer to be elsewhere.”

“I trust her, Popsy, or I would have left her aboveground. She’s medicated now and she’s in control. Right, Anna?” She waits for my nod and continues. “We need to get moving.”

“Exactly where are we going?” he asks.

“Lab 1,” I say. “I’ve been here before. I can take the lead.”

The hallways are wide, but there’s a lot of junk scattered about. We pick our way through the debris, trying to balance speed with clearing from the path as we go, just in case we need to beat a hasty retreat.

Room 81, where Caleb had been kept, is just ahead. It’s nothing but an ordinary door now, half open. I peek inside as we pass and see the charred remains of furniture and, near the middle of the room, something that looks kind of like a giant white shoe with the toe cut away and propped up like a car hood. The lid is partially melted, and the entire thing is streaked with soot. I shine the flashlight through the door to get a better look and see water on the inside of the “shoe.”

“What are you doing?” Taylor asks.

“This is the room where they kept Caleb. That thing in the middle—is that an isolation tank?”

“Maybe.” Her tone makes it clear that identifying this object is very low on her list of priorities. And she’s right, so we keep going.

A security door separates the main section of The Warren from the long tunnel leading to two labs that were kept secret from most of the guards and other workers that Cregg employed. It’s the same door that Ashley opened for me and Deo on our way out last time. I’m relieved to find it unlocked, just as the gate was when we drove in.

It’s colder in here, and the smoky odor seems less oppressive. The floor slopes downward for the first hundred yards or so, then flattens out. I’m also picking up a light off in the distance. When I feel the path begin to shift upward, I motion for Sam and Taylor to stop.

“We’re halfway through,” I whisper. “The tunnel opens into a hallway. Lab 1 is on the left, Lab 2 on the right, once we pass the cubicles. The lab walls are cement block up to about three feet and then some sort of clear glass or plastic barrier above that. The tunnel that leads up to the parking area begins just past the labs, and there’s a monitoring station on the right, before we get to them.”

“And you’re sure they’ll be in Lab 1?” Sam asks.

“No. That’s just the lab that Deo and I were in. Jaden said they used the labs interchangeably. People were probably killed in both rooms. I don’t know if they’re aiming to have my father pick up specific talents, or if the plan is to simply fill him up with everything they’ve got. I don’t even know if there’s a limit to how many spirits he can pick up.”

I don’t add that I’m pretty sure there is a limit to how many someone can hold and keep their sanity. The ghosts I had come across made a conscious decision not to overcrowd me. Dozens could easily have rushed in, but I wound up with only five, including Jaden, Will, and the women I lumped together as the Furies. Then the other four left once they realized that I wasn’t willing to shoot Cregg or Dacia unless necessary to save myself or Deo. I was very glad they left, because I’m not sure how long I’d have been me if I’d had that many hitchers in my head at once. Holding them back was nearly as difficult as holding back Cregg.

I know that one of those adepts was strongly telekinetic. Another, the girl who managed to set Cregg’s phone on fire, was a Zippo. Either of those abilities seems like a pretty useful one if you’re loading up a walking weapon. And from what I’ve seen, no two Delphi adepts have exactly the same ability. Even those who share the same talent will generally have different strengths and weaknesses, and the gift manifests in different ways.

“Fair enough. Guess that means we have to be ready for—” Sam stops and stares ahead, running one hand through his thinning gray hair. I follow his gaze, but I don’t see anything, aside from the fact that there is definitely a light at the end of this tunnel. I don’t hear anything either, and judging from Taylor’s expression, neither does she.

“They’re in . . . Lab 2.” He says this tentatively, almost like it’s a theory he’s trying on for size. “Aaron’s already there.”

Sam isn’t Delphi. Though he served in the military, at seventy-two, he’s well past the age of the soldiers used as Delphi test subjects. But he gets hunches sometimes. Aaron says those hunches served Sam very well when he was on the police force, probably saving his life and Porter’s on more than one occasion.

“I’m in front,” Sam says. “Anna’s in the middle, and, Taylor, keep an eye out behind us. Stay close to the wall.” Sam takes off before either of us can answer, moving in a crouched run at a much faster pace than I’d have thought possible for his age. That has me worried that Aaron may be about to go in on his own.

Sam’s hunch was correct. Even with the glare from what I’m now pretty sure are headlights, I can now make out a fainter light coming from the right side of the building. I raise the goggles. That . . . bothers me, because it could mean they’ve already been inside Lab 1 and we’re too late to prevent my father from picking up those hitchers. It’s not that I think they’d necessarily have taken the rooms in numerical order, but more that I know there was a lot of paranormal activity in that lab.

Of course, who knows what they did inside Lab 2? It’s entirely possible that they killed even more—and even more powerful—adepts on that side of the hallway.

A dizzy spell hits just before the end of the tunnel. It’s no worse than the ones I’ve been having all day, but I’m bone tired and I stumble, causing Taylor to trip. She lands hard on her knee and calls me several choice names under her breath when I reach down to help her up. In a perfect world, I’d have had a few more seconds for my head to stop spinning, but she marches me onward.

Something catches my eye up ahead. I raise the goggles and see that it’s a vehicle parked outside Lab 1. A jeep or maybe a Hummer. It looks weird inside the building, but the guards used to whiz around in golf carts, and I guess if two golf carts could pass each other inside the tunnels, a single vehicle could make it through as well.

Sam has already ducked through a gap between the cubicle panels in the monitoring station when we catch up to him. The fact that the cubicle walls are still there answers one question that I’ve wondered about since the night we left The Warren. The fire that started in Lab 1 when Cregg’s phone ignited didn’t spread. If it had, these fabric panels would have burned or melted and there’d be far more fire damage overall. All we’ve got is some smoke damage—mostly soot on the walls and ceiling. I don’t know whether it was Graham Cregg’s crew or the group aligned with his father, but someone set fire to the main building purposefully, in order to cover their tracks as they evacuated the kids.

Something rustles in front of us, off to the right. Taylor raises the gun automatically, but Sam holds his arm out. A moment later, Aaron comes around one of the panels. He’s holding his gun, but it’s not raised, so he must have gotten a vibe from one of us. He seems surprised, but definitely not unhappy, that Sam’s here. He’d wanted to bring him along in the first place, and it occurs to me that Aaron, who has worked with his grandfather for several years, might have a better idea than the rest of us of how capable Sam is in this kind of situation.

“Hey, Sam.” Aaron drops down between me and Taylor. “What happened with Daniel and Deo? They should have been here ten minutes ago. And you two were supposed to stay put.”

“Something was blocking the tunnel,” I say. “The call dropped before we could get any other details.”

“Weird,” Aaron says, nodding in the direction of the vehicle parked near Lab 1. “Whistler and the others drove through just fine. Daniel was supposed to follow them. We don’t have time to worry about it now, though. They . . . um . . . carried Pfeifer out of the first lab just after I got here. He seemed to be unconscious.”

“We need to hurry. If he’s already picked up hitchers, then . . .” I trail off, my tired brain struggling to string words together.

Aaron nods. “Follow me.”

The four of us wind our way through the maze of cubicles, hunched over so that our heads aren’t visible above the dividing walls. When we’re two rows in, Aaron turns back toward us and says, “This takes us to another exit closer to the lab door. It’s just Whistler, one other guy, and a woman. The men are armed. Both are angry that Pfeifer passed out. Whistler is worried about those cops who were circling around, thinking he might have to shoot them. I don’t know if the woman is armed or not. Haven’t picked up any vibes from her. They’ve got the door pulled shut, but the power is out so it’s not locked.”

“So we’re either three guns to two or evenly matched.” Sam sighs. “This would be a whole lot easier if Daniel was here.”

Taylor’s mouth tightens, but I really don’t think Sam is being sexist. He’d simply rather avoid a gunfight altogether, and Daniel is our only hope for doing that.

Not the only . . .

The thought that comes through my walls isn’t fully formed, but it’s clear enough for me to get Cregg’s meaning. Yes, if I lowered my walls, he could persuade his father’s lackeys to drop their weapons or even to turn their guns on each other. But Cregg knows there’s absolutely no way I’d trust him.

None of them even suggest giving me a weapon. I’m entirely okay with that.

Someone coughs up ahead. The sound is muffled by the plexiglass, but it still echoes in the silence. We slow down, all of us walking more cautiously now. Our chance of success is heavily contingent on the element of surprise, and if any of us stumble, cough, or sneeze, that will be lost.

When we reach the other exit, we crouch around the opening. We’re directly across from their Hummer and maybe five yards from the lab door.

“We go on three,” Aaron says to Sam and Taylor, who both nod. “Anna—”

“I’m on lookout. I know.” The words come out sharper than I intend. While I don’t actually resent being sidelined, I do wish there was some way I could help.

Aaron gives me a sympathetic half smile and leans in close to my ear, whispering so softly that I feel the words more than hear them. “I love you. You know that, right?”

I nod. “I love you, too. Be careful.”

He moves back to Sam. Taylor hangs back, her expression suggesting that she’s trying to make a weighty decision. After a second, she shoves the stun gun toward me. “In case you need it. Turn on us, and I will kill you. Or haunt you.”

The latter threat actually worries me more, and Taylor knows it. Having been stuck with Daniel in my head, I shudder at the thought of dealing with his younger, often less-reasonable sister.

Aaron mouths, “One. Two.” On three, he moves into the bright glare from the headlights, bent low. The cement section of the wall isn’t high enough to hide him entirely from the view of those inside the lab, but if they can avoid being detected until they bust in, we stand a better chance of getting out of here alive.

Sam and Taylor follow Aaron, guns out, and for the next few seconds, the only sound is the shuffling of their footsteps and my pounding heart. I move to the other side of the entrance so that I can keep an eye on the tunnel we came in through. Unfortunately, we’re now so close to the headlights that I can’t really see much at all beyond their radius.

I jump when I hear Aaron kick the door open. It bangs against the plexiglass walls, and then Sam yells, “Police! Drop your weapons!”

EXCERPT FROM “MIND BLOWN” IN THE SCOOP

April 24, 2020

Variants of the compound known as Delphi (street names include DS, SciPhi, and Freak) are popping up in both rural and urban centers within the United States. One of the most remarkable things about the drug is how rapidly it has spread. Sporadic reports of increased psychic activity and an uptick in violent altercations follow the drug like a malignant shadow.

But what are users actually injecting? No one is entirely sure. The chemical formula for the Delphi serum has not been made public—indeed, the US government still officially denies that such a drug even exists. And there is some evidence that the drugs being sold on the street are nothing more than LSD and a variety of hallucinogens.

Three separate confidential sources interviewed for this article claim to have worked at different times on the Delphi Project. They all stressed that the compound only enhances psychic abilities inherent in a small percentage of people. It cannot give abilities to those who lack them entirely. Nor can you pick and choose from a menu of abilities.

Those marketing the drugs on the street beg to differ, offering customers a shopping list of options such as mind reading and predicting the future. And they claim that the drug is tapping a new market of users who have not, in the past, frequented their neighborhood dealer.

“People want that edge,” one source claimed. “They see stories in the paper and start to wonder whether coworkers are swiping their ideas. Maybe even putting bad ideas into their heads, you know? Most aren’t worried about getting new abilities so much as blocking the abilities of others. The government isn’t helping on this issue. They’re gonna study it for five or six years to see who is to blame. Half of them say it’s not even real. So people turn to us.”

When asked whether the stuff he was marketing could actually block those with Delphi abilities, the man gave us an enigmatic smile. “Maybe. You want to find out for sure, it’ll cost you three hundred bucks.”

That may be a bargain compared with a drug being fast-tracked for FDA approval by a subsidiary of Decathlon Services Group. Some analysts believe the compound, known as Cerecyclo, could hit the market by late May. Demand will be high, which could dramatically increase the price (and profit margins) for the manufacturer and DSG stockholders.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Port Deposit, Maryland

April 24, 2020, 10:37 p.m.

Sam’s right to shout police while kicking in a door expired a few years ago, unless he’s in some sort of retired officers’ reserve that I don’t know about. I brace for the sound of gunfire, wishing I had a better view from here. Can’t see anything but the tops of everyone’s heads from this angle.

My audio is working fine, however, now that the door has been kicked open. A woman screams. Chairs or maybe a table topple over. And then I hear a totally incongruous giggle coming toward me from the other direction.

“Wow,” Alexandra Cregg says as she emerges from the shadows of the tunnel. “I’ve never been in one this elaborate. These guys take their jobs real serious.”

She’s pressed up against Deo, who doesn’t look too happy. His eyes drift over to Lab 1, and I’m pretty sure he’s reliving everything that happened the last time we were here.

“We’re going to walk closer and see if that’s the exit,” Daniel tells Alex. “Sit down and stay out of the way.” There’s a touch of extra force in his words.

Alex drops to the ground, pulling Deo down with her. “Cutie-pie can stay here with me.”

“No, he can’t.” Daniel reaches down, grabs Deo’s hand, and yanks him to his feet.

I’m still hidden behind the cubicle divider, and my mental walls are fully up, but I feel Daniel’s nudge nonetheless and drop to sitting from the crouched position I was in.

From within the lab, Aaron has just finished repeating Sam’s order for them to drop their weapons. Whistler, or at least I’m pretty sure it’s Whistler, says something back, but I can’t decipher it from out here.

“Daniel,” I say, leaning out from the shadows. “You guys go. I’ll watch her.”

He takes one look at me, then at the lab, and curses softly. “Taylor’s in there?”

“Yes, but that wasn’t her screaming.” I’ve heard Taylor scream. Her voice is a full octave higher than the woman in the lab.

“How many of them?” Daniel asks.

“Three, at least two armed.”

“Pfeifer?”

“Unconscious.”

Alex Cregg is staring at me. “Are you one of the actors? I haven’t done this room before, but you look really familiar.”

Actors? Ah . . . okay. Everything is starting to make sense now. Daniel must have persuaded her that this is one of those escape rooms where they lock you in with a group of people and you have to solve a mystery.

“No,” I say. “I’m—”

“Change of plans.” Daniel draws his gun and grabs Alex by the arm. “You’re with me.”

“Ooh. I like this better. Going right into the action! Do I get a gun, too?”

“You do not.” Daniel pulls her in front of him like a shield. She tenses a bit, and he adds, “Remember, it’s all for fun.”

“Fun!” She smiles so wide that it looks like her face will crack. I feel the corners of my mouth lift as well, even though I’m fighting it.

The spider-rat is clearly agitated now, more active than he’s been since I took the pill earlier. He’s still angry at Alex for defiling his desk and more than a little shocked at this glimpse of what she actually thought of him, but he definitely doesn’t like the fact that Daniel might be putting his daughter in danger.

That’s the height of hypocrisy coming from a man who used his own ability to force young women to mutilate themselves. Who killed them, in fact, or forced them to kill each other. But like many people born into wealth and power, Cregg doesn’t seem to believe that the rules apply to him.

Unfortunately, I find myself reluctantly agreeing with Cregg on one point. It feels wrong to drag Alex into a potential gunfight when she’s been made to believe that this is all an act.

“Daniel . . .” I begin.

He doesn’t let me get far. “Save it, Anna! I’m not going to hurt her, and neither will they. She’s the Senator’s granddaughter, for God’s sake.”

Inside the lab, Aaron is talking again. Not as loud this time, and it’s the tone he uses when he’s trying to reason with someone. I can’t make out the words, but it reminds me that the stakes are very high. People I love are in that room, and judging from the uneasy silence right now, I think they may be at a standoff. Alexandra Cregg came here tonight of her own accord. She seemed perfectly willing to help Abbott kill my father. I drop the argument.

“I’ll go with you. In case you need a boost.” Deo’s voice hasn’t cracked for a couple of years, but it does now. Fear this time, though, not puberty.

Daniel catches it, too. “I’ll try it on my own first. I’d rather not experiment under these circumstances. But yeah, stay close.”

The three of them begin walking toward the lab, and when they’re a few feet from the door, he yells, “I’ve got your boss’s granddaughter out here. Pretty sure he’s not going to be too happy if you make me shoot her.”

No one told me to stay put this time, and the fact that Deo is nervous tilts the balance for me. Even if we make it into our nineties, I’m pretty sure that protecting Deo will still feel like my responsibility. On the off chance that he or any of the others need me, I’m not going to do a damn bit of good all the way over here. So I shove Taylor’s little stun gun into my pocket and follow them.

I’m not going into that lab, however. For that matter, I won’t be touching anything that might put me at risk of picking up a hitcher. My walls are up to keep Cregg contained, and in theory, that should keep me from pulling anyone else on board. But I’m not keen on testing that theory in a lab where God only knows how many adepts were killed.

Daniel stands in the doorway with Alex in front of him and Deo right behind him. Daniel said he needed to stay close. He didn’t say to make himself a target. I tug on Deo’s shirt to pull him back behind the glass, being careful not to make actual contact with him. This would be a very inconvenient time for me to have a vision.

Whistler and the other man are near the back of the room, both with guns drawn. The front of the second guy’s pants is wet. I’m pretty sure he peed himself.

A dark-skinned girl is crouched behind the gurney that holds my father, her hand resting on his shoulder. She’s dressed in a flannel shirt that’s way too large, and it looks like her face is bleeding.

“Carefully put the weapons on the floor,” Daniel says. “Both of you.”

Both men’s knees bend slightly. Whistler recovers from Daniel’s nudge first, moving the gun away from Sam and toward Daniel.

“Not going to work on me, Corben,” Whistler says. “Although I guess that isn’t actually your name, you duplicitous piece of shit.”

“Nice seeing you again too, Whistler,” Daniel says. “And Davis, how about those Orioles. Now, put down the guns.”

The other man, Davis, is a balding guy with pale, freckled skin. He’s probably well over average height and weight, but he seems dwarfed next to Whistler. I don’t remember seeing him when I was at The Warren, but he must have been one of the Fudds.

Davis is fighting Daniel’s command too, but not having nearly as much luck as Whistler. He looks over at the girl. “Little help would be nice, Sophie.”

The black girl looks at Davis, then at Whistler. Her free hand flies up to the cut on her left cheek and her eyes go wide. “You want me to move away from him? Are you crazy? What if he wakes up again?”

Pfeifer is strapped to the gurney by four separate restraining belts. He’s not going anywhere. But if he picked up the hitchers in that other lab, I doubt that it’s his physical activity that’s worrying her.

“Just do it!” Whistler’s hand twitches. He’s gripping the gun so tightly that I’m worried he could easily pull the trigger without even intending to.

Sophie reluctantly follows his order. She takes a step forward, still keeping her hand in contact with my father’s body. Daniel responds by pushing the gun into Alex Cregg’s neck.

“That hurts! Let me go.” Alex tries to wrench away, but Daniel doesn’t let her.

“I don’t think you’ll actually shoot the girl,” Whistler says. “And to be honest, I’m not sure the Senator much cares one way or the other.”

Sophie continues to move cautiously toward the front of the lab. She tries to move the gurney along with her, but the wheels seem to be locked. Instead, she trails her hand along Pfeifer’s body, keeping contact for as long as possible. Eventually, she has to move beyond the gurney, but she keeps looking back, much like a runner gauging the distance when attempting to steal a base. Like someone who’s worried that each step might be the one that seals her fate because she can’t return to safety in time.

The pieces fall together, and I say to Daniel, “She’s a blocker. Like Maggie. Here to control Pfeifer, but she could block you, too.”

Daniel takes two quick steps backward. Although, truthfully, it’s more of a stagger. He’s dragging Alex with him, and the extra weight seems to be more of a burden than his still-recuperating body can easily handle.

Alex frowns up at him. “Hey! I said let me—”

“You’re having fun!” Daniel snaps, and the angry lines morph into the blissful expression of a five-year-old girl petting a unicorn.

Deo steps through the door and grabs Daniel’s shoulder.

“Put the guns on the floor and kick them toward me.” Daniel doesn’t yell, but the command fills every square inch of the lab. Whistler and Davis lean down in unison, place their guns on the ground, and then kick them toward Daniel.

So does Sam. And Aaron. And Taylor. I even pull the little stun gun out of my pocket, though I manage to fight back the urge to drop it. Daniel’s words even seem to have reached my father, who stirs uneasily on the cot. It the first movement I’ve seen from him since we entered the room. Sophie must notice it as well, because she darts back to him, grabbing his ankle.

Daniel tells Aaron to collect the guns. There’s no psychic push involved this time, but Aaron still gives him an annoyed look. He picks up the guns, returns Sam’s and Taylor’s, and stashes the others in Taylor’s backpack.

“What do you propose we do with these guys?” Sam asks Daniel in a low voice. “We can’t exactly call the police, but I’ve got a problem with—”

“Get out!” Aaron yells. But whatever he or anyone else says next, I don’t hear. My focus is on the words that flash inside my head.

TURN AWAY.

It’s like a handwritten sign that hangs in my consciousness for a brief moment and flickers out. I’ve seen this before. It’s Will, Jaden’s former roommate, and one of the hitchers from Lab 1 that I housed very briefly, until they learned I wasn’t quite as keen on lethal vengeance as they were.

But Will isn’t in my head now. Apparently, he’s in Scott Pfeifer’s, sending me a message. Before I have time to respond, a second sign appears.

THEY WON’T LET THE FUDDS GO THIS TIME.

My eyes turn toward Sophie, who is clutching my father’s arm even tighter now. Her eyes are squeezed almost shut, and her face reminds me of pictures I’ve seen of women in labor, every muscle intent on its task.

Aside from Aaron, who must have picked up what was happening with his spidey sense, no one else in the room seems to have gotten Will’s message.

Scott Pfeifer remains perfectly still, except for his head, which whips toward the two former guards. His eyes are open now, and he’s staring straight at Whistler.

Whistler’s eyes widen. He tries to say something, but no words come out. I’m pretty sure no air is going in, either. Whistler’s feet remain on the ground, but otherwise it reminds me of that scene in Star Wars where Vader lifts the subordinate who has displeased him by his neck.

Davis tugs at the collar of his shirt. He’s not breathing either. He takes a few steps toward the gurney and then drops to his knees.

Aaron grabs Taylor’s arm and begins backing toward the door, his eyes fixed on the two men. The others are frozen in place, watching as Whistler joins Davis on the floor. His mouth is opening and closing like a fish.

“I can’t control him!” Sophie says. “You should get out!”

That snaps Daniel and Sam out of their stupor, and they both head for the exit. I expect Sophie to follow, but she remains in the room, still gripping my dad’s arm. Her eyes are firmly closed, and her head is turned away from the two men asphyxiating in the center of the room.

“What’s happening?” Alex asks in a tiny voice from her position on the floor. “Those actors . . . they are actors, aren’t they? Actors . . .”

“Go to sleep, Alex.” She curls up obediently at the sound of Daniel’s voice, her hands tucked beneath her face to cushion it.

I want to join her, even though the tile looks cold and hard. Even though it reminds me of Costello on the floor at Joe’s place and of Abbott back in the main ward. And now Whistler and this other guy. Lucas, Jaden, Oksana, Will. White tile. Red blood.

The others are talking, but I just stand there, staring down. Tiny motes of dust and ash dance in the air around my sneakers, illuminated by the headlights of Whistler’s car. White lights. Red sneakers. White tile. Red blood. White sheets. The cool side of my pillow . . .

“Anna. Hey, hey.” It’s Deo’s voice, and someone is tapping my cheek. I startle, expecting to hear that odd humming noise that precedes a vision, but it’s Aaron’s fingers on my face.

Deo stands next to him. “You were about to fall asleep standing up.”

I shake my head to clear it, opening my eyes extra wide. “Yeah. I need coffee.”

“You need sleep,” Aaron says.

“Yeah,” I repeat. “I’m running on fumes.”

Daniel, Taylor, and Sam are back inside the lab now. I see the two bodies on the floor just beyond them. There’s no blood this time, just bodies on the white tile. Sophie is in the same spot as before, still holding my father’s arm. He seems to have lapsed into unconsciousness, and I’m again struck with jealousy for those who can sleep.

“They’re dead?” I ask.

Aaron nods. “They really shouldn’t be. Unconscious, yes. But it takes several minutes for someone to suffocate. It’s . . . odd.”

Deo gives a nervous little laugh. “The part where someone choked them without ever freakin’ touching them. That was odd, too. It’s like what happened to Lucas, when he just started sneezing and couldn’t even stop long enough to catch his breath. Do you think it was the same hitchers? The—what did you call them—Furies?”

“Don’t know. But I’m pretty sure Pfeifer picked up Will.” I tell them about the message I got just before Whistler and Davis stopped breathing.

Taylor unlocks the brakes on the gurney, and they push my father over toward the Hummer.

I glance at Alex, who is still snoozing peacefully, then at Sophie, next to the gurney. “What are we going to do with them?” I ask in a low voice.

“That’s what Sam and I were just discussing,” Daniel says. “We considered taking them with us, but . . . we should probably leave them in the containment unit.” He nods toward the small room near the back.

“Seems . . . harsh to just leave them like that,” Aaron says.

“You have a better idea?” Daniel asks, leaning back against the soot-streaked wall of the lab.

“Taylor’s got a couple of bottles of water in her backpack and a candy bar,” Sam says. “We’ll contact the Senator’s Sanctuary hotline . . . I mean, they’re both adepts, even if one is his granddaughter.”

Yeah,” Taylor says. “And I don’t think it’s too harsh at all for Alex. She may look all angelic now that you’ve sent her to la-la land, but she was in on the plot to kill Pfeifer.”

“The lock on that containment unit isn’t going to work with the power out,” Aaron says. “How long do you think your nudge will last?”

Daniel shakes his head. “I don’t know. Probably quite a while with Deo boosting.”

“It won’t work at all on me,” Sophie says.

Daniel frowns. “We could move some of the equipment in front of the door. The fridge, maybe? There are also some weights in the back room that they used for testing how much the telekinetic kids could lift.”

Aaron grabs Alex’s shoulders, and Deo grabs her feet. They carry her into the containment area. Sophie watches but doesn’t follow.

“You need to go into that cube with the other girl,” Sam says. “You’ll be okay. We’ll leave you with water, and we’ll let your employer know to come get you.”

“I don’t have an employer,” Sophie says, her voice shaking. “An employer pays you a salary, right? They let you go home at night. All those people give me is food and shelter, and they lock me in. They point their guns or their tasers at me, just like you’re doing, even though I’ve done nothing wrong. This isn’t some battle where you’re the good guys and everyone who wound up on the other side is evil. When The Warren caught fire, I ran for the nearest exit like everyone else. Those of us who went out one door were locked up in Nevada. And those who went out the other door were locked up in North Carolina.”

Daniel says, “So . . . what do you want us to do?”

“I want you to take me with you. It’s not safe out there. I don’t have money or identification. I’m ready for a change of scenery, and you’re going to need me when this guy wakes up.”

“You weren’t able to save Whistler and Davis,” Daniel says.

Sophie cocks her head to one side. “What makes you think I was trying? I am glad they’re dead. Do you know how many people the two of them hurt? How many deaths they were responsible for? I wasn’t trying to protect Whistler and Davis. You’re lucky I was able to keep them from killing all of you.”

I’m not sure if the others notice the plural. She kept them, not him, from killing us. Does she have a sense of how many hitchers Pfeifer is hosting?

“We already have a blocker,” Taylor says.

“Maggie, right? The Fudds tested us together a bunch of times. She’s good, but she’s only a kid.” Sophie’s hand swipes toward the cut on her cheek. “You really want to put her in harm’s way? Anyhow, I don’t see her with you.”

“She has a point,” Aaron says, and then turns to us. “Maybe she can give us some more intel. As confident as Maria is in the information from her psychic intelligence squad, I’d personally like to confirm some of their readings with people who’ve actually been with Dacia’s Bear Brigade.”

Sam still seems a little reluctant to take Sophie with us, but I caught a glimpse of Daniel’s face as Aaron was speaking. The point about Sophie having information on Senator Cregg’s people won him over, because she could have information on Sariah. Daniel’s feelings for Sariah—Caleb’s mother and Ashley’s sister—are conflicted, mixed with guilt and some other emotions I was never able to pin down. And if she’s still alive, she’s with the other camp. I don’t need to read Daniel’s mind to know that he’s eager to ask Sophie some questions and also terrified of the answers he may receive.

“So . . . we leave Alex”—Aaron motions toward the containment unit—“but the rest of us need to get out of here. Can we all fit in that Hummer?”

“Maybe,” Daniel says, “but I don’t think we can get back through the tunnel.” He looks at Deo, and they both shake their heads.

“Okay,” I say. “You were breaking up a lot on the phone. What exactly happened?”

“Um . . . yeah,” Deo says. “We were still in the parking garage when you called. I didn’t get Taylor’s text until we surfaced.”

He’s not answering the question. Daniel doesn’t look too eager to dive in, either, but he says, “I think maybe a section of the tunnel is a bit . . . flooded. We might not be able to get through.”

Deo smirks. “You said there was a wall of water. That’s not the same thing as a bit flooded.”

“Well,” Daniel snaps, “there sure as hell wasn’t—”

“Hey!” Sophie calls from across the hall. “The tunnel is fine. There’s no wall of water or dragons or herds of zombie cows or whatever you think you saw. Whistler realized the cops were following us. And that you were following us. So he told Pfeifer to do something. To send you a suggestion. Mess with your heads.”

Daniel’s back is to me so I can’t see his face, but Sophie can, and she laughs. “Ah. The big bad Fudd doesn’t like it when the tables are turned and someone puts the whammy on him, does he?”

The spider-rat in my head doesn’t like what she said either. He has stirred occasionally in the past few minutes, but he’s still lethargic. Listening, and definitely still looking for any opportunities, any chinks in my armor, any chances to move to the front of my head. His reaction to what Sophie said is different, though. He retreats even more quickly than he did when I brought that brick crashing down on his leg. What Sophie said scared him. Did this ability she mentioned come from one of the hitchers in Lab 1? Someone who was particularly powerful?

The timing seems off, though. Whistler ordered my father to send out that psychic attack, or whatever you want to call it, when he realized they were being followed. So it couldn’t be a hitcher who was waiting in Lab 1. They hadn’t even gotten to this part of the building yet, let alone had time for Pfeifer to pick up a hitcher.

I file this away as something to discuss with the others later. Sam takes the unpleasant task of going through Whistler’s and Davis’s pockets to find the car keys, while Daniel tosses a few bottles of water and a Butterfinger that Taylor reluctantly parted with into the containment unit with the still-snoozing Alex Cregg.

We decide against a barricade at the last minute, mostly on my insistence. Whistler said he wasn’t sure the Senator would rescue her, and I didn’t get the sense he was joking. There doesn’t seem to be much love lost between Senator Cregg and his son, and if Alex took her father’s side against the Senator, I can’t imagine her grandfather being happy about it. They might rescue her eventually, but I could easily see them leaving her here for a while as punishment. This way, when Daniel’s sleep spell wears off, she’ll be able to hike out. She’s unarmed, so she’s really not a threat.

The eight of us would probably have fit into the Hummer if not for the gurney—and none of us are eager to take the straps off Pfeifer. We load him into the rear, along with Sophie, Daniel, and Sam. The rest of us walk. I’m fine with that. It’s less than a half mile to the surface, and despite being so tired that it’s a major effort to put one foot in front of the other, I’d rather keep moving.

As we walk, Aaron tells us about his misadventures trying to get into the elevator shaft at Memorial Hall. This involved kicking in a lot of plaster, uncovering a host of insects, and several large rats.

“Be glad you weren’t there,” he says, squeezing my shoulders.

I laugh because it’s a shared joke, and I definitely wouldn’t have been thrilled to deal with any of that. But truthfully, I think he got the better end of the deal. I’d happily tackle an entire roomful of regular rats rather than face the spider-rat in my head.

“So,” I ask Deo, “what did you see in the tunnel?”

“Fire. Well, not an actual fire, but lots of smoke. And . . . I could have sworn I heard Patrick’s voice.”

Patrick is his asshole stepdad. Deo has burns on his forearms, so it’s not too surprising that anyone tapping into his deepest fears would dredge up smoke and Patrick. I don’t ask, but I’d be willing to bet that the smoke smelled a lot like cheap cigarettes.

“Daniel backed the car out at damn near full speed,” he says. “I’m amazed he didn’t crash into the wall. I thought he smelled the fire, too, but then he started talking about a waterwall and . . . I could have sworn he also said something about Caleb just before he popped the SUV into reverse.”

For some reason, the door of Room 81 pops into my mind. When Caleb was housed in that room, I saw the metal of the door pulse out into the hallway, almost like ripples in water. And when Daniel was in my head, it was abundantly clear that he’s frightened of Caleb. Also frightened for Caleb. The latter seems much more reasonable. It’s hard to imagine a more angelic-looking toddler. In another universe where there was no Delphi Project, Caleb could be the adorable tyke in the Huggies Pull-Ups commercial.

“Why Caleb?” Aaron asks.

I keep quiet. Daniel and I have a bargain. We learned far too much about each other during the time we were forced to share my head. He keeps my secrets and I keep his. Anyway, what I picked up about Caleb and Sariah was more emotion than fact.

What’s very clear is that Deo and Daniel both thought one of their deep, dark fears was down that tunnel. Maybe not the deepest and darkest, but at least in Deo’s case, I think Patrick drunk and angry with a lit cigarette comes pretty damn close.

“I don’t know,” Deo says. “Didn’t ask him. We were too busy arguing over whether we were running from fire or water. But . . . it didn’t really matter. Neither of us was eager to go back in there. Then Taylor’s text came through, so we decided to take the route she and Anna found. That made me nervous. And some girl starts screaming for us to let her out. Daniel did his Jedi thing, and we found out she was Cregg’s daughter. He thought she might be . . . useful . . . if we had to negotiate, but she was really freaked out when we saw that guy’s body. That was Abbott?”

Aaron says, “It’s a good thing Sam showed up. Otherwise Taylor might have had to take the shot. Don’t tell her I said that,” he adds quickly. “I’m not saying she couldn’t have or wouldn’t have done it. It’s just . . . this isn’t the first time Sam has had to shoot someone to save a life. He won’t lose a lot of sleep over it.”

I get a touch of déjà vu—for once, the entirely normal kind—thinking back to Joe’s comment this morning at the deli about sparing me the pain of taking a life. It’s not all that strange that both Abbott and Costello died violently, given their chosen profession, but it is odd that they went down under very similar circumstances. I froze this morning, and I’m not at all sure I would have pulled the trigger in time if Joe hadn’t been there.

Would Taylor have frozen, too? I doubt it. She’s spent her entire life around people who have to make split-second life-and-death decisions. The gun felt natural in her hand, a tool that she’d been taught to use effectively and safely.

But all the same, I’m glad she didn’t have to find out.

Winchester, Virginia

April 25, 2020, 2:33 a.m.

The waitress tops off my coffee for the second time. “Can always tell who’s doin’ the drivin’,” she says with a wink.

I smile. No point in telling her she’s wrong. She heads back to the kitchen to grab the to-go order for Sophie and Daniel, who are waiting in the Kia with my father. He hasn’t stirred since we left Port Deposit two hours ago. We were all close to starving by the time we hit Winchester, especially Sophie, who seems to have Taylor’s ravenous appetite when using her Delphi ability. Daniel convinced Sam to stop here at the Waffle House. It’s not haute cuisine, but it’s filling and at least a slight improvement over the fast food of the past few days.

Taylor mops up the last of her eggs with the crust of her raisin toast and munches reflectively as she stares out the window. The parking lot is mostly empty, just an 18-wheeler and our two vehicles.

“Wonder what they’re talking about?”

I’m pretty sure I know, but I just shrug.

“Knowing Daniel, he’s probably trying to nudge her,” Aaron says. “He can’t stand the thought that there’s someone he can’t push around.”

“He does like a challenge,” Sam says.

“Still can’t believe none of you bothered to tell me.” Aaron lowers his voice. “I mean, Daniel gives me all kinds of grief for my ability, which I rarely use on purpose, and he’s been actively bending people to his own will all these years.”

“Not actively,” Sam says. “And not family. We had a talk about that and he stopped.”

“But . . . how would you know?” Deo asks. “Maybe he used it all the time and made you forget.”

Taylor shakes her head. “Doesn’t make sense. Daniel pisses everyone off. Always has. He always got into more trouble than Aaron and I did. Remember that time when he was—what?—in eleventh grade, I think. The deal with the car. Mom grounded him for two solid months.”

Deo shrugs. “Maybe she’d have grounded him for four months if he hadn’t . . . tweaked her memory.”

I catch Deo’s eye halfway through the comment and give him a pleading look. I’m pretty sure it’s just a logic problem to him, like the one in the movie Labyrinth where you have one guard who always lies and another who always tells the truth and you have to figure out which is which. Or, in this case, how do you know if someone is altering your perception of reality?

But it’s not an idle question for the Quinn family. And that’s why, as tempted as I am to defend Daniel on this issue, I keep quiet. They have to work this out themselves, although in some sense, I may understand Daniel better than anyone at this table. Sure, they’ve known him his entire life, but they’ve only seen the face he chooses to show them. No matter how close the friend or family, we all wear masks. They slip sometimes and reveal our inner selves, or at least the mask behind the mask. Most of the time, though, we keep our true face hidden. Protected.

It was harder for Daniel to hide his true self when he was inside my head. He could block facts most of the time, but he found it difficult to block his emotions. I know how deeply he feels about his family, even Aaron. He feels responsible for them, too. I’d say it goes beyond the normal older-sibling sense of responsibility, but then I’m the same way about Deo, and I didn’t even know him for the first half of his life.

To my surprise, it’s Aaron who comes to his brother’s defense. Sort of.

“No. Daniel wouldn’t do that. I’m tired and grumpy, and I’m not being fair. My ability was more visible than Daniel’s or Taylor’s, so, yeah . . . you were both right to tell me to keep it under wraps. And even if I don’t like it, Daniel had a good reason in the few cases I know of where he nudged me and Taylor.” He shoots me a little smile, knowing that I’m not a fan of Daniel’s euphemism. It’s a lot more than a nudge. “I do wish you’d trusted me with the information earlier, but I get that it wasn’t your secret to tell. At some point, Daniel and I will talk it out. Clear the air.”

I make a mental note to be somewhere else when that happens. Normal Quinn family discussions are explosive. This one will probably register on the Richter scale. And, as usual, ten minutes later they’ll be fine.

The waitress comes over with the take-out order and starts to top off my coffee again, then raises one penciled-in eyebrow. She’s looking down at my leg, twitching to the rapid beat of a nonexistent tune.

“You sure?” she asks.

A horn honks out in the parking lot. I guess this was the sign Daniel and Sam agreed upon, because Sam slides out of the booth.

“Actually,” I say, “could you put it in a to-go cup?”

Sam goes to the register to pay. “Everybody hit the bathroom again. We’ve got over an hour before we reach the cabin, and I don’t know if there are rest areas between here and there.”

I’ve had three coffees, so I heed his warning. Taylor, however, snorts and mimics him as she heads outside. “I’m not stopping forty times on this trip, so you kids better quit drinking those sodas.”

It’s a pretty good imitation.

When I exit the bathroom, I collide with Daniel.

“Sorry!” I say. “I didn’t . . . see you.”

Daniel doesn’t respond. He just keeps his head down and pushes past me.

I get a clear look at his face, though. He’s crying.

NEWS ITEM FROM THE SAN ANGELO STANDARD-TIMES

April 25, 2020

The bodies of the two 16-year-old girls found late Wednesday in the woods near Glenmore Park have been identified as Regina Pelter and Amber Whelow, both of San Angelo. Drug overdose has been verified as the cause of death.

A third teen who was with the girls earlier that day told authorities that they were planning to purchase a packet of “freak,” the street name for a synthetic drug that allegedly unleashes psychic abilities. Instead, they were sold a prescription opiate. A preliminary coroner’s report revealed approximately three times the lethal dose of fentanyl in the girls’ systems.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Mathias, West Virginia

April 25, 2020, 8:27 a.m.

The room is so tiny that the gurney takes up all the space between the two twin beds. Sophie lashed her wrist to my father’s with what appears to be one of Taylor’s scrunchies. She doesn’t look comfortable, but she’s sleeping.

So is Scott Pfeifer.

Jasper Hawkins was right. I look much more like my mother, except for my nose. Hers was rounder, and it turned up a bit at the end. Mine is a smaller version of my father’s—straight, narrow, slightly square at the tip.

Should I be angry at him? Probably. But what I feel is numb. Empty. So I stand in the doorway, just watching him. Almost hypnotized by his nose, which is so much like mine, flaring out with each exhale. Aside from this, the steady in and out of his breathing, Pfeifer hasn’t stirred since we left The Warren.

Someone touches my shoulder, and I jump. Sam is behind me, looking very worried. How long has he been there?

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. Just wanted to say there’s cereal in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”

I’m not. I am slightly embarrassed to have been caught in stalker mode, however, so I follow him into the kitchen. Although follow isn’t exactly right, since Sam has taken my arm and is more or less pulling me in that direction.

Deo and Taylor are at the table, looking exactly the way people who got four hours of sleep should look. Taylor is following her usual morning routine, however, iPad in hand, browsing the news as she talks.

“Can you believe this kitchen?” Deo says. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m getting a major Brady Bunch vibe.”

“Yeah,” Taylor says. “I’m pretty sure avocado-green appliances went out of style around the same time as leisure suits. You can ask Sam about those. We’ve got photographic evidence somewhere. I think it was baby blue, and it had bell-bottoms and a fake silk shirt and—”

“It was the seventies,” Sam says. “We had style back then.”

“Oh, I’m not arguing with you. I’m going to buy Deo one just like it for his birthday.”

“No, you’re not,” Deo says and then stops, considering. “Not baby blue, at any rate.”

Despite the retro color scheme, the kitchen is cozy. It’s warm, too, courtesy of the woodstove in the nearby living room. Unfortunately, if I stay in here, my eyes are going to close. I pour a cup of coffee, pull on my sneakers, and step outside into a clear blue cloudless morning. There’s still a hint of morning chill, and the breeze carries the scent of evergreens and smoke from the woodstove.

I walk to the far side of the property, which is easily ten times the size of the suburban backyards I’m used to. You could plop a high school football field in this clearing and still have room left over. A wooden picnic table sits near a small open shelter that houses extra firewood, a wheelbarrow, and an ancient push mower.

The table, like the shed, has seen better days. Flecks of paint, the same barn red as the cabin, cling to the sides. On top, the boards have warped and faded to a gray with pinkish-brown streaks. They look a bit like strips of raw bacon past their expiration date.

It seems sturdy enough to hold me, however, so I perch on top and take in the view. We’re in the foothills, overlooking a small meadow, and you can see mountains off in the distance. It’s pretty. Peaceful. A different kind of peace than I find watching the ocean near Sandalford. That’s more about embracing the chaotic churn of the waves meeting the shore—rhythmic, but never quite predictable. Here, it’s the sameness that’s relaxing. Nothing but the faint sough of the wind and the monotonous buzz of insects in the field.

That should probably make me sleepy, but it has a bracing effect. Maybe it’s the cool air on my skin, but I feel more awake now than I have since we arrived a little after four o’clock this morning.

I hear a door close and look over at the cabin. A small porch shadows the doorway, and all I can tell is that it’s a tall guy in jeans, standing next to the stack of firewood. Ordinary denim, not black or purple or whatever, which rules out Deo. So, one of the Brothers Quinn. He watches me for a moment, hands in his front pockets, then finally decides to step off the porch.

Daniel. He crosses the lawn slowly, not exactly limping, but definitely favoring his right leg. When he gets closer, he looks down at my coffee. “You going for the Guinness Record?”

“It’s only my second cup.”

I’m not actually lying, if I count cups since sunrise. If, however, I count from the last time I woke up, then gallons would be the correct unit of measurement, and I’m probably on my third or fourth.

“I meant consecutive hours awake, not caffeine consumption. Did you even try to sleep last night?”

“No. I’m doing okay, though.”

He doesn’t argue the point, just sits at the other end of the table cradling his mug of tea. We’re silent for several minutes. It’s a comfortable silence at first, but as it stretches out, it becomes awkward.

I finally break the ice. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Maybe. That’s what I’m trying to decide. How about you go first? Tell me what’s been happening since I checked out of the Hotel Anna.”

“You probably know as much as I do. Apparently, you knew Graham Cregg was in here long before I did.”

“I didn’t know for certain. That whole scene, from the confrontation at the airport until we were back in my hospital room, is kind of a blur to me. I was in and out of consciousness on the drive to the airport. It barely registered when Jaden left. He said good-bye and I wanted to say something. To thank him for . . . I guess mostly for being a buffer between me and you, and for teaching me how to mellow out a bit.”

“I miss him. Hope he found what he was looking for on the other side.”

“Me, too. I wonder how much having those visions shaped his personality? It might be easier to go with the flow if you know you can’t change anything.”

“Maybe,” I say. “Jaden wasn’t a fatalist, though. It’s not like he sat back and let the world roll past. He had a strong sense of right and wrong, and he acted on that. But once he saw something he knew he couldn’t change, he tried to make the best of it.”

“Like those grant me serenity posters.”

“Not exactly. Jaden’s world view was more like if the grant me serenity poster and the when life gives you lemons, make lemonade poster had a baby.”

“That works. Anyway, I sensed he was leaving, but I couldn’t . . . I don’t know. Form a good-bye thought, I guess? And then the next thing I remember, everything went crazy. It was like a dark curtain—although that’s not quite the right word—just enveloped the inside of your head. I don’t blame Hunter for bailing. I might have done the same thing if I’d had the opportunity.”

A wave of cold washes over me. I hadn’t even thought about the possibility that Hunter Bieler simply left, the same way that Will and the Furies did. That would explain why there’s no file cabinet in my head marked Hunter. But it would also mean that there’s a small, very lonely ghost in an airplane hangar in Upstate New York. I think a strong argument can be made that he’s much better off there than in my head with a murderous spider-rat, but it makes me sad.

That could be why Kelsey kept changing the subject when I mentioned Hunter. Maybe she didn’t think I was ready to deal with the fact that I abandoned him. Because, even though I didn’t do it on purpose, and even if he chose it, she would know it still feels like I abandoned him.

“But even if the invitation had included me,” Daniel said, “I wasn’t in any shape to make that journey twice. Being stuck inside your head was challenging enough. I can’t even imagine sharing consciousness with a little kid.”

“What?”

“Bree Bieler? His sister? That’s where Hunter went, right?”

I stare at him, dumbfounded. “I don’t know. Maybe. At first I thought he moved on, but . . . it wasn’t like the other departures. No dreams, no memories. I can’t short out electrical equipment anymore. I tried, just out of curiosity, but the lamp kept right on glowing. Is Bree a . . .” I hesitate, not wanting to use the Creggs’ word, but not sure what else to call my ability. Medium? Host? Ghost whisperer? “Is Bree a vessel?”

“No clue,” Daniel says. “Hunter said she had a couple of talents, and they had that twin connection. She wouldn’t be the only adept with more than one ability. Maria is both a Peeper and a Sender. Some of the Movers are also Zippos. And I don’t even know for certain that’s what happened. I’m just basing this on what I sensed from Hunter as he was leaving. For the first time since you picked him up, he was genuinely happy.”

“Maybe because he was able to let go and move on? All of the hitchers feel happy when they go.”

“Well, except Myron.”

Yes, it’s what I was thinking. I just chose not to say it.

And I guess Daniel can tell that his decision to fill in the blank annoys me, because he doesn’t press. He just says, “That would have been astonishingly quick closure for Hunter, don’t you think? Everyone he loved was still alive. Unlike Jaden, he didn’t have anyone waiting in the Great Beyond.”

I can hear Daniel’s ironic caps on the phrase and smile at his skepticism. I’m not sure what waits on the other side of death either, but I have to believe that something does. Otherwise, all of my hitchers simply walked into nothingness on the strength of a delusion. They existed, here in my head, after death. It doesn’t seem unreasonable to me that they still exist, somewhere beyond.

Daniel is right, though. Hunter was nowhere near the point of moving on. And Bree Bieler avoids me whenever possible. I’d thought it was because she was still angry about Hunter’s death, somehow blamed me for it. But I didn’t think much about it. After all, it’s not too surprising for a seven-year-old girl to have a bit of irrational anger, especially when she’s recently lost the person she loves most in all the world.

But it would make a lot more sense if she’s worried that I know what really happened. If she’s scared someone will try to take Hunter away from her again.

“Just a theory,” Daniel says.

“A damn good one. I’ll talk to Kelsey.”

“Maybe you should sleep first? You’re swaying back and forth like you’re drunk.”

“If I sleep, there’s a very real risk that Cregg will be in control when I wake up. My walls—”

“Your walls remain up to some extent when you’re asleep. We could see them. They’re not exactly solid, but I wouldn’t have wanted to cross that border.”

“You never planned to steal my body.” I tell him about the collection of documents that I found at Cregg’s townhouse. “There were also bank accounts that Alexandra—” I stop, suddenly remembering. “Did you guys call someone? We can’t just leave her there.”

“Porter’s taking care of it. He left a message at the local Sanctuary for Psychics office, and also with one of the Cregg campaign offices. She won’t starve to death in that place, if that’s what you’re worried about. But . . . back to the issue. It’s not humanly possible for you to stay awake indefinitely.”

“I know that. I’m just trying to give the second injection a bit more time to kick in. And . . . it’s getting better. He’s weaker. I actually looked in the mirror when I brushed my teeth this morning and didn’t see him.”

Daniel looks like he wants to argue some more, but he doesn’t. “You know, even without the medicine, I believe you’re stronger than Graham Cregg. And I know that all of us together are stronger.”

I give him a half-hearted smile. As much as I hope he’s right, there’s a considerable part of me that’s terrified he isn’t. Cregg has managed to shut me out whenever he wanted for the past month or so. He used me to set up a murder attempt on my own father. And he fooled the others on more than one occasion. Okay, maybe not Taylor, but then she shares Daniel’s skeptic gene. And she’s Taylor.

“I’ll sleep. Just not yet.”

“Okay. The reason I came out here in the first place was to ask you to hold off on mentioning Sariah to the others. Just to give me time to . . . wrap my head around it. I hate asking you to keep secrets again, but . . . none of them even know about her. I’d have to tell it all, from the beginning. I’m not ready for that yet.”

“I won’t say anything. But just so you’re aware, Taylor was wondering what you and Sophie were talking about when we were at the Waffle House. And we both know how she feels about keeping secrets.”

“You mean how Taylor feels about other people keeping secrets. She’s perfectly happy to keep her own. But yeah . . . if Taylor gives you any crap, send her to me.” He takes a sip from his mug. “And to be clear, I’m not planning on keeping them in the dark forever. I’m done with that kind of secrecy. I’m . . . I’m even going to tell Mom about my ability. She might be better off not knowing, but it isn’t fair to keep her oblivious when everyone else knows. I’ll tell her about Sariah and Caleb at the same time.”

I’m surprised to hear him mention Caleb, let alone use his name. In the past, whenever Daniel thought about him, it was as the kid or the boy. There was a dark tinge to those thoughts, not directed at Caleb but surrounding him. Feelings of anger and of guilt. Of responsibility and of denial.

“Is Caleb . . . yours?” That question has been bugging me since I first picked up his thoughts about Sariah and her son, and it tumbles out, even as I’m thinking I shouldn’t ask.

Daniel swirls the tea around in his mug for a long time before answering. “He could be. Sariah said no, but . . . she may have been lying. She did that sometimes.” He laughs softly. “It’s one of the things we had in common.”

“How—” I stop, annoyed at myself. “I’m sorry. You say you’re not ready to talk about it, and I start peppering you with questions.”

“No. I said I wanted to wait to tell the others. I hadn’t decided yet whether I wanted to talk to you about Sariah. But I answered your question about Caleb, so . . . I guess that was me deciding. You’re wondering how she died?”

I nod.

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s changed his mind about answering. When he finally responds, his voice is harsh. “She trusted the wrong person.”

“Senator Cregg?”

“Among others. Sariah was Delphi, too. She was first generation, though. We met when I was in the military. I joined to find out everything I could about the Delphi program. Dad was suspicious that Cregg was starting the research up again. Beth—the woman who owns this cabin? After the Delphi Project was officially shut down, she continued working with Decathlon Services Group. Beth worked with them in Afghanistan for a couple of years—nothing connected to Delphi, just general contract-management stuff. Then in early 2014, she returns stateside and finds out Graham Cregg has requested for her to be transferred to his subunit.”

“That’s Python, right?”

“Yeah. Only Beth didn’t want the transfer. Told Cregg her current position was less stressful. That’s saying something when she’d just been in Afghanistan, but I’m guessing the fatality rate was higher at Delphi.”

Daniel’s biological father was one of those fatalities. More than a dozen of the original subjects committed suicide during the five years after the program shifted from military to CIA funding. Even more of them suffered bouts of aggressive behavior. This included dozens of military personnel at Fort Bragg who took part in the test phases of the Delphi serum. Many second-generation adepts currently at Sandalford have a parent who died or went missing. Still others grew up in homes where abuse was common or only narrowly avoided, due at least in part to the PTSD-like symptoms the first-generation Delphi subjects experienced.

Cole Quinn, Aaron and Taylor’s dad and Daniel’s stepfather, was another supposed suicide. His death was much later, though, after he began poking around in Graham Cregg’s efforts to relaunch Delphi. Cole struggled for more than a decade with bouts of anger and aggression. Aaron once said there were punching bags throughout the house where they grew up, so Cole would have a way to vent. It must have worked. Aaron said his dad could be irritable, but he never hit them. Never hit their mom. And it says a lot that I’ve never once heard Daniel refer to the man as his stepfather, or even think of him that way. He was his dad, end of story.

“But, next thing Beth knows, there’s a reorg and her position is eliminated. She was pretty sure Cregg was behind it. That’s when she contacted Dad, and after some soul-searching, she decided to take the job in order to pass along information to him so that he’d be in a better position to blow the whistle.”

“So . . . you knew a lot more than you let on to Aaron and the rest of the family.”

Daniel sighs. “You could say that. Mom and Dad kept stonewalling me anytime I asked questions. And finally I had enough of it. Dad suddenly found himself telling me absolutely everything without really understanding why. Or even remembering that he’d done it.”

“You nudged him.”

“I did. Kind of wished I hadn’t afterward, since I was constantly on edge just like Mom was, worrying about what he was doing. Worrying that if he drew attention to us, Cregg would realize Taylor and Aaron were adepts. And frustrated that I couldn’t do anything to help. Neither of them was happy when I joined the Army. After my brief stint at Fort Bragg, I wound up overseas, working with human trafficking—combating it, that is. Do you believe in fate?”

The question is a major non sequitur, and it catches me off guard.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Well, I don’t. I wound up stationed at a base in Italy, maybe twenty miles from the Decathlon European headquarters. And I suspect my supervisor made sure of that after I started asking around, trying to find out details on the early Delphi experiments that happened at Bragg.”

I’m not following his logic. “As . . . punishment?”

“What? No, no. Because he wanted me to uncover stuff that he couldn’t tell me directly. Colonel Smith is still with the unit. I gave Magda his contact info back before I wound up in the coma, although I told her it might be best to keep my name out of it. I’m pretty sure he’s the reason the kids from the Fort Bragg school ended up at Sandalford when their funding got cut.”

Daniel spends the next few minutes describing his assignment and how he stumbled upon a connection between the Python subgroup and a jobs program that he suspected was a cover for sex trafficking. And right in the middle of all this, he learns that the candidates—mostly girls, mostly young and pretty—were being given some unusual psychological tests.

As interesting as all of this is, I’m starting to wonder if Sariah comes into the story at some point, or if he’s just spilling everything else in his head so that he doesn’t have to talk about her.

“I’m getting to the part about Sariah,” he says, sensing my question. It’s the second time that’s happened, and while it doesn’t exactly surprise me, I do find it a little disconcerting. Hang out in someone’s head for a few months and you get to know them pretty well, I guess.

“Sariah worked for a large international nonprofit. Her focus was the same as mine, ending human trafficking. Our paths kept crossing, although I’ll admit that wasn’t entirely accidental on my part. She was a few years older than me. Smart, pretty, passionate about her work. And she was seriously anti-military—not uncommon in her field, given that the military provides a huge market for sex trafficking. Sariah believed that programs like the one I was assigned to were nothing more than a microscopic Band-Aid the Army was trying to slap over a gaping wound, more to cover their ass than solve the problem.”

“Was she right?”

A ghost of a smile. “Sariah was almost always right. But I wouldn’t admit it. Where’s the fun in that? We ran into each other in a bar one night and spent three or four hours arguing. And . . . then we wound up back at her place. When we woke up the next morning, both of us were like, major mistake. This is never happening again. But it did, two days later. And pretty much every day after that. We’d argue and then . . .” He laughs, but it’s a little tremulous, like he’s close to tears. “That pretty much sums up our relationship. We’d argue, and then . . .”

I don’t say anything, but I am totally and completely unsurprised to learn that Daniel finds arguing sexy. Like I told Aaron, Daniel and I would not make a good couple.

“Eventually Sariah and I both reached the point where we had to admit that we didn’t want to stop. She had a boyfriend, a guy with her company she’d been dating on and off for a couple of years. He’d just left on a three-month field assignment—Kazakhstan, I think. She said she’d been trying to get up the nerve to end it. That she thought he was doing the same.”

He clears his throat. “Anyway, long story short, Sariah had been hearing rumors since she’d arrived in Vicenza that one of the programs run by Decathlon was actually a cover for a trafficking ring. And then she’s talking to her mother on the phone and discovers that one of her cousins in Bulgaria—that’s where her mom was from originally—had applied for an au pair position advertised on fliers in the town square.”

The cousin said the company put her through a strange battery of tests and wanted to hook her up to an EEG. Wanted to give her a series of vaccinations, even before she agreed to the job and even though she showed them proof that she was fully immunized. The girl got cold feet after the second interview, something that didn’t really surprise anyone in Sariah’s family. Most of the Tsvetkova women were very intuitive. Some even claimed they possessed second sight.

The local police weren’t interested in investigating. Neither was the military. There was no way a big multinational with that many government contracts was involved in something as sordid as sex trafficking. And so Sariah decided to take matters into her own hands. She spoke fluent Bulgarian, along with several other languages, and even though she was twenty-three—a few years beyond the age they were seeking—she could easily pass for late teens.

Daniel didn’t particularly care for the plan. It wasn’t sanctioned by Sariah’s employer, either. But he said they both felt they’d run into a brick wall. So the next time the employment service, which went by the name Pair Au Pair, posted one of their fliers, Sariah took a few days off and traveled to Bulgaria to visit her extended family. Daniel couldn’t get clearance for travel, so he had to wait in Italy.

“She wore a wire as a precaution,” he says, “and three of her male relatives—one of them local law enforcement—sat in a car a few blocks away, ready to storm the place on her signal. Nothing happened that first day, but she was convinced that it was indeed a human-trafficking setup. Told me on the phone they seemed much more interested in her appearance than in her education, even though she was told she would be tutoring kids if she was accepted. A big red flag was that they showed her a picture of the same family they’d showed her cousin, the Zimmerman family of Plano, Texas. Of course, it had only been two months. Maybe the Zimmermans were still in need of a nanny. But it seemed odd.

“Then she got a call to come back for a second set of interviews. A new battery of tests. They give her the same spiel about immunizations that they gave her cousin. She says no. They insist. And I guess they were more impressed with Sariah’s test results than they were with her cousin’s because they didn’t take no for an answer. She gives the signal and her relatives kicked the door in. The lead tester for Pair Au Pair pulls out a fat wallet and starts handing out Euro notes. Sariah leaves with her recording, and her family is a few hundred Euros richer. Would have been a major win if not for the fact that she got a dose of mystery serum. And about three weeks later, we find out she’s pregnant.”

I look toward the house when I hear the screen door close again. It’s Aaron. I’m a little worried that seeing me here talking to Daniel is going to trigger his jealousy, and I half expect him to turn back around. But he just watches me for a moment, hands in the front pockets of his jeans, the same way Daniel did before deciding to walk over. The Quinn brothers don’t look much alike, but I’m struck by how similar their mannerisms can be sometimes.

Aaron starts across the lawn toward us.

“We’ll have to finish this some other time,” Daniel says. There’s a faint note of relief in his voice.

“Sure,” I say softly, “but can I just tell you I’m really, really sorry? I should have opened with that, but . . . it’s hard to find the right words.”

“There are no right words. But it’s okay. I saw it in your eyes.”

“Good morning!” Aaron gives me a smile and then looks at Daniel. “Were you guys talking about what we discussed last night?”

“Oh, no,” Daniel says. “I’ll let you field that one. I think she’ll give you a lot more latitude on that issue than she will me.”

“She is sitting right here,” I say with a touch of annoyance.

“I know,” Aaron says. “And I promise I’ll fill you in, but it needs to wait. Taylor unlocked the iPad. More importantly, however, Pfeifer is awake. And he’s asking to speak to his daughter.”

My stomach drops. I should have been expecting this. Preparing myself for it. But I really hadn’t. I stood there watching him sleep, not exactly hoping he wouldn’t wake up, but completely avoiding the thought of an awake, coherent Scott Pfeifer.

“So . . . he knows who I am.” It doesn’t surprise me that he pieced it together. The look in his eyes yesterday—dear God, was that really only yesterday?—wasn’t quite recognition, but it was definitely something beyond the stare you give a stranger. It held the seed of recognition, waiting to grow.

“Yeah,” Aaron says. “I told him you’re sleeping.”

“He’s got maybe a dozen hitchers in his head right now,” Daniel says, “each with some sort of psychic ability. I’m guessing at least one of them picked up on the fact that you were lying.”

“With Sophie blocking,” Aaron says, “they may not have been able to read me. But yes. They probably also picked up on the fact that I’m worried about Anna being in the same room as him. Maybe even in the same house.”

“I can’t avoid him forever.” I don’t add that part of me would like to do precisely that.

Daniel and Aaron exchange a look, then Aaron says, “Every single one of those hitchers has a reason to hate Graham Cregg. We already know Sophie can’t control him completely. If they find out killing you would kill him . . . do you think Sophie can stop them?”

I stare into my empty cup, feeling more than a little stupid. Am I the only one here who didn’t even think about how my father’s hitchers might react to my hitcher? No wonder Sam looked so alarmed when he saw me standing in the doorway, watching Pfeifer sleep.

“Do we have more of the antipsychotic?” I ask.

“We do,” Aaron says. “Two more syringes and maybe a dozen pills. We weren’t sure how long we’d be gone, and you’ll need a shot every two weeks. Deo just grabbed what Kelsey had in stock. Which means she’ll definitely know they were taken if she does any sort of regular inventory. We dissolved two of the pills in the yogurt Pfeifer is eating now. The injection would be better than constantly crushing pills, but can you imagine him—or them, to be more precise—willingly submitting to a needle?”

Daniel agrees. “I don’t even think we should attempt it after what happened to Whistler and Davis last night. Plus . . . Anna was under Kelsey’s care when she was started on the medication. Sam was really hesitant about us even giving him the pills, and he’s got a point. What if Pfeifer has a bad reaction? Although I guess odds are he’ll do okay with it since Anna did.”

I start to ask why that makes a difference and then realize the answer is obvious. We share a nose. We undoubtedly share many other attributes as well. It just didn’t occur to me, because having family—having anyone who is a blood relative—is an entirely foreign concept to me.

Plus, I need sleep. My mental processor seems to be snagging on obvious connections.

If the two of them weren’t standing here, I’d probably give myself a good slap in order to wake up. Instead, I put my mug down and sink my face into my hands, rubbing vigorously.

“You said Taylor figured out the password? What was it?”

“2BR02B.”

For the first time in several hours, I sense movement from Cregg. A long scratching sound, faint, like the screech of chalk against a blackboard in a distant room.

“Which seems pretty random,” Aaron continues, “unless you think of the zero in the British sense as . . .”

“Naught. To be or naught to be. Of course it’s another bloody Shakespeare reference.” I pull the fake ID out of my pocket again. “You haven’t seen this yet, have you? Not just one but two Shakespearean names.”

“The photo looks . . . different,” Aaron says. “Not just the hair, but . . .”

“Yeah. He already had a plastic surgeon picked out.” I feel the tears forming, but I blink them back. There’s no way I’ll be able to stay awake afterward if I indulge in the nice, long, tension-releasing cry that my body really seems to want right now.

Aaron wraps his arms around me.

“I’m just . . . um . . .” Daniel clears his throat. “I’ll see you guys inside, okay?”

Once Daniel is gone, Aaron steps back and tips my chin up to look at him. He doesn’t say anything at first, just holds my gaze with his own. “I told you yesterday that Cregg is not going to win, Anna. I know he’s not, and here’s why. I’ve spent so much of these past few months looking into these eyes searching for you. And even when I found you, it was never completely you, if that makes sense? Most of the time, I’d still get this faint vibe, this faint echo of violent thought. Nothing fully formed, but . . . there. For the longest time, I didn’t want to accept that it was Cregg. I tried to explain it away as the concussion, but it kept getting worse. And anytime we confronted you . . .” He squeezes his eyes tight for a moment. “My point is, I think you’ve got this now. How much is you finally being aware so that you can fight him and how much is the medicine, I have no idea. But when I look into your eyes right now, all I see is Anna.”

He silences my protest with a gentle finger to my lips. “I know he’s still in there. I know. But he’s not hovering. I can’t see him. I can’t sense him.”

“I see him as a spider, Aaron. No, not just a spider, but some sort of freaky spider-rat. It has human hands on the ends of its legs, instead of claws.” The words tumble out, a torrent that I can’t even begin to hold back. “And when I saw my reflection, it was my face, except with a spider’s eyes, and—”

“But not now, right?”

“No. I can still feel him back there, behind the wall. Still tell when something makes him angry. So, he’s . . . listening. But it’s like he’s drunk almost. Or drugged, I guess.”

“See?” He smiles, the big smile I haven’t seen much lately. The one that reaches all the way up to his hazel eyes. “Like I said, you’ve got this.”

The tears do come then, and he wipes them away. “Here’s the deal. I had Taylor run a hot bath up in Beth and Virgie’s room. You’re going to have a nice long soak and a nice long cry, too, if that’s what you need. And when you’re done, you’re going to sleep.”

“Maybe . . . maybe you could restrain me, like Pfeifer, and then if you sense—”

“I’m not going to restrain you. Unless holding you while you sleep counts. I’m perfectly willing to do that. And . . . I have a backup plan. Will you just trust me?”

I’m about to ask him what exactly this backup plan entails, but my question dissolves into a yawn. It doesn’t really matter at this point. Aaron’s right. I can’t put this off forever.

I follow him into the house. Deo looks up from whatever he’s reading and mouths “Good night.” Aaron leads me upstairs and into the master bath, where one of those large claw-foot tubs is filled nearly to the brim, then tugs my shirt over my head. He undresses me quickly, in a brisk, businesslike manner. When he’s done, he scoops me up like a child and carries me to the tub.

My arms slide around his neck, and I whisper, “You could join me. Pretty sure this thing is big enough for two.”

He pulls in a deep, shuddering breath, and I lean forward, pressing my lips to his before he can exhale. I cling to him, needing him more than sleep, and slide one hand down to unbutton his shirt.

“No,” he says, breaking the kiss and lowering me into the water, soaking the bottom half of his sleeves in the process. “And don’t give me that pout. We’ve waited this long, we can wait a little longer until your eyes aren’t drooping shut.”

“You don’t think you can keep me awake?” I say teasingly. “Anyway, your shirt is all wet. You might as well . . . get in.” A giant yawn splits the last sentence, and he laughs. “Okay, okay. You win.”

I sink down into the scented water and float weightlessly for a moment. The cabin is pretty basic, but this tub is divine. I don’t even remember the last time I was in a tub, and I’ve never been in one like this. I can almost stretch out completely.

Aaron brings back a couple of towels and a clean pair of sweats from my overnight bag.

I float back to the surface and say, “My nightshirt is in there. Just dig around. It’s probably near the bottom.”

“Um . . . these are probably a better idea,” he says, coloring slightly as he heads toward the bedroom.

What’s up with that? Maybe the process of getting me into the bath has him more worked up than I thought and he doesn’t want to test his resolve.

As wonderful as the bath is, it was probably a waste. It’s hard to keep my eyes open. I only last about ten minutes before I climb out, wrap my hair in one of the towels, and pull on the clothes. My feet feel like lead as I plod into the adjoining bedroom, where Aaron is on the bed, his iPad in one hand.

And Daniel is sitting in the chair next to the window. That explains why Aaron didn’t grab the nightshirt that barely covers my bottom. I rub my hair with the towel and toss it over the bedpost, then crawl under the covers next to Aaron.

“You’re the backup plan?”

“Yep,” Daniel says. “I don’t know for certain if it will work, but if Aaron senses that Cregg is moving to the front as you wake up—something neither of us believe is going to happen, by the way—then I will tell him to get back in his corner.”

“Or better yet,” Aaron says, “to get the hell out of her head.”

Daniel nods. “Very good idea.”

“No,” I say. “A very bad idea. I’m not the only vessel in this house. And I’m having some degree of success controlling Cregg, probably due to several weeks of antipsychotic meds in my bloodstream.”

Judging from their expressions, this didn’t occur to either of them. I feel a little better now about not considering the negative reaction that my father’s hitchers might have if they discovered Graham Cregg hiding out in my head. That’s something that we’re going to need to reveal slowly, if at all.

“Both of you said earlier that you were confident that I’ve got this. So if Cregg is at the front when I wake up, please tell him to get back in his frickin’ cage.”

“Done,” Daniel says.

I say good night and pull my pillow onto Aaron’s shoulder.

The very last thing I remember before sleep is a sign flashing in my head.

THEY ALREADY KNOW.

NEWS ITEM FROM THE KANSAS CITY STAR

April 24, 2020

The terrorist organization known as WOCAN has claimed responsibility for yesterday’s shooting at Fort Leavenworth, which killed three and wounded seven others. The incident began around 4:15 p.m. Authorities apprehended the suspected shooter on a bench outside the Frontier Army Museum.

In the statement released to the media, WOCAN said the shooter, identified as Army Lt. Col. Paul Kerry, was controlled by one of their psychics when he walked into the museum and opened fire. Col. Melanie Proust, a spokesperson for the Combined Arms Center at Fort Leavenworth, said the WOCAN claim is sheer propaganda, noting that Kerry has been under considerable stress due to the recent death of his wife.

This marks the second event for which WOCAN has taken credit in the past two days. The first was a boiler explosion at an oil refinery in Ponca City, Oklahoma, where six people were killed and over thirty hospitalized.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Mathias, West Virginia

April 25, 2020, 8:13 p.m.

I wake with a start, surprised to find the room dark, except for the dim glow of a lamp. Daniel’s feet are propped up on the bed. He seems to be sleeping. A paperback is draped over one leg, and several discarded cups and plates lie on the floor next to his chair.

“They already know.”

Aaron’s arms tighten around me. “Whoa. Easy.”

“God, Aaron. You sound like you’re talking to a horse.” Daniel leans forward and turns the lamp to a brighter setting. “Who knows what, Anna?”

“The hitchers in my father’s head already know about Cregg. Will sent me another message, just before I fell asleep. He said they already know.”

“Any chance that was a dream?” Daniel suggests.

I consider the possibility. “Maybe.”

“You fell asleep really fast,” Aaron says. “A minute later, you were snoring away.”

“I don’t snore. Deo would have told me.”

Daniel gives me a look of fake sympathy. “Deo’s probably trying to protect your feelings. Seriously, I thought someone was using a chain saw outside, but, nope, just you.”

Aaron laughs and pulls me closer. “It’s nothing to be—”

THEY KNOW.

The words fade, and then:

KEEP YOUR SPIDER IN ITS CAGE.

WE DON’T WANT HIM IN HERE.

“Anna?” Aaron says.

“Not a dream. The group consensus inside my father seems to be better me than them. They don’t want Cregg joining their band of travelers, so I don’t think we have to worry about them killing me.”

“Or maybe they’re just saying that so we’ll let our guard down.” Aaron’s nose twitches on the last word. “Do you smell—”

Daniel jumps up, and the paperback that was in his lap falls to the floor and the cover begins to curl and blacken. Several of the pages have now caught fire. Daniel snatches the towel from the bedpost and drops it over the smoking book, smothering the fire, then opens the window to let the smoke out.

THEY COULD KILL ALL OF YOU RIGHT NOW IF THEY WANTED.

LIKE LUCAS. OR WHISTLER AND THE OTHER FUDD LAST NIGHT.

“Okay, okay,” I say out loud. “We get it.”

Opening the window apparently wasn’t enough to clear the smoke. The alarm in the hallway begins beeping, but it stops suddenly a few seconds after Daniel opens the door.

“Great,” Aaron says. “I’ll bet they shorted the damn thing out.”

Feet pound up the stairs, and Taylor and Deo appear.

“What were you guys smoking in there?” Taylor asks, wrinkling her nose.

“A book,” Daniel says. “It was a good book, too. And I hadn’t fin . . . ished it.”

He stops, simply staring at the wall for a moment. Then he goes back into the bedroom and scoops up the charred remains of the paperback with the towel.

“Incoming transmission?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, shooting me an odd look before handing the scorched book to Taylor. “Can you take this out to the porch? We’ll be down in a minute.”

Taylor narrows her eyes at him.

“I’ll fill you in when I get downstairs,” he says. “Just go.”

Once she and Deo are out of earshot, I ask, “What was the message?”

“Be glad we didn’t burn you, Fudd.”

Aaron grimaces. “Maybe you shouldn’t be here. These hitchers seem to have some issues with authority.”

“In the case of the guards at The Warren in general,” Daniel says, “it’s with good reason. They have every right to be vengeful. I’d lay damned good odds that most of them were shot by someone wearing a guard uniform. But I did my best to avoid hurting anyone, and if they’re peeking around in my head, they know that my goal was to get them all out of there. I only tased someone twice. One time it was the only way to keep my cover, and the other time, I was protecting two of our fellow wabbits. I don’t have anything to hide from them.”

He uses the nickname that The Warren adepts adopted for themselves. I suspect it’s on purpose, pointing out that he’s an adept, a wabbit, who was simply posing as a Fudd. And if they’re plucking these thoughts from our heads—and I’m guessing Will is the one doing that—then it will be next to impossible to hide anything from them.

Daniel gets a slightly vacant look in his eyes again. “Just poking a little fun.” When I raise an eyebrow, he adds, “They said they’re just poking at me. That if they’d really wanted to hurt me, I’d know it. Just a friendly game of Singe the Fudd. So I guess that means they’re okay with me. More or less.”

We join the others downstairs, and while Aaron explains what happened with the book, I open the fridge and pull out a container of leftover mac and cheese. It’s the bright-orange variety, and kind of disgusting. But I’m hungry, so I find a fork and then join the others in the living room.

“You want to heat that up?” Deo asks.

“No,” I say between bites. “It actually tastes better cold. Where’s Sam?”

“He went back to Maryland to pick up the RV,” Aaron says. “He’s going to check on Mom and be back late tonight.”

“He’d better be,” Deo mutters.

Taylor looks up from her iPad—although on closer inspection, it’s Cregg’s iPad. “He’ll be back. If he’s delayed for some reason, I’ll drive you to Sandalford. And not just because Maria is freaking out. Magda is going to be livid that the two of you tagged along with me and Aaron without her official sanction.”

No one responds. We all know she’s right, but I don’t really see any way around it, and I doubt the others do, either. Magda’s often livid, and we’re often the reason, so it’s not like it’s uncharted territory.

Taylor goes back to what she was doing, jotting something down in her spiral notebook.

“Have you learned anything from that?” I ask, nodding toward the iPad in her lap.

“Lots,” she says vaguely. “You can see when I’m finished. Or read my notes. Your choice.”

There’s a faintly uncomfortable sensation at the back of my head when I look at Taylor holding the tablet. I don’t exactly feel the urge to snatch it out of her hand. It’s more indirect than that, almost like I’m watching a movie or reading a book and that’s the motivation of the protagonist. Or, in this case, probably the antagonist.

Nonetheless, the sensation is strong enough that I look away from Taylor and shift the topic. “Have any of you talked to my father yet?”

“Not directly,” Deo says. “We took some food to him and Sophie. The house didn’t explode the few times she stepped out of the room, so maybe he’s figuring out how to control the hitchers?”

I shrug. “Maybe. He’s had this ability since before I was born, and he’s been in a psychiatric hospital for years. It’s possible someone taught him a few coping techniques. Was Sophie outside of the room just now when they torched Daniel’s book?”

“No,” Taylor says. “She was definitely in there. I don’t know if she was actually touching him, though. She’s been out a few times. I kept an eye on him for a couple of minutes earlier so she could grab a shower and then I stayed back to keep her company for a while. Asked her some questions about her time with the other group. I think she’s had a rough couple of months. Constantly being on alert is wearing her out.”

I drop the plastic container into the sink, then take a few steps down the hallway leading to the bedroom where Pfeifer is. The door is partially open, and I hear a faint burst of canned laughter. Sophie must be watching a sitcom.

It feels like the walls in the narrow hall are constricting, closing in on me.

I’m not ready to do this yet.

I say it out loud. “I’m not ready.”

And then I see another sign:

HEARD YOU THE FIRST TIME.

That’s creepy. Stop reading my thoughts.

SORRY. CAN’T. BUT NO ONE IN HERE WANTS TO HURT YOU.

AND EVEN IF THEY DID, I DON’T THINK SHE’D LET THEM.

Sophie?

WHO? NO. NOT SOPHIE. YOUR MOTHER.

What?

I stumble backward into the living room, bumping into Aaron.

“Anna? What’s wrong?” He reaches out to steady me, but I dodge him and bolt for the door.

I need fresh air. And I need a few minutes alone before I can trust myself to speak.

Halfway across the clearing, it occurs to me that it would have been smart to put on shoes. An April evening isn’t prime barefoot weather at this altitude. When I reach the picnic table, I climb on top and curl my damp, chilly toes beneath me for warmth as I try to get my head in order.

My mother? Seriously?

Will and the other hitchers don’t respond. Am I outside the range where they can pick up my thoughts? Or maybe they can tell my brain is on the verge of exploding and have decided to cut me some slack.

Aaron stands just inside the open cabin door for a moment, watching me. But it’s Deo who eventually crosses the lawn. In shoes, because he’s not an idiot.

“What happened?” he asks, sitting on the bench below me. “Did they threaten you? Aaron said he didn’t sense violent emotions, but he stayed back to make sure.”

I suspect that Aaron also realized I needed some space. Deo’s less savvy in that regard, but then we’re not used to demanding privacy from each other. We were lucky enough if we got privacy from the rest of the kids at Bart House.

And I’m glad he’s here. Aaron’s life has had its share of tragedy, but he was raised in a reasonably stable home with two parents who loved him. He might understand how I’m feeling right now, but not at the same gut level that Deo will.

“There wasn’t a threat.” I rub my temples. “Do you have your phone on you?”

“Um. Yeah.”

I go to the Washington Post website and search for the article about my mother’s shooting. It takes a moment, but I locate it.

I’m not sure why I need to see the picture again. It seared itself into my head the first time. The image is a grainy, blurred still from a low-quality security camera. It shows a man kneeling inside an office building. A gun lies on the floor next to him. He’s holding a woman against his chest. Her body is limp, one arm dangling off to the side.

It’s Pfeifer. And he’s definitely touching her. I knew that, but some part of me needed to see it for confirmation.

Daniel took up residence in my head because I touched his hand when he was—briefly—dead. Jaden and Hunter came on board the same way, as did Will and the Furies. As did Graham Cregg.

I knew that my ability was inherited from Pfeifer. So why did it never occur to me that he might have picked up my mother’s spirit?

To be fair, it’s not something I spent a lot of time thinking about. I never expected to meet him, and even if I did, I wouldn’t have imagined that her spirit would still be here. Leah Johnson Pfeifer died in 2004. She should have moved on ages ago.

The longest I ever carried a hitcher was two years. That was Emily MacAllister, age eighty-two when she died. Emily was sweet, but I think she may have been somewhere on the obsessive-compulsive spectrum, because she couldn’t leave until we tracked down the specific crossword puzzle that she’d left unfinished when she died.

All my other hitchers departed within a year. Most of them left because I was able to help them achieve closure, but a few moved on without it. It was as though the tether holding them to this realm grew thinner and thinner until they simply drifted away, like a balloon in the wind.

Deo remains quiet, but I can tell he’s waiting for an explanation. I hand the phone back and point to the picture. My father’s arm, clutching my mother’s body to his chest.

“He’s touching her. Like I touched Daniel, and Jaden, and . . .”

His eyes widen. “Oh. Oh, wow. I never even . . .”

“Yeah. Me, neither.”

“You ran out pretty fast,” Deo says. “You don’t want to talk to her?”

“No. I do. But . . . there were just so many emotions hitting me all at once. I never thought I’d speak to her. To either of them. I put a lid on all the questions I’d never get answers to long ago, and also on the . . .”

I don’t finish the thought, but Deo knows. “The anger?”

“Yes. I mean, it’s not her fault that he shot her, but . . . it doesn’t seem like she left me in very good hands, you know?”

Is it unfair of me to be angry? I don’t know. Whoever left me in that food court clearly thought I was possessed—and they were, technically speaking, correct. There were no signs of abuse or neglect, according to the police report. They just didn’t know how to help me. Maybe they hoped someone else would know how.

“But it’s not just anger, D. My mom has been dead for fifteen and a half years. After I heard what happened to her, I’ve gotten used to thinking of her as being on the other side. Heaven, or wherever my hitchers move on to. And now I find out she’s been stuck here all along, inside the guy who shot her. That’s sad and also creepy. He must be keeping her from moving on.”

“Maybe.” Deo doesn’t sound convinced. “But Pfeifer’s been locked in a mental hospital. Think how much effort you’ve put into helping your hitchers. You were grounded for a whole month at the Wheelwrights’ house because you ran off trying to find out what happened to that guy Abner’s dog. If you’d been locked up somewhere . . .” He shrugs.

I know Deo’s right, but it still makes me sad—and yes, angry—that she’s been caged up all this time. Not just locked inside Scott Pfeifer’s mind but locked up inside a hospital for the criminally insane. I’ve spent time in mental hospitals. They suck. Fifteen years in one would have to change you. And I think that’s what bothers me most. This version of Leah Johnson Pfeifer could be stark raving mad, but since I can’t remember her, how do I know she wasn’t crazy to begin with?

On the other hand, this is the only chance I’ll ever have to talk to my mother. And it’s a chance I never thought I’d get.

“Kelsey helped you locate people a few times, too,” Deo continues. “And, um . . . speaking of Kelsey, she called while you were asleep.”

“Did you tell her—”

“That she was wrong on the whole Myron thing? Yeah. She believed me, so I guess whatever Cregg did is wearing off. I didn’t get into the part about Cregg influencing her, though. She’s probably pieced it together on her own, and she was already mad about me raiding her drug cabinet.”

I grimace. “So you told her.”

“Yeah. I figured it was better to admit it before she found out.”

“What did she say?”

“There was a really, really long silence, and then she said we’ll discuss it when I return to Sandalford. And that I should get back there ASAP.” He stares down at his hands. “She’s right on that front. Maria and Stan are getting nervous. He says some of the paths show things starting at Sandalford in a matter of days. And he’s pretty insistent that our chances suck royally if I’m not there as an amp. I’ve already had to delay training sessions with two of the adepts.”

“Okay, help me out here. This whole training thing is one of my memory gaps. I had a sense there was some sort of training going on to get the adepts ready to defend Sandalford if necessary, but in that meeting with Maria it was like everyone had been carrying around a Dumbledore’s Army coin except me.”

“Yeah . . . um . . .” Deo winces slightly. “That was intentional, once we suspected you’d picked up Cregg. We didn’t know if he was passing information along to the Senator.”

“He wasn’t. They were obviously allies at one point, but . . . something happened. I don’t understand Cregg’s motivations, but I’m certain he’s not working with his father.”

“Well, anyway, you kept asking about the training. Insisting that you wanted to watch. It was kind of creepy, so we started keeping things more . . . discreet. Not just from you, but also from Magda and the security team. And Kelsey, too, once we realized she’d been compromised.”

“Well, hopefully Kelsey’s head is clear enough that she’ll believe me about Cregg influencing her. And I’ll make it clear that you swiping the medicine is the only reason I’m me right now. Maybe she’ll go easy on you if I plead your case when we get back.”

As I say the word we, I realize not all of us will be returning to Sandalford anytime soon. We can’t leave Sophie and my father here on their own, and Daniel’s ability may be useful in controlling him. And based on the message Will just gave me, it’s entirely possible that I’m needed here, too, since my mother is helping to rein in the teeming masses inside my father because she’s worried they might hurt me.

Which brings me back around to the reality that sent me running out here like a scalded cat.

“You could be right about Pfeifer, I guess. He may not have intended to pick her up.”

“Even if he did, is that so bad, Anna? Would you feel better if you knew she was still wandering around that building where she was killed?”

“No, but . . .” I want to argue that she’d have eventually left that building in search of her “last happy place,” like most of my hitchers. Spirits seem to gravitate toward the place where they last felt safe and happy. Or at least that was my working theory prior to the past few months. Molly was the first of my hitchers who’d been murdered, and she made it back to the homeless shelter where she’d been staying with her mom shortly before they were both killed. I doubt most people thought of the shelter as a happy place, but Molly was happy to be with her mom, happy her mom wasn’t doing drugs at the moment, and happy they were, at least for the time being, away from Lucas. And she was happy to be somewhere with a piano. All it took to pull her on board was me casually running my finger along the keys when I was there to see Deo, who’d just had a disastrous visit with his mother.

But maybe my working theory needs more work. Molly was exceptionally driven. She was determined to find her way back to her family, specifically to her grandfather, Porter, so that he could solve her murder and we could stop Graham Cregg and Lucas from killing again. Her quest wasn’t so much for revenge as it was for protecting others.

The Furies and the other spirits who were stuck inside The Warren, however, seem pretty hell-bent on revenge. They never moved on to their “last happy place,” and I have no way of knowing whether my mother would have either. Would she have found closure on her own or would she have been stuck there, nothing more than a cold spot a few perceptive individuals felt as they walked through the building on the way to the elevator?

“You’re right,” I say. “She’s probably better off. I was just feeling uncertain enough about talking to Pfeifer . . . and now it’s both of them and . . .”

Deo holds out his hand, palm extended, his brows lifted in an unspoken question. “Not sure it would help, but you said we needed to stop thinking of Jaden’s visions as a curse. Maybe it will give you some insight? Same rules as before, though. You tell me what you see.”

I consider it for a moment and then reach for his hand.

“First, get off the table so you don’t fall.”

Valid point. I sit on the bench across from Deo, taking his hand across the table, like we’re about to arm wrestle. There’s a much longer pause than usual, enough time to feel the warmth of his palm next to mine. Enough time to wonder whether it’s going to work. Then that weird metallic hum kicks in.

nnnnNNNNN

I step out into the sunshine, almost painfully bright after the dark interior of the van. That’s partly due to the sun’s reflection on the water, and partly due to all of the white surrounding us . . . the concrete sidewalks and the pristine tarplike covering of the amphitheater.

A shimmering veil of shattered glass covers everything around the tower—the grass, the bushes, even the rocks surrounding the railroad track. Someone seems to have swept the sidewalks, but even there, you can see tiny gold specks like glitter. A bit like the gold flecks in Aaron’s eyes.

No. No. I will not go there. Aaron and Taylor are fine. They have to be. Deo is fine. Kelsey is fine. They are all completely fine, and I’ll see them soon.

My father bends down to place his hand inside the area cordoned off by the police tape. He seems almost oblivious to his surroundings, completely absorbed in his task. Is this how he looked when he stared into the microscope, working on various iterations of the Delphi serum?

That thought gives me a slight shiver, or maybe it’s just the sense that we’re exposed, standing out here, snooping around a police barricade. And the police aren’t the only ones who might have the area under surveillance. The Senator’s people could be watching, as well.

Sophie opens the back door of the navy-blue van and waves for us to hurry. There’s a large Coldwell Banker magnet on the door. I see Miller behind her. He’s staring straight ahead, motionless.

“We need to go, Dad.”

He looks up at me, his expression startled, as though he’d forgotten I was there. The bruise just above his left eyebrow is a deep bluish purple now.

“Come on,” I say. “We have—

NNNNNnnnn

I keep my head down for a moment after the vision ends, trying to cement the specifics in my mind. Who else was there? Sophie, my father—and Miller? A van, but it wasn’t a Vigilance van. My thoughts were so focused on the scene in front of us that I wasn’t thinking about much else, except for that stray thought about everyone being okay.

“So . . . ?” Deo asks when I lift my head.

“I’m . . . not exactly sure. I do know I wasn’t here. Let’s go in, okay? I’m cold and they’ll want to hear this, too. Plus, I should apologize for freaking out.”

Deo gives me a teasing grin. “You can skip the apology. We’ve kind of gotten used to it.”

“Fair enough. Anna freaked out. Must be Tuesday.”

“Actually, I believe it’s Saturday. And yes, I got it. Have I ever missed a Buffy reference?”

We open the door, and Taylor slides over to make room on the couch for Deo. I sit on the edge of Aaron’s chair. He flinches when I wedge my feet between his leg and the cushion to warm them up.

“Jeez, they’re like ice cubes.”

“It’s cold out there. Sorry about running off like that. I knew my father was in there, obviously. But I just learned he’s been carrying my mother around in his head for the past fifteen years.”

Aaron squeezes my ankle. “No wonder you freaked.”

“I don’t get it,” Taylor says. “That’s a good thing, right? You get to talk to both of your parents. But you don’t look happy.”

“I am. No, really,” I insist, in response to Taylor’s skeptical look. “I’m glad. It’s just complicated. Maybe I’ll feel less conflicted once I talk to them.”

Daniel frowns. “You’re not doing that tonight. They just tried to torch the place. We need to hold off until tomorrow at the very least.”

“That’s Anna’s decision,” Aaron says. “Like I told Deo, I didn’t sense any violent thoughts, at least . . . not near the surface. It’s more like what I’d sometimes feel when Daniel was your hitcher and he was angry about something. Like a kettle on low boil.”

“I think that’s a pretty fair assessment. The message I got from Will was that, even if they wanted to hurt me, my mother would hold them back.”

“How?” Daniel asks.

“Mama-bear instinct,” Taylor says. “Haven’t you heard those stories of a panicked mother lifting a car off her kid?”

“I don’t care how protective she is,” Daniel says. “You guys saw what happened to Whistler and Davis last night.”

“True,” Aaron says. “But remember what I just told you about sensing something under the surface? We don’t know how long she’ll be able to hold them all back. Maybe sooner is better.”

He could be right, but I think back to the vision. Scott Pfeifer walking outside, relatively calm and at ease, even though the surroundings were in chaos.

“Maybe. But . . . I think his chill is going to last for a bit longer.” I tell them about the vision, filling in as many details as I can remember.

“You don’t know where this was?” Aaron asks.

“No. Like I said, there was a tall object near us, because I could see this elongated shadow. A tower of some sort, near a theater. And there were tiny gold sparkles in the bushes outside the crime-scene tape. Irregularly shaped . . . glass, maybe? My father was crouched down near a bush. I think he was inspecting them. I was worried that someone would see us. The police, or maybe the Senator’s people. And . . .” I hesitate, and then look at Aaron. “I was worried about you and Taylor. Also Deo and Kelsey, but it seemed separate. Telling myself that you were fine, but still worried. So I know you weren’t there. I don’t think Daniel was there, either.”

“Why were you worried about us?” Taylor asks.

“No clue. It was only a stray thought. I didn’t want to dwell on it. It was just me, Sophie, and my dad there. And . . . Miller, but something was wrong with him.”

“Miller?” Daniel asks.

“The ass Magda hired as head of security,” Taylor explains. “You were there with your father willingly?”

“I think so. Or at least, I don’t remember feeling afraid. Just a little wary, nervous that we might be exposed. I would have been looking for escape routes if I didn’t trust him.”

Deo looks directly at me. “You trusted him. In the vision, you trusted him.”

He sounds absolutely certain on this point. Much more certain than I am, and I’m the one who had the vision.

“How do you know?”

“Think back. What did you call him a moment ago?”

I give him a puzzled look, still not following.

“Anna. You said it was you, Sophie, and your dad. You called him dad.”

He’s right. I haven’t once thought of Pfeifer that way, and my discovery about my mother hasn’t exactly filled me with warm fuzzies where he’s concerned. Something must change between now and whenever this vision happens. And there’s unfortunately no way to tell when it happens. The shortest amount of time between the preview and the main event has been a few hours. The longest has been around six weeks.

The bedroom door opens, and Scott Pfeifer—or Dad, as I will apparently think of him in the (literally) foreseeable future—crosses the hallway to the bathroom on the other side. Sophie doesn’t follow. In my ongoing mental prep for talking to Pfeifer, I’d envisioned him still strapped to the gurney, like he was this morning. But that was over twelve hours ago.

He doesn’t look my way. That feels intentional, as though he’s giving me space. Like I’m a frightened animal who might run if he makes the wrong move. Not an unreasonable comparison, given the way I bolted across the lawn a few minutes ago.

I glance down at the bulky sweats I’m wearing and then run a hand through my messy hair. My hair and teeth are both unbrushed.

“I need to run upstairs. But yes, Daniel. I am doing this tonight.”

My bag is next to the bed. I pull on jeans and my last clean shirt. It’s crumpled from being crammed in with everything else, but I smooth most of the wrinkles away. When I’m dressed, I risk a quick glance in the mirror. No spider-rat. Just me, with bed hair that’s in dire need of a brush and another dose of midnight-blue dye.

I’m almost presentable when Aaron walks in and wraps his arms around me from behind. “You look beautiful. But I also thought you looked beautiful before, so . . .”

“Baggy sweats aren’t the first impression I want to make on my parents. Although I guess it’s not, strictly speaking, a first impression. For either of us, and . . . I’m babbling. Sorry. I’m nervous.”

“Do you want me to come in with you? Or . . .” He stops, shaking his head. “I was going to say Deo could, but I don’t think we need anyone with amp powers that close to Pfeifer.”

Like all of my other feelings right now, I’m of two minds. On the one hand, it would be really nice to have Aaron there for moral support. But I also don’t want an audience, and I don’t think my father will either. And while I’m fairly confident that I’m safe, I’m not sure whether that safety net extends to anyone else.

“I do want you there. But . . . I have to do this alone. Well, as alone as I can be with God only knows how many other people inside my father’s head.”

Another message from Will floats into my head, dispelling any questions I had as to whether my father’s congress of ghosts is listening.

TWELVE NEW. PLUS YOUR MOTHER.

WE WILL HEAR. CAN’T AVOID. BUT WILL NOT DISRUPT AS LONG AS HE STAYS CAGED.

Cregg is contained. But why should I even go in the room? If you can just transfer thoughts back and forth . . .

NOT YOUR SERVANT. THIS ISN’T EASY, YOU KNOW.

The tickle inside my head vanishes before I can respond.

“You okay?” Aaron asks.

“Yeah. Just . . . setting up ground rules for the meeting.”

As I expected, no one is entirely happy with my decision to go in alone. Our eventual compromise is that Sophie will be in there with us, wearing earphones as she watches videos. Aaron, Daniel, and Deo will be on alert in the bedroom across the hall. I guess the hope is that Daniel and Deo together might be enough to counteract any sort of violence that Aaron picks up from the Furies and whoever else is inside my father’s head, as long as Sophie is also using her blocking ability. They’d have to stay outside Sophie’s blocking range to do that, but I decide not to bring that up because it would send us back to the drawing board.

I expect Taylor to protest that they’re sexists for sidelining her. But she doesn’t. Either she realizes that there isn’t much she could do to help, since we’re not in need of remote viewing, or she’s simply too engrossed in what she’s reading on Cregg’s tablet to be bothered.

Again, I feel a wave of frustration from Cregg at the sight of his tablet in her hands. Frustration . . . or maybe indignance is a better word. Indignance that she’s invading his privacy. Which is the height of hypocrisy, coming from a body thief.

I approach the bedroom door and knock. A man’s voice says, “Come in.”

The sound catches me off guard. This is the first time I’ve heard him speak. His voice is deeper than I expected.

I feel his eyes on me when I step inside, but I look at Sophie first. She’s on the bed where she slept last night, her back against the headboard. An iPad—Taylor’s, judging from the light-blue cover—is propped on her knees. I reach into my pocket and toss her a pair of earbuds. She nods, plugs them in, and goes back to her show.

The gurney is still in the room, but it’s been folded flat and shoved partway under the bed. There’s no chair, so I perch awkwardly on the end of Sophie’s bed.

When I finally look up, Pfeifer says, “We still can’t believe it’s you. When we saw you outside of the Senate building, we were almost certain, but . . .”

He’s using the plural pronoun. It sounds strange to me, like one of those couples who share a Facebook account. Scott-Leah Pfeifer.

Maybe he can tell this from my expression, because he clears his throat and says, “You look so much like Leah when we first met. Not the hair.” He attempts a smile—a quick nervous uptick of one side of his mouth. “The military wouldn’t have allowed that. And she was a bit older than you are now, but . . . the resemblance is uncanny.”

I open my mouth, trying to think of something to say. I ran through several possible opening lines while I changed clothes, but none of them feel right. He’s at a loss, too, and we both just sit there, awkward and silent.

Then his expression changes completely. The effect is transformative, like I’m looking at an entirely different person. And I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what I am doing.

This smile is much more than a twitch. It fills the entire face, and the eyes, which were already shiny, are positively brimming now. “Anna? Oh my God.”

The voice is different, too. It’s still deep, but the inflections are more feminine. It reminds me of Scarlett Johansson when she plays Black Widow.

I still can’t seem to find words, and after a moment, Pfeifer says, “How did you get involved in all of this? Rowena was supposed to keep you far away from anything connected to Delphi. Is she . . . she’s okay, isn’t she?”

“I don’t know. Jasper mentioned someone by that name, but—”

“Jasper?”

I can’t tell whether it’s Scott or Leah asking. If I had to guess, I’d say it was both.

“Maybe we should take things in order. I didn’t meet Jasper until a few months ago. And I don’t remember Rowena at all.”

So I begin at the food court. I don’t actually remember being abandoned there, but it’s the origin story in my file with the State of Maryland. It’s also the first thing about my life that was documented, at least to the best of my knowledge, so it seems like a good place to start.

Sometimes it’s Scott sitting across from me as I talk. Sometimes it’s Leah. To be honest, the switching back and forth is creepy. I now have a much greater appreciation for Aaron, Deo, and the others who have all seen something like this on my face and didn’t run shrieking.

What’s weirder, though, is that feeling I had earlier, as though both of them are present at the same time. Occasionally they switch back and forth so rapidly it’s like I’m talking to two people simultaneously. Him? Her? Them? I can’t really tell.

When I mention the note pinned to my dress, the switch happens so fast I get mental whiplash. There’s a stream of angry curses, followed by, “You should never have trusted her.” Then, without missing a beat, a slightly different voice comes from the same mouth. “What choice did I have? And you’re wrong. Just plain wrong.”

Sophie is supposed to be watching her damn video and not listening in, but her eyes keep drifting over toward Pfeifer. I can’t blame her. How could any show hold her attention with this insanity playing out five feet away? Still, I give her an annoyed look, and she reluctantly shifts her body and Taylor’s tablet toward the opposite wall.

“Ro would never have abandoned her like that, Scott. Something happened. Something must have happened.”

He counters, arguing that she probably just didn’t want to be tied down with a kid at age seventeen. And while I really don’t want to pick sides in an argument between my parents, it feels like Pfeifer is browbeating my mother. Given he’s the one who pulled the trigger, that strikes me as unfair. Anyway, I’m pretty sure she’s right, so I cut him off in midsentence.

“Once I found out about you from Jasper—I know, I haven’t gotten to that part, but bear with me. He seemed certain you left me with your sister—Rowena, right?” A nod confirms this, and I go on. “Aaron asked his grandfather to run a background search and see if we could track anyone in your family down. Your parents died in 2012. But there’s no record of your sister after 2004.”

Pfeifer inhales sharply, and I quickly add, “There’s no death record. No missing-persons report, even though she was a minor. She seems to have just vanished.”

“Along with the insurance money and the other funds I transferred. That was plenty to disappear on, especially if you ditch the kid and only have one person to support. Leave that godforsaken town and—” Then, a split second later: “No! She wouldn’t have done that, Scott. I know my sister.” And then, “What other explanation is there?”

“Does it matter?” I snap. “It happened. I survived. Do you want me to finish or not?”

They look surprised. “Yes. Go ahead.”

I continue my life story—foster care, psychiatric treatment. Kelsey. Deo. Picking up Molly and getting pulled into the Delphi fiasco. Aaron. Meeting Jasper and learning that our suspicions were true and my parents had indeed been Delphi subjects. Magda. Sandalford. Her search for a cure, and why some of the adepts aren’t exactly down with that. And finally, my premonition that someone wanted to kill Pfeifer.

By necessity, it’s a condensed version of The Anna Morgan Story, and I’ll admit that I was selective in the bits that I skipped over. I left out Myron. That’s not the kind of tale you roll out on first acquaintance. I also didn’t mention Cregg. Will made it clear that the hitchers from The Warren already have that information, so I assume my parents do, as well. No point in stirring the pot. If anyone wants to know more about how I got stuck with this psycho, they can ask.

I also glossed over most of the problems I faced in foster care. In part, that’s because I’m worried it will just reignite their earlier argument about how I wound up in foster care. But the biggest reason is that I don’t want them to feel sorry for me.

What I said a few minutes ago is true.

It happened. I survived.

There have been some truly rotten events in my life. Many were undoubtedly set into motion when someone, probably my aunt, left me in that mall, wandering around with a teddy bear and an empty Orange Julius cup. But if I could go back in time, I wouldn’t change any aspect of my life, even that one. The same action set into motion the chain of events that led me to Kelsey, to Deo, to Aaron. To all of the hitchers who combined to make me me.

I’ve always wondered what happened to that teddy bear, though.

“What are you thinking about?” Pfeifer asks. I think it’s my mother this time. “Your colors changed. It was your usual indigo and pink, and then . . .”

Colors? I have blue hair and more or less pink skin, but it’s an odd comment. So I answer the question. “The police report said I had a teddy bear when I was found. It must have been lost in one of those first homes where I stayed. That always makes me a little sad. It would’ve been nice if the bear came along for the journey.”

“Not a bear. Zoe.” My mother—and it’s definitely her now—makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “The orange monster from Sesame Street. You remember, don’t you?”

I start to say no, but then realize that she’s talking to Scott, not me.

“Yeah. She couldn’t pronounce the name. It came out Doughy. She was your favorite. You took her everywhere, and they didn’t even let you keep her.” There’s a dull rage in Pfeifer’s voice, and his tears are pouring freely.

“No! That’s not . . . I mean, I don’t know that anyone took it from me.” Part of me wants to go to him—to them—but it still feels too strange, too awkward, to make physical contact. “Maybe I lost it or it got so ratty someone had to toss it out. Really, it was just a stray thought. It’s not like I’ve spent the past fifteen years mourning the loss of a stuffed monster.”

I smile, hoping to bolster this point, but Pfeifer isn’t having it.

“Maybe not now. But there was one night—probably more—when you did mourn for Zoe. When you couldn’t sleep because that stuffed monster was gone. And I wasn’t there to comfort you. We weren’t there to comfort you, because the very real monster who has taken up residence in your head forced me to shoot Leah. And as soon as we figure out how to deal with the bastard without hurting you, he’s going to pay for that.”

NEWS ITEM FROM THE PENSACOLA NEWS JOURNAL

April 24, 2020

Just when we all thought flu season was over, Escambia County health officials are cautioning residents about an unusual outbreak. Six cases have been reported in the past two weeks, almost exclusively among teens and young adults, with an additional twenty-two cases and five fatalities statewide. The primary symptom is a high, often life-threatening, fever.

The CDC is tracking similar outbreaks in Alaska, California, Illinois, Michigan, and Massachusetts.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Mathias, West Virginia

April 25, 2020, 9:28 p.m.

For the second time in the past few hours, I feel like whacking myself upside the head for missing something painfully obvious. Yes, it would make sense for the average person reading about my mother’s death to assume the man whose fingerprints were on the weapon, whose hands and clothing were covered with gunpowder residue, who even acknowledged pulling the trigger, was in fact guilty. Crazy, perhaps, but still guilty.

Unlike the average person reading about my mother’s murder, however, I sat in that lab at The Warren and watched as Cregg forced Deo to turn the gun to his own head. I watched Deo’s hands shake as he fought for control. And I lived through the dreams where Molly was forced to sever her own finger.

I have scars, too—physical reminders of Cregg’s power. One is on my arm. The tiny incisions line up perfectly with Bree Bieler’s teeth. The other scar, about an inch above my temple and visible only if you push the hair aside, is from the butt of a pistol that Jasper Hawkins smashed into my head.

Graham Cregg was in the driver’s seat all those times. As he was when I arranged for Abbott and Costello to kill my father. And apparently, he was in my father’s driver seat fifteen years ago when he killed my mother.

“Cregg was in the doorway the night you died, wasn’t he? I saw someone standing there in the newspaper photo. Two people, actually.”

“The second person was the newly elected Senator from Pennsylvania. Just stopping by for a visit with his son, if anyone asked, because he gave up all interest in the business when he first ran for office back in 1998. What a joke. He may not have been interested in the other projects at Decathlon, but he followed every new development on Delphi. And his wife picked up his financial stake in the company, no matter how many times he may claim there’s no link.” The voice changes slightly, and then it’s my mother saying, “And he was the perfect witness. They both saw Scott take the gun from my bag. Point it, pull the trigger. Open-and-shut case, even if there hadn’t been security cameras.”

“But why did Cregg do it?” Even as I ask, I realize this is a dumb question. We’re talking about Graham Cregg. He keeps a box of his victims’ fingers. The man isn’t sane. Why am I searching for any kind of logic to his actions?

“I can only guess. Maybe you should ask him,” Pfeifer says. And then, without even slowing down, “Really, Scott? Do you think he’d give her an honest answer?”

“Could you not do that, please? Switching back and forth constantly. It’s . . . disconcerting.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I’ll let Scott tell it.”

I feel like I’ve told my mother to shut up, and that’s not at all what I intended. So I roll it back a bit. “No, that’s okay. I want to hear from both of you. Just . . . maybe a pause? Or a bit of warning? And I’ll have to settle for your best guess on Cregg’s motivations, because in order to ask him anything, I’d have to—”

“Pull down your walls. Yes. That’s why the two telepaths in here struggle to read you. They can read the others in the house without a problem, but the man . . . Will? He says talking to you is like lifting a heavy weight due to all of those bricks. They couldn’t read you at all a few times today. Did Dr. Kelsey teach you that trick?”

I nod but don’t elaborate. It feels like they’re trying to circle away from talking about the shooting, though. Like maybe they’re hiding something or trying to avoid the topic. So I redirect.

“You were saying . . . your best guess on Cregg’s motivations?”

He hesitates, weighing his words. Or maybe he’s just trying to remember, given how long it’s been.

“I’d just threatened to resign. My best guess? He was unhappy about that. There were other scientists on the team who could have picked up my notes and continued the project. In fact, I’d bet that a few of them were still on Cregg’s team at this Warren facility. But I was the lead researcher. I knew the work better than anyone. Losing me was a setback, and Cregg always wanted results instantly. That was partly his father pushing, hoping for some new development they could parlay into getting government funding reinstated. I didn’t want that to happen, though. It was too dangerous. My only reason for remaining with DSG after the project officially ended was to develop a treatment that might mitigate the effects for you and the other adepts.”

“A cure?”

“No. A cure is something you take to get rid of a condition. There are some versions of the drug that don’t permanently alter brain chemistry. The military was keenly interested in a drug you could switch on and off. The OA drugs were designed to temporarily boost any latent psi ability, and we used those in the lab to determine which individuals might be good long-term subjects for Delphi research. That drug reverses on its own about a month after you stop taking it. You can speed the reversal along with other medications, reduce it to a few days. All of the Delphi drugs disrupt the dopamine and serotonin balance to some degree, but the OA class causes a sharp drop in serotonin. That can have major repercussions.”

“Violent outbursts,” I say. “Suicide.”

“Exactly. And the violence didn’t simply hit those who’d already shown psychic ability. There was a control group, too, each time we tested a new formula. The project churned through people on a fairly regular basis. I ended the reversal protocol after the second suicide among the Delphi subjects. But I don’t think there’s any chance of a cure for subjects dosed with the permanent form. And definitely not for second-generation adepts, where the rest of the brain developed in tandem with the sections affected by the drug. Any attempt to reverse the effects would probably be futile and possibly fatal.”

“That’s why the second-generation adepts don’t have the same problems with aggressive behavior, right? The fusiform gyrus developed in sync with the amygdala, so there’s no additional pressure on that part of the brain.”

“Yes. How did you know that?” Pfeifer asks with a surprised smile. There’s a bit of pride in his smile, which is kind of amusing. Perhaps he’s hoping I’m a chip off the old block, a budding neuroscientist.

“Something Dr. Kelsey mentioned a few months back. She thought the fact that the amygdala is smaller in women might also explain why male test subjects from the original group are more volatile.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” he says, “at least with some of the later formulas, but that’s a very good deduction. Anyway, a cure isn’t possible for the second generation. My goal was to develop a treatment that might allow you and your fellow adepts to lead normal lives. Or, more accurately, a series of treatments, since not all of the formulas act in the same way. I stayed with the Python group at DSG because I needed lab access. No way to test the formulas without their resources. I continued to conduct the treatment research while also working to improve the on-off switch, as the temporary formulas were known in the lab, and also two new formulas that Cregg was particularly interested in. One was the amplifying serum that your friend Deo was given. The other was the suppressor serum that gives Sophie her ability to block. Flip sides of the coin.”

Sophie looked up when her name was spoken, so it’s obvious that she’s paying almost no attention to her video. At this point, I’m tempted to tell her to go, but since that would probably worry Aaron, I opt to ignore her.

I also ignore the sick thud in my stomach when Pfeifer mentions the amp serum. It’s not like he’s telling me anything new. I’ve known for months now that his research was the genesis of the Delphi program. This man—one half of my gene pool—created the drug that nearly killed Deo. That did kill quite a few others.

“So, while I don’t know for certain,” Pfeifer continues, “my best guess is Cregg found out what I was doing. That I’d been stringing him along and using Delphi resources for something unrelated to his primary goal. We were already having disagreements over human testing. The blocker and amp formulas weren’t stable—and the fact that there are still so few adepts with those abilities suggests to me that this hasn’t changed. The only reason I was able to hide what I was doing for as long as I did is because there’s a small area of overlap between the suppression formula Cregg wanted and the treatment I was working on.”

A slightly dazed curtain falls over his face. “Cregg didn’t have time to plan it, since he couldn’t have known your mother was coming. I didn’t even know. I thought the two of you were still in Colorado. Cregg simply stumbled upon a way to punish me that not only removed the possibility of me going public with the deaths caused by the Delphi Project but also guaranteed anything I said would be discredited as the ramblings of a madman. A guy who couldn’t accept he’d shot his ex-wife in a fit of anger. He could sell that story, and he knew it.”

“Why did you divorce?” The question isn’t germane to the current discussion, but I want to know.

There’s a very long pause before they answer. I suspect there’s an internal debate going on about what to tell me, because my father’s expression looks like the video Deo once made of me conferring with one of my hitchers—eyes vacant, mouth slightly open.

“It was . . . complicated. I think that’s how people put it these days, although judging from your expression right now, maybe that term is already cliché. Our reasons were personal, and we’ve had fifteen years together since then to work those out. You’d be amazed how many misunderstandings disappear when you share a mind.”

I’m one of the few people who wouldn’t be amazed in the slightest. I understand Daniel—and vice versa—a hell of a lot better than I used to, and he was only in my head for a few months. But I want to hear the rest of what they’re saying, so I don’t comment.

“The most important reason, however, was to protect you. We started making plans even before you were born. You were a . . . surprise. Not an unwelcome one,” they add hurriedly. “Definitely not.”

I can tell this isn’t true. I don’t blame them. There is no way I would voluntarily bring a child into the mix under their circumstances at the time, even though, from a purely selfish standpoint, I’m glad for the mistake.

Pfeifer goes on to say that several former Delphi subjects had popped up at the Python offices reporting that their kids were manifesting signs of psychic abilities. Most of the parents were well past the point where reproduction violated the terms of their contract, and some threatened to sue Decathlon. The legal team pulled out their contracts, in which they’d basically signed away all rights, in perpetuity, for themselves, their heirs, and so forth. And then they pulled out a corporate checkbook, along with a nondisclosure agreement. The cash payout was a pittance that would never cover the extra expenses most of them incurred trying to care for their children. Pfeifer seems confident that at least some of those kids eventually wound up at The Warren, because the official complaint put them on Cregg’s radar.

All through this discussion of Cregg and Decathlon, Pfeifer’s tone is harsh and damning. I want to ask him about his own role in all this. It was his research, after all. He worked on the project for nearly a decade. Even if he spent the last few years working against them in some fashion, surely he must shoulder a considerable portion of the blame?

That doesn’t seem like a wise topic of conversation this early in our relationship. But I know those questions will gnaw at me. I’ll have to ask him eventually.

“Cole Quinn was smart about it,” Pfeifer says. “Although I suspect that’s because he did violate the terms of his contract with Decathlon. It was only three months after his contract expired when he showed up one Thursday night at a bar where he knew a group of us from the lab usually went for a drink after work. He pulled me aside and asked how my side project was coming along. I didn’t even realize he knew what I was working on, but he and Beth Wilcox dealt with a lot of the paperwork. Equipment orders, lab materials, and so forth. If anyone could tell I was doing something outside my mandate, it would have been them. Anyway, Quinn asked if I’d had any luck, and I could tell from his expression that it was . . . personal for him. I ended up agreeing to take a look at his boy, even though I still didn’t have anything to offer in the way of treatment.”

“Aaron?”

“Yes. The kid was barely talking yet on his own, just typical toddler phrases. But he knew when someone was angry. What they were angry about, what they were thinking. He’d repeat exact words, many of them words that weren’t in his vocabulary. We even did a reading with portable EEG equipment, older than the stuff in the main lab, but good enough for me to spot the signature changes in brain activity. We got a very vivid spike in the readings when the boy picked up something from one of the other hotel rooms. Right in the middle of the test, this toddler yells, ‘You bastards!’ at the top of his lungs.”

I can’t help but smile as I picture a toddler-sized Aaron in one of those EEG caps. Pfeifer doesn’t need to describe it. I wore them many times back when doctors were trying to figure out what made little Anna go crazy. The worst parts were the adhesive strips that held the wires in place and that cold gel that increased conductivity but left my hair all gross and sticky.

My smile fades, however, as I think about how incredibly challenging it must have been for Michele and Cole Quinn to handle Aaron as a small child, especially when the Delphi serum left Cole with a temper that he struggled to keep under control. And how hard it must have been on Aaron, knowing every stray angry impulse that passed through the mind of his parents, his siblings, his teachers—even if they’d never act on those impulses. It’s a miracle that Aaron is sane.

Pfeifer says Cole showed up about the time they learned Leah was pregnant with me. She had been part of the last test group at Fort Bragg and opted not to sign up with the civilian version of the program, partly because they were dating by then and it would have raised eyebrows. They had a long-distance relationship until her three years were up, then they married and she joined him in Maryland.

“Only a few people at work even knew. Our relationship started when we were coworkers, and . . . it seemed wise to keep our private lives private. Leah’s ability wasn’t exactly top priority for the military, anyway, although I suspect that Senator Cregg wouldn’t mind having someone like her on the campaign trail.”

“What exactly does she . . . do?”

Sophie is listening again. She’s gradually pivoted back toward us as we talked, and I can almost see her ears perk up when I ask the question. While I totally get that it might be hard to ignore our conversation, it’s beginning to feel very intrusive. I shoot her an annoyed look, but she doesn’t turn away this time.

Pfeifer notices the silent exchange between me and Sophie. “She’s been cooped up all day. All day yesterday, too, from what she told me earlier. Let her get up, stretch—”

“Don’t bother,” Sophie says, holding up the tablet so that I can see her ratcheting up the volume. “It will probably destroy my hearing, but whatever.” Then she reaches down and tugs the quilt over her head. “Happy now?”

“We’ll wrap up soon,” I say. “It’s late, and we aren’t going to catch up on fifteen years in one sitting.”

“That’s true,” Pfeifer says. “But to answer your question, your mother sees . . . auras, I guess?”

A laugh, and then Pfeifer’s face shifts. “Always the scientist. After all this time, it still makes him crazy to talk about things he can’t quantify. How do you apply the scientific method to a ring of color that shifts with a person’s mood? Something a researcher can’t even see? Scott has always been much more comfortable with the firestarters and telekinetic crowd, where it’s easier to define variables and to measure output.”

“But . . . he picks up ghosts. Which you can’t measure and no one else can see.”

“Yes! That’s exactly what I told him. You’d think that would have made him less of an empiricist, but . . .” She shakes her head, smiling. “Anyway, he’s right. I see auras.”

“That’s what you meant earlier. When you said that my colors changed. Do they look the same as they did when I was small?”

The smile fades a bit. “Mostly.”

I start to press her on that, but then it occurs to me why she’s being evasive. “You see Cregg, too, don’t you?”

“Not completely. Your colors still predominate, but . . . your edges are murky and gray-green. And everything else is a little dim.”

“Do the colors signify anything?”

“That’s the part that’s hard to quantify, because everyone seems to see them a little differently. What’s more interesting to me than the actual color is when I notice changes. I see those when someone is happy. Or upset. Or lying. If I . . . this part is hard to explain, but if I peer closely into the aura, I can usually pick up stray thoughts and emotions. And sometimes, I can tweak those emotions to clear up the colors—to get the person into a more pleasant mood. A more cooperative mood. That last element probably would have made me a subject of interest to Python, even after I left the program. Someone they’d have been inclined to keep a closer eye on and maybe . . . employ. But Scott played down that side of my ability when writing up his report, because I’d made it very clear that I had serious moral reservations about using it.”

“So a milder version of Daniel Quinn’s ability. Like when he told Cregg’s daughter to go into the containment unit at the lab last night?”

“We don’t remember that.” Pfeifer looks down, clearly uncomfortable. “We . . . weren’t exactly in control last night. But yes, it sounds similar. It’s also somewhat similar to Graham Cregg’s ability. That’s the side of it that bothered me, and it eventually bothered Scott, too, once we talked through the moral implications of his research. I’ve used the ability when I had to. A few times when you were small, I used it to convince a ghost you picked up that it was time to go. And I tried it on Cregg that night at Python labs, but . . . it backfired.”

“How?”

The silence stretches out so long that I’m not sure she’s going to answer. But then she shakes her head and says, “Memories can be slippery, Anna, especially the ones that are tied up with our emotions. And that’s even more true of old memories. Ones that have lived in our minds for a long time, so long that they’re more like a memory of a memory. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah. That’s how it is with the memories from my hitchers. My . . . ghosts.”

“Hitchers,” Pfeifer says, trying out the word. “I like that. Anyway, I latched on to a memory of Cregg’s that wasn’t quite what I thought. It was the brightest, most vivid memory in that wretched man’s head, but then it . . . twisted in my grasp. Have you ever watched Snow White?”

It’s actually one of the few Disney movies that I haven’t seen, or at least not all of it. Deo and I tried a couple of years ago when one of the other foster kids put it on. It was too saccharine, though, and the warbly singing made my skin crawl. But one of my hitchers watched it, and I have one of those vague memories of a memory, so I nod for her to continue.

“The apple that the witch gave Snow White was shiny, bright, and perfect on the outside, hiding the poison within. And that’s what this memory of his mother was—”

The rage in the back of my head isn’t as strong or as protracted as it was back at the townhouse, when I saw the spider’s eyes in my reflection. But this brief flare is still more than anything I’ve heard from Cregg since we arrived here at the cabin. He doesn’t want to hear what my mother is saying. This is a memory he doesn’t want to share. That he doesn’t want to relive. My walls are solid, but they don’t entirely block his furious desire to shut her up.

Several things happen at once. The bedroom door swings open, smashing into the wall and sending one of the pictures hanging nearby crashing to the floor. Aaron rushes through the doorway, his face flushed the way it always is when he gets a vibe. Daniel is right behind him, yelling for Sophie to grab Pfeifer.

All of this is background, however. My eyes are fixed on Pfeifer’s face. Seeing his expression switch between his personality and my mother’s was odd, but this is terrifying. It’s almost like his face is a video being played on fast-forward, or maybe one of those flip-books shifting between images at an abnormally rapid pace. He’s saying something, but it’s not in English. I don’t think it’s in any single language, but more of a multilingual word salad tossed together by the spirits hovering just below his surface.

And then, for a split second, my father turns into a giant spider-rat. He’s no longer sitting on a bed. It’s a stack of bodies, dozens of bodies. Some are strangers, but most are all too familiar. Deo. Aaron. Kelsey.

By the time the scream reaches my lips, the creature is gone. It’s just Pfeifer, on the bed, staring at me. The only clear signal that reaches my brain is a written sign from Will.

KEEP THE SPIDER IN ITS CAGE!

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Mathias, West Virginia

April 25, 2020, 10:13 p.m.

Aaron takes hold of my arm and spins me around to face him. I know this look. He’s trying to read my eyes, to be certain that Cregg hasn’t taken over. And that tells me he didn’t just pick up a vibe from Pfeifer’s crew. He picked up one from my hitcher, too.

I want to hold Aaron’s gaze, to reassure him. But right now, I don’t want to turn my back on Pfeifer. The flip-book show on Pfeifer’s face has ended, landing on my mother’s expression. She looks shaken, but I can tell she’s regained control.

“I’m sorry! Cregg’s colors surged. It was only for a second, but I was worried your walls wouldn’t hold. And as soon as that thought entered my mind, it set off a chain reaction with the others.”

“A nuclear chain reaction,” Aaron says, lowering the gun that I’ve just realized he was pointing toward my parents. That can’t have made Leah’s job of reining them in any easier. I shudder, remembering the shifting tide of raw emotion that washed over Pfeifer’s face a moment ago. It was like the girl from The Exorcist. Was that how I looked to Deo when the Furies were fighting for control of me that night in Lab 1?

I’m not sure I want to know.

“You should go,” Pfeifer says. “Sophie and I have things under control, but they’re still really close to the surface.”

Aaron backs us out the door and into the hallway. Daniel and Deo are already in the living room.

“What the hell was that?” Aaron asks.

“You saw it, too? The spider?”

“No. It was like the whole room was a mob scene. Hundreds of people, and then they vanished.”

“Yeah, well, I saw Patrick, my stepdad,” Deo says. “I’m guessing Daniel saw his wall of water again. What about you, Tay?”

“I didn’t see anything.” Her grim smile tells me she’s lying. “But we need to get out of here for a while, so bundle up, kiddies.”

None of us are thrilled at the prospect of tramping out to the far side of the property. But it seems unavoidable, so we pull on our shoes and jackets.

Once we’re outside, Taylor tosses the keys to Sam’s SUV to Aaron. “When we’re finished talking, you two should clear out. Drive into Moorefield. Go to a movie or something.”

“It’s after ten,” Aaron says.

“Then go to Walmart. Buy some food. Or you could actually follow through on what we talked about yesterday if you’re feeling adventurous. Just get Anna out of here and let things calm down.”

“She’s right,” Daniel says. “But maybe Deo and I should take her, since I seem to make them nervous, too. If anything happens, they might be less upset if Aaron was the one with the weapon.”

“Could we stop thinking about shooting my father as a viable option, please?”

“I didn’t mean against him,” Daniel says. “I don’t think anyone tracked us here by conventional means, but we’re dealing with other psychics. Someone should definitely be armed if the Senator’s people decide to pay us a visit. I’m not sure it will matter if there are more than a few of them, but . . .” He stops and rubs a hand through his hair. “I just totally invalidated my argument, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did,” Aaron says. “The only thing I offer is an early warning system. You, and especially you combined with Deo, offer a defense. Plus, if you need actual firepower, Taylor has her gun. She’s a better shot than you are, anyway.”

“Then she must be twice as good as you.”

I ignore their posturing and focus on Taylor. “You knew what was going to happen with my father, didn’t you?”

She waves her hand dismissively. “I knew something was going to happen. From Stan’s texts. He told me about the fire upstairs and that Aaron would . . .” She stops, pressing her lips together, but she’s already said enough to pique Aaron’s curiosity.

“That I would what?” he asks.

Taylor takes a seat across from us and stares at her brother for a moment. Her face softens, but she finishes the statement. “That you would overreact. Again.”

The color drains from Aaron’s face. I get the sense that Taylor is referring to something they’ve discussed privately.

Surprisingly, Daniel comes to his defense. “Aaron drew the weapon because he convinced me, ahead of time, that Pfeifer’s visitors would never be able to relax as long as I was armed. They can’t help seeing me as a Fudd, as one of Cregg’s men. If Pfeifer hadn’t managed to corral them, I’d have gotten Sophie to stop blocking so I could step in with a nudge. But that has to be a last resort. One instance of me pushing his hitchers the wrong way, and they might torch this cabin and half the valley along with it. But, Taylor—if you knew about this ahead of time, why in hell didn’t you give us a heads-up before Anna went in? What happened to your whole we-can’t-keep-secrets campaign?”

“Anna needed to talk to Pfeifer. And Stan says that all paths show Anna as stable, at least for the next few days. Otherwise, I would have told you.”

“It sounds like you’re giving a damned weather forecast,” Daniel says. “And I’m guessing this Stan guy’s predictions aren’t much more accurate. You’re putting a whole lot of faith in his ability, and since you’re keeping secrets, you force us to do the same. That makes me very nervous. I remember Stan vaguely from The Warren, but I don’t know him. I don’t know what his motives are.”

I keep quiet. This has the makings of a sibling argument, judging from the tilt of Taylor’s chin. And while I really don’t want to piss Taylor off, if I had to pick sides, I’d back Daniel on this one. I don’t know Stan that well either. He strikes me as very . . . pragmatic. Plus, he claims to see dozens of different paths. There were so many ways that things could have gone horribly wrong in that room, so any claim that all of the paths Stan was monitoring were safe ones strikes me as nothing short of miraculous. He’s gambling, and I’m starting to feel like we’re the dice he’s rolling.

“I do remember Maria,” Daniel says. “But I remember her as a troublemaker who spent her time playing practical jokes and embarrassing people. She wasn’t some Joan of Arc marshaling troops into battle.”

Taylor gives him an icy look. “You remember me playing My Little Pony and eating fluffernutters. People change, Daniel. They grow up.”

Deo mumbles something in defense of fluffernutters, but they both ignore him.

“This was less than a year ago,” Daniel says. “Maria can’t have changed that much.”

“Really?” Taylor says. “Sometimes people grow up fast because their circumstances change. Maybe their dad gets killed. Or their best friend. Or both. Was I the same person a year after those things happened to me?”

Daniel doesn’t respond, and I’m once again wowed by how well Taylor plays her oldest brother. It doesn’t usually work as well on Aaron, although he’s oddly quiet right now.

“And,” Taylor adds, seizing the moment, “it’s sometimes better if you don’t know everything in these situations. Anna understands exactly what I mean.”

She’s referring to my own visions, and on that point, she’s right. I rarely tell the others the specific details, especially if it’s something that affects them. I made an exception this last time, mostly because the brief thought I had about them in the vision was vague. But it usually makes more sense to limit the number of people who have to deal with knowing what’s coming down the pike, especially when it’s written in stone.

Stan’s visions aren’t like that, however. There are variables. Things can and do change. I could bring this up, but they all know it, and what I really want is for the argument to end. My stomach is already tied in knots from the experience with my parents, and this isn’t helping.

Apparently, Deo feels the same way, because he deftly changes the subject. “What did Pfeifer mean about your colors surging? That made no sense at all.”

“It’s kind of a long story,” I say, and then give them a basic overview of my conversation with Pfeifer. They’re as surprised as I was to learn that Cregg was behind my mother’s murder, but not surprised in the least at my description of how his face shifted when it was my mother speaking, or during that brief moment when the Furies charged forward.

“You look nothing like Molly,” Taylor says. “But that night when you let her take control at Sam’s office? It was like seeing a pale, blonde version of my best friend. The facial expressions were totally Molly. That convinced me as much as anything she told us. And more recently . . .”

She doesn’t finish the comment, but it’s clear from her grimace that she’s talking about Cregg.

“You’re sure your walls are solid?” Aaron asks. “I mean, I’m not feeling anything right now, but I didn’t charge in like that because of his gang of hitchers. That didn’t hit until I threw open the door. The vibe I got was coming from Cregg. An intense split-second surge of rage directed at Pfeifer . . . and at Taylor, oddly enough.”

Taylor taps the iPad next to her. “Probably doesn’t like the fact that I’m digging around in his Chamber of Secrets.”

Deo snickers, and I think he’s about to make a joke, but then he seems to remember this is Graham Cregg we’re talking about. His secrets aren’t exactly a joking matter.

Cregg stirred behind the wall again when she tapped the screen just now, but it was a feeble movement. His recent burst of activity seems to have drained his energy. This is a more passive reaction—a pitiful flip of his middle finger instead of a murderous lunge at the barrier—and it doesn’t even trip Aaron’s radar.

Taylor’s watching me, however, with same expression she wore at The Warren the other night, just before she gave me that second injection. She’s measuring me, trying to gauge my limits. Despite her claims that everything is safe, that the great prophet Stan has decreed that I am stable, there’s a seed of doubt. I can’t fault her there, but I do wish she’d be less mercurial.

“My walls are intact, Taylor. What’s up?”

“A couple of things. But maybe it would be best to wait until morning. I know you just woke up, but some of us are tired.”

She’s not exactly lying, but she’s being evasive.

“Taylor, Cregg just stormed the castle in there, and he seems wiped. If you’ve got something to tell us and you’re worried about Cregg’s reaction triggering a response from Pfeifer’s horde”—I gesture toward the cabin—“this really might be the best time.”

“All right. Fine. I’m nowhere near finished, but from what I can tell, this is Cregg’s . . . I don’t know. Master file, I guess. Everything he’d need to hit the ground running with his sexy new body. Sorry . . .” she says, in response to my expression. “Most of the information isn’t actually on the tablet, though. He’s got links to files, probably hosted privately. I’ve downloaded some of those to my laptop, in case his daughter or someone else decides to scrub the server. I couldn’t get them all, though—one set requires a fingerprint.”

Aaron sighs. “Maybe there’s a work-around? A password option?”

“And why would we need that?” Taylor asks.

“Um . . . because I don’t want to find Cregg’s grave and dig up his moldering . . .” Aaron stops and grins as he lifts my hand from the table. “Got it. Open sesame.”

“You mean my fingerprint could have opened the thing all along? We didn’t need to guess the password?”

“No. There are several fingerprints in the tablet’s memory, but Cregg didn’t set it up to unlock the device. It’s just an extra layer of security for some of the files. Anyway, the thing is a total grab bag. Financial data—both personal financial info and also a ton of stuff dealing with Python Diagnostics and Decathlon. Some dirt on his father as well. A bunch of medical files and spreadsheets. Pages of scientific notes. Data on the adepts—information from when he had them at The Warren or down in that silo, along with more recent notes about our practice sessions at Sandalford. And also . . . personal stuff. Pictures. Some old news articles from the 1970s. A journal that goes back to his teens. I haven’t had the nerve to open that one yet. Not after the box Anna found in his desk drawer.”

“I’ll handle it,” Daniel says. “Just send me the file.”

Another dim echo of protest from Cregg. More because I’m tired of his intrusions than out of a real desire to read it, I say, “Me, too.”

A heated discussion follows on how to get the information to our devices. Apparently, e-mail is out, we shouldn’t trust the cloud right now, they’re not sure whether the wi-fi here is secure enough, and something else I’m perfectly willing to admit I don’t understand. I snuggle in a little closer to Aaron for warmth while Taylor and Daniel hash it out.

“Cold?” Aaron whispers, slipping an arm around me.

I nod, sticking my hands under my thighs to warm them. “I didn’t think I’d need gloves and wool socks in April.”

He looks over at the shed. “I could start a fire. Except . . . I doubt any of us have a lighter.”

“Plus, that would mean I’d lose your body heat while you’re way over there. I’m okay.”

Taylor clears her throat. “Are you two lovebirds ready to join the rest of the class?”

I stick out my tongue, and Taylor angles the cracked screen so that all of us have a semi-decent view.

“Okay, Anna, first thing—you might want to hang on to that fake ID. There’s a little over half a million in a bank account registered to Ms. Ophelia Duncan. Twice that amount in stocks and bonds, plus the townhouse and two other properties. But this one file that I was just looking at puzzles me. It was created a few weeks before Cregg died.”

The file in question is a spreadsheet—four unlabeled columns, with about forty entries. It’s mostly numbers, although the first column is a list of names, in alphabetical order. Most of the names are foreign, so I’m not entirely sure whether they’re given names or surnames. The final column is a three- or four-digit alphanumeric entry. There are at least ten different variations—AS1, OA1, OA2, B1, and so on.

Taylor points to column C. About half of the entries read 01/20/21. The rest are two-letter combinations, sometimes a large number of them, separated by commas.

“Some of these are dates,” she says. “Or . . . actually, a single date.”

Aaron nods. “Inauguration day. Why would Cregg schedule all of these transactions on inauguration day?”

“Payoffs?” Deo suggests drily. “It’s not like foreign intervention in an election is unprecedented. Maybe he’s paying a bunch of teens in Macedonia to post fake stories discrediting his father’s opponent.”

“No,” I say. “Not to help his father’s campaign. If anything, it would be the opposite.”

They don’t look entirely convinced, but I’m certain on this point. While I have no idea what caused the split between father and son, I have a very clear sense of Graham Cregg’s deep loathing for the Senator. He also feels vindicated, like he was right about something he’s always suspected. His hatred for his father was suppressed for a very long time, and now he’s ready for some major payback.

I’m not sure how to convince them about this, however, so I direct their attention back to the spreadsheet. “The ones that aren’t dates are state abbreviations. See? That one in the middle has a bunch. AL, CA, MA, OK, VA . . .”

“Wait a minute,” Taylor says. “Deo, check the primary schedule on your phone.”

“Primary schedule of what?”

“The political primary schedule. I think those are all Super Tuesday states—they held their primaries on March 3rd. And I’m pretty sure the three states in the entry just below that one held their primaries on March 10th.”

Deo pulls up something online that confirms Taylor’s suspicion. All of the entries marked with state abbreviations held their Unify America party primary or caucus on the same day.

“So,” Daniel says. “Foreign entries and domestic. Some sort of transaction is apparently triggered on either inauguration day or primary election day, but what?”

“Time to find out.” Taylor taps one of the linked numbers. After a moment, an interface pops up indicating that a fingerprint is required. “Little help, Anna?”

The site opens when I press my thumb to the button. And equally sure enough, I hear a feeble thump at the back of my head.

Deo catches my reaction. “Something wrong?” he asks.

“Nope,” I say with a tight smile. “Just a little confirmation that we’re digging in the right spot.”

The document that pops up on the screen is a contract between Franco Lucas and someone named Ambroz. In the event that Ronald T. Cregg is elected president of the United States, a transfer of two hundred thousand Czech koruna—just over nine thousand US dollars—will be initiated, on January 20, 2021, to the account number Taylor clicked.

No . . . wait. Not to the account. From the account.

Daniel notices it at the same time I do. “It looks like the funds will transfer into the account after the election . . . but only if Ron Cregg wins.”

“Into Anna’s account,” Taylor says. “These are all in the name of Ophelia Duncan.”

“That doesn’t make it my account.”

“Sure looks like you on that driver’s license,” Daniel says. “And the money could come in handy.”

“The contract was managed by Lucas,” Deo says. “That’s weird. Pretty sure he wasn’t a lawyer.”

That’s putting it mildly. Lucas was a stupid, lecherous brute, and I know from my Molly memories that he barely finished high school.

“No,” Aaron says. “Definitely not a lawyer. But he had the connections to drug dealers. He spent about as much time in jail as he did on the outside until he started working as hired muscle for Graham Cregg. That’s one reason he hated my dad so much. The question is, what was he helping Cregg sell? Maybe this was just drug dealing on the side, or maybe these are contracts for the women they were trafficking in?”

Taylor shakes her head. “No. Doesn’t make sense. Why would deals like that be tied to election dates? More likely it’s just plain old influence peddling. Paying for access once his father is elected president.”

I’m about to protest, again, that I don’t think Cregg and his father are working for the same team any longer. But before I can speak, Aaron says, “No. There’s a product involved. This part . . .” He runs his finger back up a few lines. “In the event that Senator Ronald Cregg is elected president of the United States, the seller grants the purchaser license to produce the specified formula or formulas within the designated country.”

We all fall silent.

“He’s selling versions of the Delphi serum,” Taylor says after a moment. “To dozens of foreign governments.”

“I don’t think it’s governments,” Aaron says. “These are small-time buyers. And they’re not all foreign.”

“True.” Taylor clicks the link with the Super Tuesday states, and we go through the thumbprint ritual again. Another contract pops up, this one for California. It’s identical to the Czech contract we examined. We click through a few others. The amounts are all ten thousand dollars. A quick check of Ophelia’s bank account shows thirteen deposits for ten thousand each during the week after Super Tuesday.

“Ten thousand is chump change,” Daniel says, “given probably well over a billion dollars has now gone into research and testing for the Delphi program. And I’m no lawyer, either, but I know enough to be certain that this contract is void. Scroll down—see? No signatures. Even if it were signed, it wouldn’t be enforceable, since Graham Cregg doesn’t own the research. This is more . . . internal bookkeeping, maybe? A memorandum of understanding. I’ve seen similar pseudo-contracts between drug dealers, but they’re usually even more vague. And the enforcement mechanism in those cases is somebody killing your ass if you don’t hold up your end of the bargain or you spill to the cops. But I guess Cregg already knew he’d be dead, so . . .”

“Not dead. Just in a brand-new body,” Aaron says. “This could explain some of the incidents we’ve been hearing on the news about the sudden rise in violence in some areas. They dismissed the claims of psychic activity as nonsense, but it would be really interesting to check these dates and see if there’s a connection to when he transferred the formulas. I wonder how long it would take to actually get them to market? Wouldn’t there be some lag time?”

“You can cook a batch of meth in like . . . a day,” Deo says. “What? Nobody else watched Breaking Bad? This stuff could obviously be different, but we’ve got the number-one authority on it inside the cabin. Why not ask him? Not right this second, obviously, but later.”

I second that motion, and add that my father might also be able to give us more information on whether the various codes correlate to different formulas. “I’m pretty sure he said something about OA when we were talking.”

“But why,” Aaron says, “would Graham Cregg sell the formulas for—as Daniel put it a minute ago—chump change? Imagine how much money he could have gotten. Why would he sell the formula to a few dozen people for such a meager sum when he could have made millions more from a single buyer? There are governments that would have coughed up serious cash to be the second country to have a Delphi Project.”

“Unless that’s the goal,” Daniel says. “Think about the history of nuclear weapons. The US developed them—used them, in fact—and soon there were two countries. Then five, then nine, then ten. Being a nuclear nation gives you not just power but also a certain prestige, right? You end up with the haves and the have-nots. And the haves don’t want to let new countries into the nuclear club—”

“Because they might get us blown up,” Deo says.

“Yeah,” Daniel admits. “That’s part of it. But also because the haves lose some of their prestige and power if it’s a club that anyone can join.”

“Are you seriously comparing Delphi to the Manhattan Project?” I ask.

“Kind of. I don’t think this research is as earth-shattering as nuclear weapons—no pun intended. But it is a potential game changer. And governments will actually use these. Not just for international relations, but also in terms of controlling their own populations.”

Daniel has a point. Ron Cregg hasn’t even been elected yet, and already he’s doing a damn good job of weaponizing the program, simply by playing on the public’s fears. Maybe Graham was trying to diffuse the weapon. To democratize it so that his father wouldn’t be in control of the only nation with Delphi adepts.

“It’s not just governments,” Taylor says. “Like you were saying before, these seem to be small actors. Some of them might sell to governments. But, what if they’re planning to sell it on the streets? It won’t work on everyone, but . . . you could wreak a lot of havoc that way. And can you imagine how freaked out the non-psychics would be? Any government that didn’t find a cure of some sort would probably be toppled.”

“But Pfeifer doesn’t think a cure is possible. Only a treatment, something to mitigate the symptoms for the adepts or . . .” I trail off, remembering something. “Not a cure. A block. Like Sophie, or Maggie. Can you imagine how much people would be willing to pay to ensure no one else can get inside their heads?”

“So you think he’s offering them the blocker formula?” Aaron asks.

“Probably the amp formula, too. And they’re both dangerous. Basically, anything he’s got that will level the playing field and totally screw up his father’s plans. On the one hand, that seems like a good thing, but . . .”

“On the other hand, he’s a psycho with a penchant for murder and mutilation,” Taylor says.

“The enemy of my enemy . . .” Daniel says with a shrug.

Taylor scoops up the iPad. “You do know that’s a stupid saying, right? The enemy of my enemy is still my friggin’ enemy. I can have more than one.”

NEWS ITEM FROM THE WASHINGTON TIMES

April 25, 2020

The granddaughter of Senator Ronald Cregg (UA-PA) is in stable condition after two days as a captive of WOCAN terrorists. Alexandra Cregg, age 21, was locked in a holding cell at the former Bainbridge Naval Training Center in Port Deposit, Maryland. The location had been used by WOCAN earlier this year, when federal authorities, acting on a tip from Senator Cregg, raided the base, killing one of the group’s leaders, Franco Lucas. Cregg’s son, Graham (now deceased), was injured in that attack.

A spokesperson for the Cregg family told reporters, “Alexandra is a strong girl. She is recovering from her ordeal and is happy to be reunited with her family.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Near Moorefield, West Virginia

April 25, 2020, 10:27 p.m.

The road is all but deserted on our way into town. We pass a few cars headed the opposite direction, but most houses along the highway are either dark or lit only by the flickering glow of televisions. Aaron seems to be stuck in his somber mood, or maybe he’s annoyed that I initially crawled into the third-row seat of the Kia rather than riding up front with him.

It still seems like a safer option to me. When I pointed out that he was the one who suggested I avoid riding shotgun, he looked like I’d just punched him in the stomach. So now I’m up front in my usual role as navigator/deejay, against my better judgment. Nothing has happened. I knew nothing would happen. But I also knew that Aaron would be nervous. And he is.

“If you grip that wheel any tighter, you’re going to snap it in half. And I’m riding in the back on the way home. All the way in the back, because there’s no way you can drive safely when you’re this tense.”

“I’m not . . . it’s not about that, okay? Yes, I’m nervous. But I’m not worried you’re going to grab the wheel. I’m just thinking about what Taylor said.”

“When she said you overreacted?”

“That’s part of it . . .”

“You didn’t overreact. You simply responded to a clear and present danger. And you didn’t overreact tonight, either. I do think guns are a bad idea for us to have around right now, when we don’t really have a good understanding of what my father’s hitchers can do. But if the choice was between you coming into that room armed and Daniel coming in armed, you did the right thing.”

“I love you.”

“Okay, that came out of nowhere. I love you, too?”

Aaron exhales—a half laugh, half sigh—at the slight question in my voice. It’s not because I’m unsure on either side of the relationship. I know that I love Aaron. And if he didn’t love me, he’d have run away screaming by now.

“Sorry,” he says. “You’re right. It’s just . . . Taylor seems to think maybe you don’t fully know how I feel. That keeping your walls up and fighting off Cregg would be a lot easier if you—I mean, if we—if we were more . . .” He shrugs, a slight, almost imperceptible twitch of his shoulders. “I think the word she used was grounded.”

“So . . . we’re taking relationship advice from Taylor now?”

“I didn’t say I was taking her advice. It’s just on my mind. I don’t think I’m conveying what she said very well.”

The GPS chooses that instant to direct us to turn in a quarter mile. So we have to make a decision, since our dining options at this late hour appear to be Sheetz (right turn) and McDonald’s (left turn). We choose the latter, and are just about to pull into the driveway when Aaron spots a restaurant down the block that isn’t closed. Once we get there, we discover only the pub is still open and it’s karaoke night. A woman is doing a pretty decent version of “Before He Cheats” on the small stage.

Aaron pauses a few feet inside the entrance with his eyes closed. Anyone watching him would think he’s already had a few drinks, but he’s gauging the mood of the place. His ability and restaurants aren’t always the best mix, and that goes double for bars. Tempers flare up much more quickly after some people have had a beer or two, and any violent thoughts floating around will make it hard to have a peaceful meal.

“The drive-through would be fine with me.”

“No . . . I think we’ll be okay,” he says after a moment. “Angry drunks don’t usually show up for karaoke night. So what song are you going to sing?”

I laugh. “If I sing, we will have to leave. Every person within earshot will have violent thoughts.”

The restaurant has a rustic feel, with antiques inside and out, and architecture that relies heavily on exposed beams and brick. Our food is good—the best I’ve had in weeks—and the smattering of people taking to the stage are still in that brief karaoke golden zone where they’re drunk enough to lose their inhibitions but sober enough to stay mostly on key. And even though I’m glad to be alone with Aaron, I can’t help but think that Deo would love this. He’d be itching to get up there and belt out “It’s Raining Men” or “I Wanna Dance with Somebody,” assuming those are on the playlist. So far, it’s been a steady stream of country.

I sneak a few sips of Aaron’s drink but don’t order anything for myself. The ID in my pocket would definitely hold up to scrutiny, and I’ve had a crazy enough year that no sane person would begrudge me a margarita or five. I’m not sure how alcohol would mix with the meds, however, so I stick with ginger ale.

Whatever was bugging Aaron earlier is still weighing on him, even though he’s trying really hard to pretend that it’s not. So when we finish eating, I begin to work us back toward the conversation we were having in the car. I’m only a few words in when the waitress shows up to see if we want anything else. Aaron looks relieved and asks for a dessert menu.

I order coffee and we split a gooey fudge-and-cheesecake concoction. After one bite, I’m wishing we’d ordered two.

“Distracting me with chocolate. Well played, Mr. Quinn. Well played.”

“I wasn’t really trying to distract you.” Aaron stops, and a grin spreads across his face. “But it’s really hard to have a serious discussion when you have a glob of chocolate . . . right there.” He points toward my upper lip and reaches over to wipe it away just as I’m licking the spot to remove it. My tongue grazes the tip of his finger, and a shiver runs through me on contact. Through both of us, apparently, because his eyes lock onto mine and we’re frozen in place until he leans across the table to kiss me.

I pull back after a moment, very reluctantly. The bar isn’t crowded, but neither of us really like attracting attention, and we’re beginning to do precisely that.

When the dessert plate is empty, Aaron asks, “Do you remember that night back at Sandalford? Maybe a month before we left to rescue Bree and the others? I was worried about moving too fast for you, and we decided to put you in control of . . . this part . . . of our relationship.”

“I remember.”

“Okay, well . . . I’m having second thoughts. Not about us!” he adds, in response to my expression. “No. God, no. Absolutely not. It’s just . . . Taylor keeps saying we should . . .”

“Just do it already? She tells me that too—on pretty much a daily basis.”

It’s true. If I’m snippy because I haven’t had my morning coffee, Taylor will say, Jeez, why don’t you guys just do it already? Same thing if she sees us kissing or snuggling on the couch. You two already have a room, why don’t you just do it already? Deo joked that he’s going to buy Taylor one of those Nike shirts with the Just Do It motto on the front so she can point and save her breath.

“Yeah,” Aaron says. “That. She’s picked up the pace with me the past few days, though. And it’s kind of troubling, because there’s this . . . I don’t know. Frantic note, I guess? I even asked her if she’s learned something from Stan or one of the other Fivers. If she thinks one of us is going to be hurt or killed. And she swore she hasn’t, but then she told me to think about everything that’s happened in the past six months, and about what could be coming up. Any of us could be killed, she says, at any moment, so why are we wasting what we have? At least, that’s her point of view.”

“And what’s your point of view?”

“I told her that the vague possibility of imminent death didn’t seem like a good reason to make major relationship decisions. And that she should get off my back. Off your back.”

I’m quiet for a moment, debating whether to share what’s on my mind. It’s one of the hitcher secrets I’ve never told anyone else, not even Deo. It kind of feels like I’m breaking a confidence, but the owner of this memory is long past the point where it could bother her. And I don’t think she’d mind me sharing her secret with Aaron.

“You remember Emily? My hitcher who liked crosswords?”

“Sure. She’s the reason you can kick my ass so resoundingly in Scrabble.”

“Well, not the only reason, but yes, that Emily. Anyway, she was a senior in high school when her boyfriend was drafted. It was already a few years into World War II, when young men were marching off to war and never coming back. Emily was always very prim and proper, but she loved Hiram and they planned to marry when the war was over anyway, so the night before he left . . .” I shrug and give him a little smile.

“Did he die?”

“Nope. He was one of the lucky ones. They drifted apart during the war, though. Emily went to college, and in his letters to her over the next two years, she realized Hiram wanted a much more traditional marriage. The kind where he brought home the bacon and she cooked it and fed it to five or six kids. She met and married someone else, eventually. So did Hiram. But the thing is . . . Emily never regretted making love to him. Not for a moment. It was the right decision at the time, and years later, it was still a cherished memory, even after she had children and grandchildren with another man who was very much the love of her life. I’m not saying that’s true for everyone, or that it would be for us, because I don’t know. But it was true for Emily.”

We fall silent again, and then he says, “What worries me is that you’ve given some really mixed signals in the past few months. Hot and cold, and not much in between. I understand why now, but a few weeks ago, you made it pretty clear that things were moving too fast for you, even though they’d actually been moving in reverse for several months. That’s when we went back to separate rooms, and . . . I guess I need to know how much of that was Cregg’s decision and how much was yours.”

Aaron wants me to say that it was all Cregg. I can read it in his eyes as plain as day. But that would be a lie, and this is too important to lie about. “It was a mix. I wanted you with me, but it was becoming difficult to hide my memory gaps when we shared a room. And most of all, I was worried that I might . . .”

Abbott’s voice fills my head. He told us he could’ve slit your boyfriend’s throat in his sleep and you wouldn’t have been able to stop him.

I don’t finish the sentence, but I’m sure Aaron can tell from my face exactly what I was worried might happen.

“Even though I’m less worried about that now, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that it’s still a concern. Before, it was Daniel and Jaden and Hunter in my head. Hunter was clearly a roadblock, given his age. But now?” I lower my voice and lean forward, tapping my temple. “Now there’s a monster in here. He’s locked up tight right now, but he’s still in my head. Do you really want to make love to a monster?”

“No. I don’t. I want to make love to you. And if that’s what you want too, then Cregg shouldn’t even enter into the equation, other than—” Aaron stops, and he seems to be measuring his words. “He doesn’t own you. Now that the medicine has kicked in, you are in control. You will never be his vessel, you will never be this Ophelia Duncan person. Your body is yours, and yours alone. At some point, hopefully soon, we will find a way to evict him, and I’m dead certain that hell has a spot waiting with his name etched in the brimstone. But until then, maybe we should stop letting the fact that his shriveled soul is stuck in your head control our lives.”

The opening bars of the next song accompany his last words. It’s louder and more raucous than the previous few numbers, and we’ve apparently moved beyond the sober karaoke window. The guy on stage now seems to know most of the opening and the chorus, but the verses are a mix of slurred words, punctuated by long glugs from the Michelob he’s holding in one hand.

“Last call,” the waitress says, almost yelling to be heard over the music. “Can I get y’all anything else?”

“No!” Aaron snaps. “Just leave the check.” At first, I think he’s frustrated by her interruption, but his eyes dart around the room. He’s picked up something, maybe from the couple near the door who seem to be arguing.

The waitress gives Aaron a foul look, and once she locates our check in the pocket of her apron, she slaps it down on the table. He hands her a credit card, his eyes still fixed on the couple. A few seconds later he breathes a sigh and his shoulders relax. Whatever their disagreement was about, they seem to have decided to hug it out rather than fight.

He glances toward the bar, where the waitress is ringing up our check. “Is it an extra ten-percent or fifteen-percent tip to apologize for being a jackass?”

“Depends. Are you paying with your money or Magda’s?”

The drunk on the stage has now reached the chorus again, and he’s confessing that he likes his women on the trashy side. Aaron shakes his head and sighs. “Man, I really know how to pick the romantic spots.”

When the waitress returns, he apologizes profusely. He overtips. And then he apologizes to her again on our way out.

As we stand in the doorway pulling on our coats, I realize that’s what I love most about this man—his inexplicable kindness. Aaron has spent his entire life bombarded by the violent and angry thoughts of others, but he steadfastly refuses to let it shape him. Sure, he gets grumpy sometimes, but if he hurts someone with a harsh word, he apologizes. He makes a concerted effort not to do it again. Rather than follow the lead of the angry parade of voices in his head, Aaron chooses to be kind, understanding that kindness is a sign of strength, not of weakness.

A cold drizzle is falling as we head out into the night. We run for the car, and he opens the door for me, but before I get in, I pull him close for a kiss. “Do you think there’s a hotel in this town?”

“Probably,” he says. “But . . . we need to talk. I don’t want to—”

“We can talk at the hotel.” I smile as I tug the phone out of his back pocket and slide into the car. “Okay, Google, find me a hotel room.”

Ten minutes later, we step inside a jacuzzi suite at a small hotel just down from the Walmart. The décor is a decade or more past its prime, but it beats the hell out of the back seat of Sam’s Kia.

When Aaron’s hand, still cool from the rain, brushes the skin of my back, I arch toward him.

We have every intention of warming up in a hot bath. We have every intention of talking, of making sure this is the right time, the right place, the right decision. That this is what we both want.

But there is no question in my mind that this is right. I am no one’s vessel. This is my body. My decision.

Our intentions wind up in the same heap as our wet clothes.

Moorefield, West Virginia

April 26, 2020, 6:10 a.m.

A door slams, followed by footsteps and the sound of luggage rolling down the hall. Someone is getting an early start to their day. Aaron stirs restlessly, his arm tightening around my waist. I watch as his breathing deepens and he slides back into sleep.

He wanted me to sleep, too, and for a few minutes there, I thought it might be possible. But I’ll rest more easily back at the cabin.

Staying awake is really only a precaution at this point. I’m less worried about Cregg taking control than I was even a day ago. My thoughts about sleep no longer make him happy or eager. With the exception of that brief flare-up last night, the meds are working well. The light-headed feeling hits me less often, and I haven’t sensed Cregg lurking at all since we stepped into this hotel room, something for which I will be eternally grateful.

Of course, he could be bluffing. Playing possum for a day or so to lull me into complacency. That’s certainly what I’d do in his situation. Stay back. Let me get used to falling asleep and waking up in charge of my own body for a few days. Save up enough energy for one big push to shove me out of the driver’s seat.

But I don’t think so. If he was alert, if he was anywhere near the front, my reading material for the past few hours would have rattled him. It wasn’t picked with that intent—in fact, I ignored his personal diary for that very reason. Instead, I focused on his virtual scrapbook, filled with scanned copies of news articles, correspondence, and even a few book excerpts dealing with the early era before Delphi became Delphi. Before it was even the Stargate Project.

At the beginning, it was a research project on parapsychology at the Stanford Research Institute in Menlo Park, known only by a series of random-sounding code names, like Grill Flame. And one of the participants in that very early stage of the research was Penelope Arnett Cregg, first wife of Ronald, mother of Graham.

I’d always assumed that Graham Cregg was first-generation Delphi. Someone who, like my father, became so caught up in the potential of this new drug that he couldn’t resist testing it firsthand. Cregg probably did test the formula, maybe even multiple formulas, on himself. In fact, I’d be shocked if he didn’t, based on what I know of his personality. But he’s not first-gen. His mother was a guinea pig for a forerunner of the Delphi serum, years before Graham was born.

Penelope Arnett, whose family had amassed a fortune in the auto-parts industry, was in her fifth or sixth year of art school at UC Berkeley in 1973, in no hurry and under no pressure to complete her degree.

Two of the book excerpts written in the 1980s suggested that Penelope was having far too much fun finding herself to focus on either studying or creating art. One picture of Pen Arnett shows a willowy girl in cutoff shorts and a halter top. Her wide eyes stare straight at the camera, and her dark hair is little more than fuzz, a remnant of her brief flirtation with a cult where all members were required to shave their heads.

Members of the cult were also required to give up all forms of narcotics. That proved to be a stumbling block for Pen Arnett. By all accounts, she managed to steer clear of heroin but freely engaged in expanding her consciousness with anything else she could lay hands on.

Penelope’s quest for the ultimate high was what eventually led her to Stanford’s top-secret parapsychology project, known by the inexplicable name of Gondola Wish. A photographer friend of her father’s, Hella Hammid, was working with the project as a remote viewer. This task involved sketching a location sent to Hammid mentally by one of the researchers. It’s very similar to what Taylor does, except Taylor picks up vibes from objects, rather than from someone mentally projecting an idea.

According to one older book on the project, Hammid and Pen shared an apartment for several months in the summer of 1973, and several sources reported they were a couple. Pen became fascinated by the description of the aftereffects of remote viewing, as described by Hammid and a mutual friend, artist Ingo Swann, who also worked on Gondola Wish. Both of them claimed that whenever they succeeded in picking up a signal sent by one of the researchers, it was like the most perfect hit of LSD. They swore it gave them absolute clarity of mind.

Hammid and Swann were eventually able to convince researchers at SRI to test Penelope for the Gondola Wish project. And Penelope was a natural, showing even greater aptitude at remote viewing than Hammid or Swann.

As an aside, the author noted that Pen also showed far more ability than a young man named Ronald Cregg, who volunteered at the end of his two-year tour of duty in Vietnam. Cregg flunked out of the program after the first round of tests, showing no natural psychic talent at all. But he did manage to land a dinner date with Penelope Arnett.

More recent books and articles barely mention Arnett. One, however, focuses specifically on Arnett’s involvement with the project. There’s no date, but there’s a reference to Senator Cregg’s presidential campaign and the Delphi Project in the first paragraph, so it must have been written within the past year.

The byline reads: Clayton Fulmer—San Francisco Chronicle. I suspect it’s a draft version of the final article, since there are a number of author notes in parentheses, including the names of two sources who are listed as confidential in the article itself.

Sunlight now streams in through a tiny gap in the curtains, something that I know from past experience will wake Aaron up. I try to extract myself carefully so that I can close them and maybe get a drink of water before I finish reading.

But Aaron pulls me back. He’s no longer sleepy. And for the next half hour, I completely forget about Penelope Arnett Cregg, her husband, her son, and the entire Delphi Project.

Later, though, as we’re driving back to the cabin, my mind strays back to the odd article. “Do journalists usually reveal confidential sources to their editors?”

“Sometimes. Woodward and Bernstein didn’t in Watergate. Well, at least not in the movie version. Why?”

“Hold on. Let me check something.”

I hunt for a few relatively unique consecutive words from the article. Arnett’s participation in Gondola Wish should do it. I type the phrase in quotation marks, and google it. No hits. I try Penelope Arnett’s name and the author’s name. Again, no hits. I search for Penelope Arnett and Penelope Cregg on the Chronicle website. Nothing.

So . . . it’s not only a draft but an unpublished draft. Yet somehow, Cregg had a copy.

Searching for Clayton Fulmer’s name on the Chronicle site yields a fairly long list of stories with his byline. I also find an obituary, dated December 15, 2019. A hit-and-run accident.

I fill Aaron in on what I learned while he slept and then read the rest of Fulmer’s article aloud. It gives a basic overview of Pen’s involvement with the experiments at SRI, many of the details the same as what I just read. But his research goes beyond Gondola Wish to a second testing protocol that Pen was part of in 1974, after she moved out of the apartment she shared with Hella Hammid and into a relationship with Ronald Cregg. Pen’s success with remote viewing exceeded that of most research subjects. Her ability wasn’t perfect, but that was true for everyone in the program. There were far more misses than hits, and the government was urging the researchers to move faster, wanting more bang for their buck. Since Penelope was more accurate than most of the participants, she was recruited for a side project—a drug protocol, aimed at increasing accuracy.

Apparently, the drug didn’t work, and the tests were abandoned. But Fulmer claims that it had unexpected repercussions. The article includes a link to a video interview with an elderly woman who was a college friend of Arnett’s. Her voice and face are digitally altered, because she wanted to remain anonymous, but a note in parentheses gives her name as Judy Hersey, followed by the words verified AC.

In the video, Hersey states she was aware of Pen’s involvement in research at SRI, but she didn’t know the details. In late 1974, however, she attended several parties where Penelope dropped acid. That was far from unusual, not just for Pen, but for her circle of friends as a whole. What made the events stick out in Hersey’s mind, though, was that most of the people at those parties ended up tripping, even the few like Hersey who hadn’t taken anything.

They weren’t good trips, either. At first, Hersey thought that someone had slipped her a tab without her knowing or that maybe it was a flashback. But it happened again. After comparing notes with others, Hersey realized that the common denominator was their proximity to Penelope Arnett.

Hersey hadn’t really thought about the whole thing in years. But then she saw Ronald Cregg—the man Penelope had been dating—talking on the TV about those Delphi kids. She was surprised to learn they married. Hersey knew that Ron was verbally abusive, maybe even physically, although people didn’t talk about those things so much back then. And Penelope retaliated in her own way, taking every opportunity to tease him about his lack of culture and refinement. “She would toss quotes from Schopenhauer to Shakespeare in every conversation,” Hersey recalled, “and then say, ‘Oh. Sorry, Ronald. That’s from The Merry Wives of Windsor.’ Of course, none of us knew the reference either. I think she memorized them just to annoy him.”

Fulmer’s article goes on to discuss Penelope Arnett’s marriage to Ron Cregg in 1975, along with her decision to appear before the Church Committee later that same year. The Church Committee was named after Senator Frank Church, who led the investigation into MK-ULTRA and other CIA programs that operated outside legal boundaries, including experimentation on US citizens. Pen Arnett Cregg swore before Congress that there was, to the best of her knowledge, no drug experimentation involved in the SRI program, and described the entire project as a “boring art exercise.” A photograph of her testimony shows a woman almost unrecognizable as the waifish girl with the ultrashort hair taken only a few years prior. Her hair is longer, puffed up in a style that probably required half a can of Aqua Net, and she wears a demure high-necked blouse with a bow at the neck.

Pen Arnett didn’t look at all familiar to me in that first photograph taken in 1973. In this one, however, she kind of does. But I can’t put my finger on where I’ve seen her.

Fulmer wraps up the article with the fact that Penelope committed suicide in 1989, and then summarizes Ron Cregg’s involvement with Decathlon Services Group and his entry into politics in the late 1990s. He never exactly connects the dots, never claims that the elder Cregg somehow managed to get his hands on the formula from that original project back in the 1970s. But the implication is definitely there for those willing to read between the lines.

“Maybe that’s why it was never published,” Aaron says. “Maybe the paper needed more before they were willing to accuse a presidential candidate and his dead wife of stealing classified material.”

“Or maybe nobody wanted to touch it after the author was sideswiped and left for dead. Either way, it’s definitely something that we should add to the list of things to ask my father. Because he’d know whether he started from scratch or had a sample to jump-start his research.”

“What about the not-so-confidential sources who were mentioned?” Aaron asks. “If they targeted the author . . .”

I can’t locate the other of Clayton Fulmer’s two sources online, but I do find Judith Hersey, who graduated from UC Berkeley in 1974. She managed an art gallery in San Francisco. And she died, in an apparent suicide, two days after Fulmer.

“We need to track down the other source,” Aaron says as we turn off the road and onto the driveway leading uphill to the cabin. “It may not be easy, though. Given that the article was written in California, Fulmer’s sources were probably local, and I don’t think Sam or Porter have many contacts on the West Coast. And speaking of Sam . . .”

The RV is parked out front now, something Taylor conveniently failed to mention when Aaron texted her last night to say that we were going to stay in Moorefield.

Taylor meets us on the porch. “Sam’s back.”

“No kidding,” Aaron says as he tosses her a plastic grocery bag.

Taylor looks at me and then shakes her head in amazement. “I can’t believe you’re blushing, Anna. You guys slept in the same bed for months. Sam, and everyone else on the freakin’ planet, assumes that ship sailed long, long ago.”

“Good to know,” I say drolly, and push past her.

“What is all this stuff?” she asks, looking through the bag.

“Clothes, toothbrushes, and other items that we grabbed for Sophie and Pfeifer,” Aaron says. “It will probably be safer if you deliver it, though.”

Inside, Deo is already up and dressed. His backpack is propped against the side of his chair, and my heart sinks into my stomach.

“When are you leaving?”

“Probably around noon. Might be later. Sam and Daniel were up talking for a while. They didn’t get to bed until three.”

“Are you going back with them, Tay?” Aaron asks.

She shakes her head. “I can’t go yet. I’m still digging through the data from Cregg’s tablet, and . . . I have a bad feeling about taking some of that information near Magda’s people, especially the formulas. Stan agrees. He says the paths are more stable if I stay here. If Maria needs someone to do remote viewing, Snoop—sorry, Jeffrey—can handle that. But Deo’s the only amp they’ve got. They could use you, too,” she tells Aaron. “Your spidey sense is a lot stronger than the other kid’s, maybe because he’s only like eight or nine. He tends to get overwhelmed. Maria says they’ve got enough Fivers to predict movements without Anna, though, and Stan says the paths are more stable if you both stay here. So I guess you’re off the hook.”

I don’t argue with her, mostly because I’m pretty sure it will do absolutely no good. Taylor is smart and she’s usually fairly logical, but her conviction that Stan’s paths are the key to every problem is becoming something akin to religious belief. Deo seems pretty well convinced, too, but I wonder how much of this is because he feels needed.

Taylor and Aaron start making breakfast while I put away the groceries. Apparently, we bought the wrong kind of orange juice and sausage. Breakfast will now suck, according to Taylor, and she gave us a list, so how did we still get everything wrong? I shove the rest of the food into the pantry and let Aaron deal with her. It’s partly because I’m tired, but also because I know she’s only bitching because she’s upset about Deo leaving. And so am I.

Deo pushes my phone across the table. “This was in the RV. We conferred, and you are officially off telephone restrictions.”

I smile. “Thank you, Master Deo.”

He snorts and then frowns as he looks closer at me. “Did you sleep?”

“A bit.”

“You rotten liar,” he says softly. “Aaron slept and you stayed awake.”

“I couldn’t, okay? And you don’t have to whisper. Aaron knows I didn’t sleep. We agreed to give it a few more days sleeping in shifts. Just to be safe.”

That reminds me that I’ll be hanging with Taylor alone on my awake shift, since Deo will be at Sandalford. This is the first time that we’ve been willingly separated in nearly two years. It feels wrong. And even though I know that Kelsey will be there with him, it also feels dangerous.

“Are you sure you want to do this, D?”

“Do I want to? No. But I can’t just stick my head in the sand and pretend everything will go back to normal somehow. We have to do what we can to fix it. Did you guys see the latest?”

I shake my head, not liking what I’m reading in his expression. “What happened?”

“A mob torched a boarding school in Florida around midnight. About fifty miles outside Jacksonville. It was for special-needs kids, and someone got it into their heads that special needs meant special abilities. The death toll was over forty last time we checked, including several police officers who were trying to put down the riot and even a few of the rioters after one of their own turned and opened fire on them. Most of it’s on video, but . . .” He grimaces, and I decide that I really do not want to see that video.

“Senator Cregg won the primary in Florida by a comfortable margin,” Taylor says as she shoves the plate of eggs onto the table. “That was over a month ago. I wrote out a list of questions for Pfeifer last night and slid them under the door so he could answer them. About formula and timelines, and so forth. He said once the local dealers have the formula for OA3, one of the two that they sold to the contact in Florida, it probably only takes a few days to mix up a batch, assuming they have a decent lab. That means it could have been on the market down there for three weeks.”

“So those two-letter abbreviations—” Aaron begins.

“Are codes for the formulas each state was sold,” Deo says. “Just as Anna thought. Pfeifer recognized most of them, although there are apparently a few new ones in the mix. Not too surprising, since they’ve had other scientists working on them since he was hospitalized.”

“The OA class . . .” I say. “That’s the temporary serum, isn’t it? The one he called the on switch. That’s the one the military was interested in the most back then. He said they were working on an off switch just before my mom was killed.”

“But who would be crazy enough to inject something into their body that completely alters the way their brain—” He stops. “Oh. Addicts. People already injecting other rotten stuff into their body.”

People looking for a new high.

People like Penelope Cregg.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Mathias, West Virginia

April 26, 2020, 5:31 p.m.

Aaron whispers. “Would you take your turn?”

“I think you’re bluffing.”

“Not bluffing, Daniel. They’re both words.”

“Then define them. Use them in a sentence.”

“That’s not how the game works. If you don’t think it’s a word, then challenge it. And when I’m right, again, you lose fifty points.”

I rub my eyes and prop myself up on the pillow. The lamp is on the floor, and the two of them have turned the nightstand into a makeshift Scrabble table.

“No,” I say. “Not fifty points. That’s the bonus you get for playing all seven of your tiles. He’d just lose his turn.”

“Way to go, man,” Aaron says. “You woke her up.”

“No, you woke her up. And I’m adding back the fifty points you made me deduct earlier.”

“Fine,” Aaron says. “But then you have to skip a turn for that challenge. And you have to decide whether you’re going to challenge these two words.”

Daniel snorts. “No. I’m not going to challenge your stupid teeny-tiny words. But look them up because there is no way both of those are real.”

I peek over Aaron’s shoulder. He’s played an x to make xu and xi. “They’re real words. Xi is a Greek letter. Xu is a coin. Japanese . . . no, Vietnamese. Is that on a triple-letter tile?”

“Yes, it is,” Aaron says. “Fifty-two points.”

“Sweet.”

Daniel glares at the two of us. “Wait a minute. Vietnamese? You said no foreign words.”

“Foreign currency is allowed,” I explain. “And a few other exceptions.”

Aaron already has the Scrabble dictionary open on his phone. “See? It’s a valid Scrabble word. Vietnamese monetary unit. One one-hundredth of a dong.”

“You’re one one-hundredth of a dong,” Daniel mutters as he jots Aaron’s points down on the envelope they’re using to tally the score. “Game’s not over yet.”

Aaron frowns, studying his tiles. I scooch over next to him and examine the board.

“Oh, no, you do not,” Daniel says. “You are not helping him. Get out.”

I stick my tongue out at him and tap two of Aaron’s tiles. “You could play—”

“Out,” Aaron echoes. “Move it. I can beat him on my own.”

Daniel glares at him. “Only because your eighty-two-year-old ghost girlfriend taught you a bunch of fake foreign words.”

I leave them to their game and head downstairs to the kitchen. It’s dark, except for the light from the open fridge, which is blocked partly by a girl’s silhouette. She’s crouched down in search of something on the shelves.

“Your brothers,” I begin as I flip on the light, “may be the most competitive . . . Oh. Sorry. I thought you were Taylor.”

Sophie tosses lunch meat and cheese onto the wooden table, then turns back to the fridge to resume her hunt. “Taylor’s sleeping. Where did the bread go?”

I pull out the loaf—the second loaf, apparently—from the pantry next to me, and hand it to her.

“Pfeifer’s asleep, too,” she says, adding mustard to the collection on the table. “In case you’re wondering why I’m not on duty.”

I was wondering that, but it seems rude to admit it. Sophie can’t stay cooped up in that room with him indefinitely. The whole reason she came with us was because she wanted some place where people did more than house, feed, and exploit her. Where she could have a life.

“Is he doing . . . better? More under control?”

“He was under control last night until you—” Sophie stops, shaking her head. “This is crap mustard. Crap bread, too. But I need fuel.”

She spackles a thin layer of the bright-yellow stuff onto four slices of butter wheat. She piles about half of the meat and cheese to form two sandwiches and then sinks her teeth into one as if she’s starving.

“I don’t really like neon-yellow mustard either.” I fold a slice of cheese into bread and then hunt in the pantry for chips to give it a little crunch. “Let us know what you like to eat, and we can pick up different stuff next time we’re out.”

Her fierce expression gradually mellows, likely because she has food in her hands. Taylor’s the same way when remote viewing. It appears to be a second-generation thing, and it only seems to hit some of the adepts. Peyton Hawkins can munch her way through an entire box of cookies if she spends a few minutes moving things around with her mind.

Sophie’s wearing a pair of black leggings that I picked out and a matching shirt. It would be tunic length on me, but it hits at midhip on Sophie, who is nearly as tall as Aaron. In the direct light of the kitchen, I realize that she’s also older than I thought. I’d initially figured her to be about my age, but she’s probably in her midtwenties.

“Are the clothes okay? I bought stretchy stuff since I didn’t know your size. We can get something different, though. Someone will have to go back into town for food again eventually.” And by eventually, I mean tomorrow, if she keeps eating at this rate.

“They’ll do. Some color would be nice, though. I look like a damn ninja.”

“Sorry. I don’t . . . shop. Maybe Taylor can go with us next time. How did you end up at The Warren?”

She doesn’t answer for a moment. Possibly because her mouth is full, but she might also be weighing her response. Or whether to respond at all.

“Parents couldn’t handle me. Wound up in a psych ward. Must have attracted someone’s attention, because next thing I know, I’m being checked out in the middle of the night.”

Sophie’s story is a familiar one. It’s basically the same thing that Jaden told me, but it doesn’t entirely ring true coming from her. It takes a minute for me to realize why. How would a blocker be hard to handle? Or, for that matter, how would they attract attention from Cregg or anyone at Delphi? Before I can ask, though, she jumps in with a question of her own.

“Why did that other guy leave today? The one with the hair.” She flips her hand up from her forehead, mimicking the quiff that Deo usually wears. “And how long are we staying . . . here?” She looks around the cabin dismissively.

I ignore the first question. It’s not that I don’t trust her—okay, yes, it is partly that I don’t trust her. Like Daniel said earlier about Stan, I don’t know Sophie. I don’t know her motivations. She seemed a lot friendlier in my vision, and apparently, I will trust her eventually, but we aren’t there yet.

“We’ll stay here until we’re sure that Pfeifer is stable. We don’t want to endanger the entire group at Sandalford. But we’ll find a way for you to get out a bit more. Let you take some extra break time.”

“I’ll be taking that break time,” she says. “Whether you let me or not. That room is tinier than the one I was in back in Nevada. But I’m not buying your reason. You ask me, you’re the bigger danger to all those kids than Pfeifer. He has Will, Oksana, and a bunch of the other Warren people inside of him. But you? You’re carrying around the son of a bitch who had them all killed.”

“He’s not in control.”

“So you say.”

Because she doesn’t trust me, either.

She doesn’t trust any of us. And why should she? She doesn’t know me any more than I know her.

Sophie tosses her napkin in the trash. “I should get back, in case he wakes.” She nods toward my phone, which is charging on the kitchen counter. “And you should check that. You had a call earlier.”

Hoping for privacy from any members of my father’s menagerie who might be awake and tuning in, I trek out back. It’s good to have my phone again and really good to hear Kelsey’s voice when she answers, even though it sounds strained and nervous.

After twelve years of talking to each other at least two hours a week, we rarely wander into awkward silences. But after she asks me how I’m handling the risperidone and how I’m sleeping, an awkward silence is exactly where we find ourselves.

“This isn’t working,” she says. “I need to see your face to have this conversation. Skype?”

As soon as her face appears on the screen, I know she’s right. Even though I can tell she’s troubled, seeing her relaxes me. Her gray eyes have helped me weather every storm I’ve encountered since we met. She is my anchor.

“Deo should be at Sandalford within the next hour or two,” I say before she begins talking. “Don’t be too mad at him, okay? Please. He was only trying to help me.”

Kelsey sighs. “I’m not mad at him. Not really. But don’t tell him that. Since I’m now his legal guardian, I have to at least pretend to be angry. He opened my safe and took a controlled substance. That’s not something I can officially condone, even if I know his heart was in the right place. I need to let him reflect for a while.”

“So you’re sitting him down in the corner and making him think about what he’s done?”

She smiles gently. “Something like that. But when he and I actually do sit down to discuss all of this, to really talk it through, I’m the one who will be apologizing. He should never have been in a position where he was forced to make that kind of choice, and the blame for that is on me.”

Then Kelsey’s lower lip twitches, and she begins to cry. Not just a stray tear but actual sobs. I stare at the screen, totally dumbfounded. I’ve seen Kelsey’s eyes grow misty on a few occasions, but I have never, ever seen her lose control.

“Sorry,” she says through the tears. “Maybe Skype was a mistake. It’s just . . . I broke your mug.”

“You . . . what?” I know exactly what she said, but I need a moment to process it.

“Your mug! The one I bought you for Christmas that first year.”

I struggle to keep my face as neutral as possible, with enough sad in the mix to let her know that the cup was important to me, but not enough to let her know exactly how much it hurts. And I definitely don’t want to let her see anger, because I’m not mad at her. No, the anger is all for Cregg.

He was lurking when I entered Kelsey’s office the other day, knowing that the sight of that mug, filled with coffee and waiting for me on her desk, made me feel loved. Made me feel wanted. I’d bet every other possession I own that Cregg left a nice little poison-pill suggestion in Kelsey’s mind, knowing that breaking the mug would be one more way of breaking me down. Of hurting both of us.

Thinking back, he even tried to get me to break it. That surge of fury when I slammed the mug onto her desk, spilling coffee everywhere—it came out of nowhere. And why was I even angry about her bringing up Myron? It’s not like we’d never talked about him before.

“I don’t remember breaking it,” Kelsey says. “But the handle was still in my hand, and the pieces were scattered all over the carpet, and . . .”

“I’m sorry it’s broken. But . . . it’s just a thing, Kelsey. It can be replaced.”

Kelsey snatches a few tissues from the box she keeps on her desk for patients and takes a few deep breaths before she continues. “I’m so, so sorry—not only about the mug. You’re right on that. I’ve already ordered you a new one, although it won’t be exactly the same. But how could I have misread your situation so badly? I pulled out my notes last night, the ones from our sessions over the past few months, and it’s all garbage. I remember writing those things, and at the time I truly thought it made perfect sense—my diagnosis, my comments, my treatment strategy. But now I look at it, and . . .” She sighs. “I let you down.”

“No, Kelsey, you didn’t. You understand why you can’t remember, right?”

There’s a very, very long pause, and I don’t step in to fill it. I can’t help thinking how strange it feels to have our roles reversed like this. Usually Kelsey is the one coaching me, trying to help me remember or admit something I’d rather bury.

“It was him,” Kelsey says. “Cregg was . . . influencing me. Probably during the hypnosis sessions.”

“Yes. And you weren’t the only one. He used his ability on Aaron and Deo a few times, too. Taylor was the only one he didn’t manipulate.”

“Perhaps she should take my job. Now I’m wondering about the advice I’ve given to you and the other adepts in the past few weeks. How much of what I said and did was influenced by that monster?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I doubt he had time or energy to drop suggestions about the other adepts. I think it’s like it was with Daniel. He found it harder to use his ability when he wasn’t in his own body.”

“Well, I hope so,” Kelsey says, and I hear a tiny note of panic in her voice. “Otherwise who knows what kind of damage he might have done. I should have realized, should have been more on top of the situation.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a little hard on yourself? Cregg convinced you to accept a perfectly reasonable explanation for my symptoms. One you probably wanted to believe, because—”

“Because I love you. And because I didn’t want to think about you having yet another monster in your head. But that’s exactly where I failed you. You and Deo both. I let my feelings blind me.”

“No. First, you wouldn’t even be in the middle of all this if not for me. If anything, I owe you an apology. You should be enjoying your retirement at North Beach. Spending time with your grandchildren.”

“Psh. As much as I would love a few days off to curl up with a good mystery or two, retirement would bore me silly. In the past few months, I’ve learned things about the possibilities of the human mind that my colleagues would happily trade a limb for. Maybe two. I love my grandchildren dearly, but they are all in college now. They have lives, and so do their parents. My family loves me, but they don’t need me. These children do. They need someone to look out for their interests. I just hate that I let my feelings get in the way of doing that job responsibly.”

“Cregg used your feelings, Kelsey. But I totally get what you’re going through. It’s hard not to blame yourself for things done with your own body, even if you weren’t in control. If it helps at all, you were the one—at least indirectly—who started me on the medication. It wouldn’t even have been in the cabinet for Deo to swipe if you hadn’t, and I don’t think Taylor would have had the nerve to give it to me on her own if you hadn’t prescribed it before Cregg started interfering.”

“Well, that’s something, I guess.”

“When did you realize that Cregg was . . . ?”

A long pause, and then she says, “Using me? I knew something was wrong after you left for DC. Given your memory gaps and the episode earlier that morning, I wouldn’t have approved of your travel. I might not have been able to stop you if you were determined, but I certainly wouldn’t have advocated it. And yet . . . I sort of remember being all for it when everyone was debating the trip in my office.”

“Hey, at least you have a memory of that conversation. I don’t recall any of it. One second I’m walking into your office hoping that you’ll veto me leaving Sandalford. And the next thing I know, I’m halfway to Kitty Hawk. Anyway, maybe everything was for the best. I needed to be here. It’s not just Pfeifer, Kelsey. He picked up my mom when she died. And now there are about a dozen other people in his head, too, and—” I stop and shake off the tension. “Let’s just say this really is not the way I imagined finally meeting my parents.”

I spend the next fifteen minutes or so filling her in on the actual circumstances of my mother’s death, my weird conversation with my parents, and everything else that’s happened in the past two days.

Well, almost everything. I don’t bring up last night with Aaron. For one thing . . . I don’t really want to share it yet, even with Kelsey. But I also think Taylor may be right. Everyone we know probably assumes that it happened long ago, maybe even before I picked up Cregg.

Thinking about why it didn’t happen months ago reminds me of Hunter and Daniel’s theory about his abrupt departure. I try to come up with a subtle way to broach the subject, since Bree Bieler, like all of the adepts at Sandalford, is Kelsey’s patient. But in the end, I just blurt out the question.

“Did Hunter move into Bree’s head when he left? Is that why I don’t have his memories?”

Kelsey doesn’t respond, but I can tell.

I smile. “I’m glad. When Daniel told me he thought Hunter left, I was worried his spirit was still in that airport hangar. At least this way he had time to really tell her good-bye.”

Again, she doesn’t say anything, but her expression speaks volumes.

“He hasn’t moved on? I thought the thing holding him here was needing closure with Bree.”

Kelsey takes a deep breath, and then the words come spilling out. “Okay, fine. I was thinking about having you talk to Bree eventually anyway. To try and explain, as best you can, why it would be good for Hunter to move on. Honestly, I don’t think she has any intention of him ever leaving. She said she won’t let him die again. And I have no way of knowing whether this is what Hunter wants or not, just as I have no way of knowing whether it’s what Cla . . . ra . . .”

She stops, realizing she’s said too much and probably hoping I don’t make the connection. But I do. That explains why one of Magda’s daughters—Clara, apparently—is in a wheelchair. The twins prefer riding together in one body.

“That’s in confidence, Anna. I shouldn’t have let it slip. But maybe it will help you understand Magda’s concern. The woman makes me crazy on a regular basis, but it must be devastating to watch your child wither away like that.”

“Willingly? I mean, Clara wants this?”

“Chloe says she does. Just as Bree says that Hunter is happy. But . . . you can understand now why Magda is so desperate for a cure.”

“There isn’t going to be a cure for second-gen adepts, though. Pfeifer says it’s simply impossible to do more than treat symptoms, given the way our brains developed. Magda needs to know that eventually, but . . . you can’t tell her he’s here, Kelsey. Not yet. I hate to ask you to keep things from her, but—”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I have to keep a lot of things from Magda. It’s an occupational hazard. But . . . are you sure you’re safe there, Anna? Even with these so-called Furies your father picked up?”

“I think so. We’ve reached a truce, apparently due to my mother’s influence. They’re not happy that Cregg is inside my head. For obvious reasons, he terrifies them. But they seem to understand he’s not an invited guest, and they’ve assured me they’ll behave as long as I can, as they put it, keep my spider in his cage.”

Kelsey frowns. “Your . . . spider?”

“Cregg’s . . . avatar? That’s how my warped mind has decided to visualize him. And it’s a spider-rat, technically. With tiny hands on the end of the legs instead of claws. Minus their pinkies, of course.”

Her face grows pale and morphs into an expression that I’ve seen only a few times before. Grim but hesitant, like her foot is hovering above glass shards and there’s no way to avoid that next step. She’s about to broach a topic that she knows will upset me.

“The human hands are a new addition. But the spider-rat . . .” She pauses, waiting to see if I’ll remember on my own.

My stomach clenches. I don’t exactly remember, but I can certainly guess. “Is that how I saw Myron?”

“Not exactly,” Kelsey says. “But it is the imagery that Myron used to control you. To keep you at the back when he wanted to take over. He would taunt you with things he knew you feared. He told you he knew a place where a giant spider lived, bigger than the rats in the downtown sewers. And he threatened to feed you to the spider if you fought him. That’s a pretty effective threat against a five-year-old, especially when you already knew he had killed before.”

“So you actually were partially right about the Myron memories. I’m finally working through them to some extent. You remember the dream I used to have, the one about the homeless woman?”

There’s a long pause, and the walking-on-glass expression is back. It’s almost like a flinch now, but she pushes on.

“You mean memory of the homeless woman, right? The memory you blocked but sometimes dreamed about.” It’s a gentle correction, but I can tell that she wants me to acknowledge the difference. To admit that I know it was my foot, even if I wasn’t controlling it. Even though the thought that any part of me could have participated in something so evil makes me want to gnaw off that foot and fling it as far away from me as possible.

“Yes. The memory. I’ve been dreaming about it again. But there’s something new. Do you know if there’s anything else I may have blocked dealing with Myron? Something about a woman who died from a fall?”

There’s a faint, almost imperceptible scratch along my wall, like a branch scraping at a window. Cregg. It’s the first I’ve heard from him in about eighteen hours, and even though I barely feel it, it unnerves me. But I don’t have time to harp on it, because in that instant, something finally clicks into place.

The reason the woman in the photo I saw earlier seemed vaguely familiar is because I have seen her before. Not in person—she died years before I was born. But I’m reasonably sure now that the recurring nightmare about the woman on the patio isn’t just a dream. It’s also Graham Cregg’s memory of the day his mother committed suicide.

Kelsey is watching me. “I don’t remember you talking about anything like that. But judging from your expression, you’ve just had an epiphany.”

“Maybe. I need to check before I can be sure. I’ll call you back later, okay? Either tonight or—”

“Okay, but wait. Before you go, there’s another reason I called. Magda and Miller arrived earlier today with seven new adepts.”

“Wow. That’s a large group of stragglers. Aaron was saying on the drive up to DC that he thought something was going on when Magda went with Miller herself, instead of sending a team like she usually does. Taylor and Deo were even joking that it was a lovers’ getaway.”

Kelsey wrinkles her nose at the last comment. “I would hope even Magda has better taste. But yes, I’d wondered that too. She usually doesn’t leave Chloe and Clara. But she said she went because this trip required negotiation skills, something that’s not exactly Miller’s strong suit. And when she got back today, I realized what she meant. These adepts weren’t stragglers. They were in Nevada with Senator Cregg.”

A cold chill runs down my back as I remember Graham Cregg’s words just before he died. You and I have a common goal and a common enemy. Magda Bell will turn on you in an instant if it is in her interest to do so.

Taking in these new adepts doesn’t necessarily mean that she’s turned. It’s definitely not a good sign, though.

“It’s mostly siblings who were separated when The Warren was destroyed,” Kelsey continues. “Magda said the exchange was a goodwill gesture on the part of the Senator.”

“Wait. Exchange? And earlier, you said negotiation. Those words imply some sort of quid pro quo. What is Magda getting in return?”

“I have no idea.”

“And why would Magda negotiate with the Senator at all? Why would she trust him?”

“According to her, we’ve misunderstood the Senator’s motives. I’m paraphrasing here, but she claims he really has the best interests of the adepts at heart. The public comments he’s made, and all the fearmongering—it’s just grandstanding, the kind of thing all politicians do during a campaign. He’s convinced her he had nothing to do the WOCAN terror attacks or the various murders. All of that was put into motion by Graham Cregg before his death, and the Senator is merely endeavoring to undo some of the harm his son caused. And she claims he’ll be in a much better position to help the adepts if he wins . . . Anna? Are you okay?”

Cregg is raging now. I sense this, sense his anger, even though what makes it through the wall is little more than a thin wail. “I have to go,” I say, hopping off the table to head back toward the cabin. “I need to tell the others so that we can figure out a plan.”

“A plan for what? Anna, if Magda has decided to cooperate with the Senator, what can we do? I mean, Deo and I could leave Sandalford, but I’m not willing to abandon the other children like that. Yes, I know all about the training that Maria has them doing, but they’re kids. They’re no match for Magda’s security, let alone whatever forces Senator Cregg might bring into the picture.”

“Do Maria and Stan know about Magda?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize that’s a stupid question. Of course Maria knows.

“Maria does, at any rate. She stopped by right after I finished talking to Magda. But she’s not upset. She seemed happy, and said that this is all part of the bigger picture. That the paths are aligning, whatever that means. Of course, I’m not surprised that she’s happy, since her friend Pavla is part of the transfer.”

Pavla. I picture her in my mind, sitting with Maria in the cafeteria at The Warren, leaning so close to Maria that their heads nearly touch. Giggling over their ongoing game of peeking at the other adepts in the shower. Pavla is telekinetic—I’m not sure what else she can do, but she’s the one who left a message in the fog on my bathroom mirror. Peekaboo. Welcome to The Warren.

“I thought you said the exchange was sibling reunions?”

“It is, for the most part. I believe Pavla was the exception.”

“What about Stan’s brother? His name is Harv. Is he there, too?”

“Yes,” Kelsey says. “Why?”

“I’ll call you back.” I pick up my pace. “I’m a little bit worried we’ve been played. Don’t—” I stop, realizing what I was about to say is pointless.

“Don’t what?”

“I was going to ask you not to tell Maria what I just said, but never mind. You can’t hide anything from her. And . . . I could be wrong. I really, really hope so.”

Aaron is in the kitchen pouring himself a bowl of Cheerios when I burst through the door. “You okay?”

“Not so much. Where’s Daniel?”

“In his room,” Taylor says.

“Go get him, okay?”

She frowns, but tosses her iPad aside and does as I asked. I take a bottle of water from the fridge and tip it back. There’s no point starting until everyone is here. I’d just have to repeat myself.

As Taylor comes back into the room, her phone buzzes. “You are wrong.”

Daniel follows her, yawning and a bit grumpy about being awakened. “Wrong about what?”

“No clue,” Taylor says. “I’m just reading the text. ‘You are wrong.’”

“Well, that was fast. It’s from Maria, right? Is that all she wrote?”

Taylor gives me a quizzical look. “It’s from Stan, actually. Maria doesn’t have a phone, so I guess—” The phone buzzes again, and she shoves it toward me after reading. “Yeah. It’s from Maria.”

Yes we know about it but we do not PLAY you. So you are WRONG. This is still the paths.

“What the hell does that even mean?” Daniel asks when I read it aloud.

“Maria should have Stan translate before she hits send,” Taylor says. “Please tell me she’s not getting information from Jeffrey.”

“You mean Snoop?” Daniel asks.

“I mean Jeffrey,” Taylor says. “Deo told me he hates that name. He’s the only one we know who has this kind of range without Deo there to boost the signal. Jeffrey said he was done spying on other adepts, though. He kind of . . . promised.”

I hand the phone back to Taylor and sink down onto the sofa. “It wasn’t Jeffrey. Maria picked up on something I told Kelsey. And if she got it that quickly, she must have been monitoring our entire conversation.”

That pisses me off. Not so much that Maria listened in on our discussion about Magda and the new arrivals, or even that she overheard me questioning whether her motives and Stan’s might be suspect. Any of that I’d say to her face. But the first part of that conversation was private. Kelsey was upset, and . . .

I shake it off and focus on relaying the information about the new arrivals and Magda’s arrangement with Senator Cregg. “The real question,” I say when I reach the end, “is exactly what the Senator is getting from Magda in return. Because I’m not buying the whole goodwill angle.”

“Neither am I,” Daniel says. “I’ve said from the beginning that, as soon as Magda’s interests diverged from ours, she wouldn’t hesitate to make whatever kind of deal she thought was best for her daughters. I’m not saying that makes her a horrible person, but . . . Magda has her priorities, and I don’t think they necessarily sync up with ours.”

“Cregg said the same thing. Graham Cregg,” I clarify. “At the airport just before Jasper shot him. And he’s emphasized it repeatedly.”

“Oh, big whoop,” Taylor says. “Did any of us ever really trust Magda? I know I didn’t. But Maria? I trusted Maria. I trusted Stan. And . . . I still do. Even though I’ll admit that all of this paths-aligning stuff is a little wack, we know where their interests lie.”

Aaron agrees, although his expression suggests that he’s a bit more on the fence. Daniel, the perpetual skeptic, isn’t convinced. And for once, I think he’s got a point.

“It’s not that I distrust them,” I say, “but . . . just to play devil’s advocate, Maria and Pavla seemed pretty happy at The Warren. I got the sense that Stan and his brother were, too. Jaden was happy, more or less—at least until the older adepts he was friends with started disappearing. Sure, he missed his parents and he wished he could let them know he was okay, but he said it was the first time he’d ever felt that he wasn’t a freak. Knowing there were others like him, in a place where people believed he had visions—where they didn’t assume he was crazy? That was a really big deal for him. Half of the kids at Sandalford, maybe more, don’t even have families. And whatever we may think about Magda, she’s no Graham Cregg. She’s not killing the adepts. If they were reasonably happy at The Warren—underground and subject to Cregg’s research agenda—how much happier do you think they are in an oceanfront mansion?”

“So what exactly is your point?” Taylor asks. “Maria made it clear she doesn’t want a cure. Many of the others don’t either. Do you think they’re all lying?”

“No. But I do think some of them might be willing to use their abilities in exchange for living at Sandalford.”

A look that I can’t exactly decipher passes over her face, and I raise an eyebrow.

“Some of them already are,” she says. “Well, one of them, at least.”

“And you didn’t think this was something we should all know?” Aaron asks.

She gives him a pleading look. “This was in confidence, okay? Deo wasn’t even supposed to tell me. Jeffrey asked Deo to give him a boost for a task Magda assigned to him. He was having trouble making a connection. Deo agreed, but he had second thoughts after it was too late, wondering exactly what it was he’d helped him do. It was financial information, something to do with the stock market. But Deo said he really couldn’t be mad at him, because Jeffrey was upfront about it. D has been boosting the adepts during training for months, and he can’t usually tell what they’re doing. Jeffrey could have lied, and . . . Deo wouldn’t have known. And the only reason Jeffrey was doing it was because Magda told him she needed cash to expand, so she could help more adepts.”

“Well, that does explain a few things,” Aaron says. “One day Magda’s bitching about how Sandalford is draining her dry and the next she’s buying half an island to house Caleb without a single complaint.”

“It’s a pretty pathetic island,” Taylor says. “I doubt it cost half as much as the beachfront lots she bought. But . . . yeah. She stopped muttering about expenses right after that.”

“Do you think Jeffrey is still giving her stock tips?” I ask.

Taylor shrugs. “His gift is a bit like mine. If he doesn’t have some sort of personal item from the target, he can’t read them. He hasn’t asked to use Deo’s amp ability again, though. Deo said Jeffrey could tell that it bothered him. But sure, I guess he could still be getting tips from the same—”

A loud scream comes from down the hallway. Sophie.

Aaron and I are closest. I reach the door a split second before he does and twist the knob. It’s locked, so I pound on the door. “Sophie? Open up!”

There are more sounds of scuffling, followed by a thwack and then what I’m pretty sure is the sound of a body hitting the floor.

“Sophie!”

“Step back,” Aaron says. “I’ll kick it open.”

Before he can even try, the doorknob turns. Sophie stands there, her dark eyes wide. “He attacked me,” she says, clutching Aaron’s arm. “I was trying to get away, and then he just . . . passed out.”

My father is sprawled facedown, his upper body draped over the collapsed gurney that’s wedged between the beds. One of his legs twitches a few times, as though he wants to get up, but then stops.

I push past Aaron and Sophie, kicking aside a shattered floor lamp, and crouch down next to Pfeifer. The area above his left eyebrow is already starting to swell. It’s the same spot as the bruise in my vision.

“Did he hit his head?”

Sophie nods. “On the nightstand.” She’s still clutching Aaron like he’s a life raft. I know she’s frightened, and it seems petty to be jealous. But it bothers me.

Aaron calls out for someone to get some ice while I check Pfeifer’s breathing. It’s even and steady, but a thin stream of blood is running down his arm toward his elbow.

“He’s bleeding,” I say.

“I must have scratched him. When I was trying to get away.”

Something under the bed catches my eye. I stretch my arm out, trying to grab it, but it’s a few inches out of reach.

I can see it now, however. It’s a syringe. And that mark on my father’s arm looks a lot more like a puncture than a scratch.

Sophie’s not holding on to Aaron because she’s frightened.

She’s blocking him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Mathias, West Virginia

April 26, 2020, 7:28 p.m.

I yell out a warning to Aaron, but my words are swallowed by the sound of breaking glass. Not just a single explosion but a rapid-fire cascade. It sounds like every window in the house is shattering, except for this one. Taylor screams, and I hear a burst of gunfire as I push to my feet.

Sophie shoves Aaron straight at me, knocking both of us off-balance, and then sprints off toward the living room, slamming the bedroom door behind her. “It’s me, Dacia!” Sophie yells. “Hold your fire!”

Dacia. And she’s clearly not alone. There’s a lot of noise outside the cabin. People moving around, and now I hear an engine. Maybe two.

Aaron draws his pistol. “Stay here. Lock the door.”

Normally, I might argue about staying put. But I’m unarmed. I don’t even have my pepper spray. And my father is unconscious. I can’t leave him here alone.

I scan the room for something, anything, to use as a weapon. The floor lamp is the only candidate. It’s pathetic, but it’s better than nothing, so I grip the lamp pole and move toward the door.

They’re going to be okay.

I was reasonably sure of this in the vision, and now I have a decent idea of how far into the future that vision goes. It has to be long enough for the red bump that’s rising right above my father’s eye to turn from red to blue. So at least a day, maybe two.

Taylor’s okay and Aaron’s okay. Daniel’s okay. Deo and Kelsey, too. Or at least I’ll believe they’re all okay in the vision.

I want to believe all of this. Jaden’s visions have never failed. But Sophie was there, in the vision. With me and my father, calling for us to hurry. And yet she has just handed us over to Dacia Badea.

These two things do not mesh.

I hear voices in the distance, but I can’t make out what’s being said. One of the voices is Aaron’s, though. I also hear crying. Not an adult. It’s higher pitched, interspersed with a sound like muhmuhmuh. And that noise is coming closer.

Two sharp raps on the bedroom door. I jump back, nearly dropping the lamp.

“Open the door, Anna.” It’s Dacia. Her voice is lilting, almost like she’s singing, and it still carries strong traces of her native Romanian. When I don’t answer, she laughs.

The baby continues crying, calling for her mama.

“Shhshhshh,” Dacia says. “You see mami soon. Who do I tell my people to kill first, Anna? I think maybe your little redhead dívka, then we watch her brothers—”

She pauses when she hears the door lock release. “I did not say unlock. Open. And if you have weapon when you open, someone will die. Maybe you, maybe me too if you have gun. Maybe this little one. But definitely your friends will die.”

I drop the lamp onto one of the beds and open the door.

The Dacia Badea who occasionally visits my nightmares towers over me, but the real-life version is about my height. I glance down and realize that she’s traded in the stilettos she was wearing before for a slightly more sensible heel. Her ice-blue eyes are unchanged. They stare back at me with a barely repressed fury.

Dacia is cultivating a punk dominatrix Barbie look these days—all black leather, including her trademark glove. But the baby she has gripped awkwardly against her chest totally wrecks the vibe. The little girl is about a year old, maybe a little older, wearing footie pajamas, pink with white hearts. She shares Sophie’s dark skin and eyes, and it would be obvious that she was Sophie’s daughter, even if she weren’t crying for her mother and trying to wriggle out of Dacia’s grasp.

I’ve been interrogated twice by Dacia. Both times she grabbed my arm and I felt a popping sensation across my forehead as she scanned my mind for information.

She doesn’t grab my arm today. Maybe because she has her hands full with the crying baby, but I think she’s also scared. If she scanned my mind today, she might get a response from Graham Cregg, and that’s not something she’s willing to risk.

Miller stands a few steps behind her in his uniform. Gray, with a red arm patch that reads Vigilance Security. And he’s holding a very familiar-looking mask in his hand.

Well, if I had any doubt about what Magda traded, I know now. She traded us.

They’ll be okay.

I have just enough time to wonder if it will be the vanilla-scented mask or the orange. And then the guard grabs me and forces the mask over my face.

Vanilla.

Bwap-bwap-bwap-bwap.

I open my eyes slowly, disoriented both by the sound and shuddering of the seat I’m strapped into. My head is heavy, too heavy to hold upright. As my eyes close again, I hear a whimper. It reminds me of the noise Ein makes when he’s dreaming. My head lolls to the left, and I feel a brush of fabric beneath my cheek. A hard, unwelcoming shoulder pushes me away. I reposition toward the wall, and bump the knee of someone across from me as I slide back under the fog.

Bwap-bwap-bwap-bwap.

They’ll be okay.

That thought—or really the memory of having that thought, with Dacia standing there in front of me at the cabin—pulls me toward consciousness again.

It’s dark. Not pitch dark, though. There are tiny lights along the floor. Enough for me to make out Sophie, sitting in the center of the row of seats facing me. She’s no longer gripping my father’s arm, but he’s unconscious and likely to stay that way, judging from the IV tube in his arm. In her lap is the baby Dacia was holding.

To Sophie’s left, directly in front of me, is Daniel. He’s unconscious, too. No IV, but his hands are bound with one of those plastic tie cuffs. Miller is sitting next to me.

A few stars dot the night sky, visible through the windows. I thought we were in a plane at first, but the whirring sound suggests a helicopter. Not as big as the ones we saw that night at The Warren. This sound is different, smoother. The interior is drab and functional, though. I would have expected any vehicle Ronald Cregg owned to be a bit flashier.

“Is that your daughter?” I ask Sophie.

Miller jabs his elbow into my side. “Boss said no talking.”

“When you say boss, do you mean Magda or Dacia? And where is Dacia?”

“No. Talking,” he repeats, tapping his sidearm. I’m oddly relieved to see that it’s an actual gun, not a taser. He’s not going to fire that inside a helicopter. Also, if we were expendable, we wouldn’t be here. So his guidelines are the same as the Fudds’ back at The Warren—he’s not allowed to kill us.

I look back at Sophie. She glances down at the little girl, who’s half asleep now. Then she looks back at me and gives a wordless nod.

As much as I want to blame Sophie for turning us over to the Senator’s crew, I can’t. Dacia was holding her child as a hostage. And Dacia is perfectly willing to kill kids, something Sophie almost certainly knew. I am a little curious about how Sophie managed to get word to them, however, and also where exactly she was hiding the syringe that she used on my father. Taylor and I had searched her. It wasn’t a strip search—neither of us could quite bring ourselves to invade her privacy to that extent—but it was a serious TSA-style pat down.

I’m guessing the fact that I’m currently housing Graham Cregg, the man who no doubt pulled Sophie into all of this, may have played a role in her decision as well. Was she pregnant when she came to The Warren? I flash back to my mercifully brief encounter with Lucas, and comments that Maria made about the other girls who hadn’t been lucky enough to escape him. Was Sophie one of those girls?

Sophie really isn’t the one who’s to blame for us being here, anyway. That distinction belongs to Magda. What I really want to know is how long Magda has been colluding with Senator Cregg. Because I don’t believe for a moment that she was only interested in helping to reunify divided siblings. That’s too Hallmark Movie to jibe with my knowledge of Magda. The only siblings she’s that interested in are her daughters.

Cregg must have promised Magda the cure she’s so desperate to find. Or what she thinks is a cure. Is it a drug to manage their symptoms, like the one my father was working on? Or is it pure snake oil, packaged up by Senator Cregg, who knew she’d take the bait?

“Where are we going?”

Miller backhands me, his arm jerking toward my face so quickly that I don’t have time to dodge. His knuckle catches me square on the mouth, splitting my lower lip.

“What did I say, freak? No talking.” He doesn’t exactly smile as he speaks, but I can read in his eyes exactly how much pleasure that gave him. He’s been wanting to hit me since the day he first arrived at Sandalford.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. It comes away bloody, and I glare at him. At some point, he will regret that. Two can play payback.

Thankfully, the little girl is asleep, but Sophie clutches her a bit tighter, keeping her daughter’s face turned away from Miller. Her mouth is set in a firm line. I don’t think she likes me much, although it could just be that she hates my hitcher. But she also didn’t like Miller hitting me.

The baby wakes up about twenty minutes later. Her complaints become a full-fledged cry, and Daniel begins to stir, too. Sophie looks over at Miller.

“Her dinner time is usually seven. Do you know if Dacia fed her?”

“No clue.”

“That was nearly three hours ago. She’s probably starving. When will we land in Knoxville?”

I send Sophie a silent thank-you. She managed to answer my question and also give me an approximate idea of how long I was out.

Miller realizes this, too, because he shoots her an annoyed look. “No clue,” he repeats and then nods toward Daniel. “Are you sure he’s neutralized? Blocked or whatever you call it?”

She taps her knee against Daniel’s, and I realize that her left ankle is bound to his right with one of the plastic cuffs. “As long as I’m touching him, as long as I’m anywhere close to him, he’s blocked. That’s how it works.”

Miller curls his upper lip, and you can practically see the word freak written on his face. He keeps that opinion to himself, though, possibly because he considers Sophie a useful freak. Sophie rocks her little girl back and forth, and the crying tapers off to a few hiccupping sobs as she falls back asleep. Daniel seems to have drifted off again, too. Eventually, Miller’s shoulders relax and he resumes staring out the window so that he doesn’t have to look at the cabin full of freaks.

Sophie wasn’t telling him the truth, though. In the lab at The Warren the other night, after the Furies killed Whistler and Davis, she told Daniel she wasn’t trying to protect them. That they basically deserved what they got and she didn’t intervene. That’s the opposite of how Maggie’s blocking ability works. She’s an instant null-zone, blocking any psychic waves within her radius unless she turns the ability off. Maggie even blocks when she’s asleep. But it takes a concerted effort for Sophie to block my father and Daniel. She has to want to block them.

Daniel’s foot twitches against mine. Four small taps, then two more. And again—four twitches, then two.

Hi. Or, technically, hi hi, but he had to repeat it before I recognized the pattern as Morse code.

I repeat the message back and risk a quick glance at his face. His eyes are still closed, but he’s making the OK sign with his right thumb and forefinger.

Is he saying he’s okay? Asking if I’m okay? Or trying to tell me that the others are okay?

The tapping starts again, but I press Daniel’s foot against the wall to stop him. I recognized the SOS sign he made a few months back at the hospital, and I figured out his two-letter message just now, but that was mostly a matter of deduction. Anything more complex would require me to dig around in Abner’s memory files, and those are behind the wall with Cregg.

I watch his face from the corner of my eye. He mouths two words: “They’re okay.”

And then he “wakes up” officially, stretching, asking where the hell he is. It’s a pantomime, clearly for Miller’s benefit. Daniel looks at me for the first time with his eyes fully open, and his jaw tightens. “What happened to your mouth?”

“Same thing that’s gonna happen to yours if you don’t stop talking,” Miller says.

Daniel’s hands curl into fists, and Miller looks nervously at Sophie.

“Hey, I only block psychic ability. If you’re worried he might get physical, you’re on your own.”

“I’m not worried.” But Miller’s hand moves toward his pistol.

In the distance, I see the lights of a city. We’ve passed over little pockets of light on and off since I woke up, but this is more of a widespread glow. I’m just thinking it might be Knoxville when Miller jerks suddenly, grabbing his right leg. He sucks air in through his teeth as he frantically massages his calf.

“Which one of you freaks is doing this?”

Sophie huffs. “Just breathe. It’s a leg cramp. You’ve been sitting in tight quarters for nearly three hours.”

Miller’s eyes are squeezed shut, so he misses both the warning look she gives Daniel and the tiny quirk of a smile Daniel wears as he stares at Miller’s contortions.

A man’s voice comes from the cockpit. “You okay back there, Miller?”

“Yeah,” he says through clenched teeth. “Just a leg cramp.”

There’s a privacy panel between the cockpit and the cabin, so I can’t tell if the man who spoke is the pilot or a passenger.

“Speak up if you need assistance.”

“10-4,” Miller says.

Daniel snorts at Miller’s cop code, and mutters under his breath, “10-96 says 10-4.”

I’d love to ask what 10-96 means, but Daniel turns to stare out the window. And as soon as he does, Miller relaxes. He’s still flexing the leg, but it’s clear the pain is gone. He gives us all a threatening look, at least partly because he doesn’t like that we saw him in a moment of weakness.

This city we’re approaching is a lot like any other city at night. The only distinctive thing about the skyline is something that looks a bit like a giant lollipop—a butterscotch-flavored Dum Dum that towers over most of the other buildings. I’m guessing it isn’t Knoxville, since we don’t slow down at all.

A fine, misty rain begins to fall as the buildings thin out, and the copter veers off into the mountains. About twenty minutes later, we descend. At first, it looks like there’s nowhere to land—mountains surround us on all sides. But then the lights pick up an area shaped like an arrowhead that appears to have been carved out of the mountainside.

A cluster of buildings sits at one end. Most are your typical rectangle. One is a cloverleaf shape, and the main building is shaped like an inverted cross. As we drop lower, a high wall topped with razor-wire comes into view.

The chopper lands in the clearing between the cloverleaf and the main building, and Miller turns to me. “Hands out.”

I hold my wrists out in front of me, side by side. He grabs them and twists so that the insides touch, then fits me with my own plastic cuffs.

When he motions for Sophie to do the same, she glances down at the baby. “Her diaper is wet and leaking. You want to carry her?”

Miller wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Fine. Keep one arm free.” Once he cuts the tie binding their ankles, Miller grabs Daniel, shoving his hands into a loop. Then he slides the other end over Sophie’s hand and yanks it tight.

The rotors gradually wind down, and after a moment, someone opens the door. He’s middle-aged, average height and weight, about as nondescript as they come. The only distinguishing feature is his nose, which is hawkish and looks like it’s been broken. He’s dressed in military camos, rather than the gray Vigilance Security uniform that I expected. In the Navy, the eagle on his collar would mean he’s a captain, but I’m not sure if it’s the same across all branches. The name tag reads Smith. As he moves aside to let me disembark, he glances at my lip, which is now swollen to at least twice its normal size, and then at Miller, but his expression doesn’t change.

The exterior of the helicopter is as drab as the inside, painted a flat gray-green. Lettering on the long, thin tail reads: US Army. Not good. Yes, this all began as a military project, but to the best of my knowledge, the military hasn’t been directly involved in any actions against the Delphi adepts. If they’re now working with Cregg and Dacia, we are so screwed.

Sophie and Daniel have a harder time getting out, since their wrists are hobbled together. She also has to balance the baby, who is now screaming at waking up to the wind and rain. Miller doesn’t bother to help, and Smith has disappeared around the side of the helicopter to assist a man who’s trying to maneuver my father into a wheelchair.

Miller uses his pistol to herd us toward the main building. I walk a few steps behind Daniel and Sophie, holding up my cinched hands as best I can to ward off the icy needles of rain. As we approach the door, Daniel looks back over his shoulder. “Walls up, Anna. As tight as you can.”

I don’t think Miller was able to hear what he said, but he did pick up the fact that Daniel said something. That earns Daniel a shove in the back, which nearly causes all three of them—Daniel, Sophie, and the baby—to fall.

Daniel’s warning wasn’t really necessary. I was already quite sure that this is, or at least used to be, a prison. And the very last thing we need is for me or my father to take on any additional hitchers while we’re here.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Brushy Mountain State Penitentiary

April 26, 2020

Daniel, Sophie, and I press close to the side of the building and wait for Smith and the other man, who I presume is the pilot. It’s slow going for them, since the ground is rocky and not well suited for a wheelchair. They nearly dump Pfeifer out of the chair, and I’m both relieved and worried to see they removed the IV from his arm. The good news is they didn’t rip the needle out of his vein as they bounced him across the yard, but the bad news is he’ll be waking up soon.

Beyond them, near the cloverleaf building, is a ray of sunshine in this otherwise dark and rainy night—a van. I can’t tell for certain in the dim light, but it could be blue, and it’s the same model as the one in my vision.

The wind shifts, and the baby’s wails grow more frantic. “Shh, Lily Bee,” Sophie croons. “Mama’s here.”

Daniel pivots as best as he can to shelter them from the blowing rain. But Miller isn’t down with that. He shoves Daniel back against the wall, wedging the pistol into his ribs.

“Stay where I can see you, freak!”

My breath catches in my throat. I know Sophie and I make it out of here. I know my father makes it out of here. So does Miller, although I’m a bit more ambivalent in his case. But I didn’t see Daniel in the vision. I didn’t see the baby, either.

“I was trying to keep the kid from screaming,” Daniel says evenly.

Miller pulls the gun away. I don’t know if it’s because Daniel is nudging him or if there’s actually a smidgen of humanity inside the man. “Okay. If it will shut the kid up.”

It doesn’t entirely, but Lily does dial back to a loud whimper rather than a howl.

The pilot tosses a key ring to Miller, an exchange that could have happened back at the helicopter and kept everyone a lot drier. Miller opens the large padlock and, after a few tries, finds the key to the door itself. The door is metal, and a good six inches thick. It creaks as it opens, adding yet another horror-movie touch as Miller shoves me forward into the pitch-black building.

Smith pushes past with a flashlight. We wait in the dark for several minutes, and then a loud, whirring noise ushers in the light.

We’re in what may have once been a cafeteria. Exposed ductwork runs across the ceiling. Someone endeavored to cheer the place up with a bit of color by painting the pipes red. Murals cover the upper walls between the windows, painted onto the cement by artists with varying degrees of talent. Drawings cover many of the columns, as well. Most of the artwork is outdoor scenery—a herd of deer running through the woods, a pair of raccoons peeking over a log, a large blue fish swimming lazily between the roots at the bottom of a stream.

One long cafeteria bench remains at the center of the room. Miller shoves me down on one side and tells Daniel and Sophie to take the other. The pilot parks the wheelchair next to them and slings the diaper bag over one handle of the chair. Pfeifer’s head hangs to one side, and I’m reminded of Magda’s daughters at the window of Bell Isle. Chloe, I guess. Or rather Chloe’s shell, since she’s not in there.

Smith frees Sophie’s hands so that she can tend to the baby. Sophie pulls out a diaper and then tosses me a couple of wet wipes. “You’ve still got blood there.” She taps the side of her mouth. I dab the area around the cut, wincing at the sting, until she gives me an all-clear nod.

“Aaron’s going to kick my ass,” Daniel says. “I told him I’d watch out for you.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You weren’t even conscious. And a split lip is the least of our worries.”

Lily is rightfully indignant at having her diaper changed on a cold metal table, but the discomfort is brief. Soon she’s the one person in the room who is in dry clothes, happily taking her way-past-bedtime bottle.

Miller joins the other two men, and once he’s out of earshot, Daniel leans across the table and whispers to Sophie, “Our odds of getting out of here are better once Pfeifer is awake, but only if you can block him from taking on any extra hitchers. This is a bad place.”

“No kidding,” Sophie says. “Dacia said this is where the guy who shot Martin Luther King was held, although she didn’t mention she was sending me with you. Hannibal Lecter was supposed to come here, too, but—”

“Lecter wasn’t real,” Daniel says.

“I know that. But in the book, this is where he was being transferred when he escaped. My point is that plenty of serial killers were housed here. Not the kind of guys you want to have in your head. But I don’t know if—” She falls silent when Miller looks our way for a moment, and then continues. “I’ve never blocked someone from taking on ghosts. I guess it’s the same principle as anything else, though.”

“Is that why we’re here?” I ask. “Do they want us to pick up more hitchers from this place?”

“How would I know? My only part in this was supposed to be getting you into the chopper. Lying bitch said she’d take me and Lily to Knoxville.”

Sophie seems a little naive to have believed that story when they clearly need her here to block Pfeifer. And I’m guessing from her expression that she didn’t believe it. Not really. She hoped Dacia would keep her word, but she didn’t have a choice as long as Dacia had her baby.

Miller and Smith are heading over. I lean across the table quickly and tell Daniel, “The lump is gone in my vision. It’s just a bruise.”

“What vision?” Sophie asks, but I don’t have time to answer.

They herd us into a hallway. There’s a gate about ten feet down, which is closed. I assume we’ll be here for a few minutes while Miller shuffles through his keys. But he just shoves the metal bars with one hand, and it slides open. I flash back on movies I’ve seen where all the prison doors open in unison. Maybe it was computerized back when this was an actual prison.

The corridor beyond the gate is dimly lit, and aside from the cells being stripped down to bare metal, the place resembles every cellblock I’ve seen in movies or on TV. As we go deeper into the facility, Sophie keeps looking back at Daniel. Her eyebrows are raised in a very clear message—I’m not blocking you, so you know . . . anytime you’re ready.

Daniel ignores her. He may not even see her, to be honest, because he keeps looking back over his own shoulder. At first, I think he’s worried that Miller is going to shove them again. But he seems to be watching Smith more than Miller.

About halfway down the long row, we reach a group of larger cells that appear to have undergone renovation. They’re now double-wides—two cells combined into one. Each has four cots, where the others had two. And the cots here are topped with mattresses.

“In you go,” Miller says. “The accommodations are a little less . . . posh . . . than what you’re used to at Sandalford, but at least you’ve got a bed. Hard to believe people pay to sleep here. Gotta be an easier way to act out prison fantasies.” His eyes do a perverse elevator ride, first at me and then at Sophie, which is doubly messed up since she’s holding Lily.

As soon as the words leave Miller’s mouth, the leg cramp comes back. He leans down, cursing and clutching his calf. Smith gives him a confused look, then steps into the cell and cuts our zip cuffs.

Blankets and clothing are piled on top of one bunk, and several crates of bottled water are stacked at the rear of the cell, along with a box of rations. The place has even been given a fresh coat of paint, and I send a silent prayer of thanks to the person who realized that tourists would be willing to give up a bit of authenticity in order to have a curtain around the toilet.

Smith loops a heavy chain through the bars to close the door. “Food, water, and a first-aid kit back there. This wouldn’t have been my first choice for housing you, but it should take care of your basic needs until the others arrive and we can get you transferred over.”

“Others?” I ask.

Miller limps forward and nods toward the stack of linens. There’s an envelope on top. “From Magda.”

The sound of Smith clicking the padlock shut sucks the air out of me. I sit on the edge of the bunk, waiting for my panic to abate. I’ve never been locked in a prison cell before, but I have been locked inside hospital rooms. It’s pretty much the same thing.

I’m not the only one freaking. “Are you really going to just leave us here?” Sophie asks. “Without a guard or anything?”

“Miller will check on you tomorrow,” Smith says.

“The hell I will. Not unless you’re sending in some backup. I’ve dealt with that one”—Miller nods toward me—“for about six months. She convinced my guards to load up a truck with my equipment that she and her friends then drove off the premises. She convinced them to let her out of the building unsupervised on more than one occasion. We’re a damn sight more likely to find all of them where we’ve left them if there is no guard nearby that she can trick into opening that lock.”

“I thought your boss solved that problem for you?” It’s clear from Smith’s tone that this is code of some sort.

Miller shakes his head. “Hasn’t kicked in yet. And there’s no guarantee it will.”

“Doesn’t matter, though,” Smith says. “The girl is a blocker. If she wasn’t blocking them, we wouldn’t have gotten them into this cell, right?”

“Hmph,” Miller says. I’m not sure if he’s agreeing or disagreeing.

“At least put me and the baby in a separate cell,” Sophie says. “I’m the one who ratted them out. We’re not safe in here. What if Pfeifer wakes up? I jabbed a needle in his arm, for God’s sake!”

“Oh, he’ll wake up.” Miller’s tone remains light, almost teasing. “I’m thinking two, maybe three, hours, now that the tube is out of his arm. Guess we’ll find out how good you are at blocking, won’t we?”

“What about formula for the baby? I’ve only got one bottle and a couple of teething biscuits.”

“You’ve got food back there,” Miller says.

“She’s thirteen months old! She needs formula. And not cow’s milk. She’s allergic. Soy Enfamil.”

Smith runs one hand across the stubble on his head and then sighs at Miller. “Go into town and get the baby’s formula first thing tomorrow morning.”

“There’s no point!” Miller says. “We’re only talking, what, thirty-six hours? They can crumble up the adult food and—”

Smith’s eyes flash. “That was not a suggestion, Mr. Miller. I am in charge of these . . . prisoners. I can call your employer, if you’d like, but she instructed you to cooperate. And while you may no longer be in the military, I’m sure you remember the Geneva Conventions. There are special rules about the care and treatment of children. Those rules have already been broken once by taking that child from her mother and using her as a hostage, but that was before I was placed in charge. There will be no further violations. Are we understood?”

Miller nods, but he looks like he bit into something rotten.

“Then you are dismissed.”

After Miller sulks off, Smith tells Sophie, “I’ll check in tomorrow after the conference, to make sure he actually follows orders. We’ll keep your little girl healthy. You have my word on that.”

She thanks him, and Smith gives the five of us in the cell one last look. Daniel, who had previously been trying to avoid the Colonel’s gaze, seems to have changed his mind. He’s staring straight at Smith now, and the man’s frown deepens as he looks back at Daniel, like he’s trying to place him but can’t. He’s still puzzling over it when he walks away.

As soon as we hear the loud clang of the metal gate leading out to the cafeteria, Sophie whirls around, her eyes shooting fire at Daniel.

“I wasn’t blocking you!” she hisses.

“Yes,” Daniel says. “I know. If you’d been blocking me, Miller wouldn’t have been limping his way out of here. But you heard Dacia when we left the cabin. She said Taylor and Aaron wouldn’t be harmed as long as Miller checked in with her by midnight.”

“And you believed her?” Sophie says.

“Do I have a choice? Did you have a choice when she was holding Lily?”

Daniel’s voice is raw with emotion, and I hate to pile anything else on him. But I didn’t hear or see what happened in the cabin, so I have to ask.

“You weren’t able to nudge her? Dacia, I mean.”

“I didn’t try. Miller had Taylor. Gun pressed to her temple. I couldn’t risk it. If there had been even a second’s delay between my suggestion and his reaction . . . Plus, she was in the room,” he adds, jerking his head toward Sophie. “What if she was blocking me?”

“You weren’t in my radius at the beginning. I’ve got a ten-foot span, max, and it gets weaker the farther out I am. Or if I use it too often. But yeah,” Sophie says, getting right up in his face, “once I got into the living room, I was blocking the hell out of you. Because that was the deal. I get the three of you on the helicopter, and Dacia doesn’t hurt Lily.”

Dacia’s voice runs through my memory, whispering to Hunter Bieler, I make it quick for you.

“You were smart not to test her, Sophie. She’s killed at least six children. I doubt she’d balk at one more. Do you think Dacia will keep her end of the bargain with Daniel?”

“Don’t know . . .” Judging from her tone, I’m certain she’s going to add don’t care. But she doesn’t. She just stands there, rocking Lily back and forth, hovering on the brink of tears. “Dacia didn’t exactly keep her end of the bargain with me. Sure, I got Lily back. But we’re inside a prison, in a cell with a man whose head is chock-full of ghosts that aren’t exactly friendly. I jabbed them with a needle a few hours ago, so I’m a little worried they’re going to forget I was in The Warren with them. A little worried we might not get out of here alive. So, yeah, maybe Dacia will do as she promised. Senator Cregg told her to behave while he’s still negotiating with this Magda woman and the military officials. That’s why they’re involved in transferring you guys over. But even if she keeps her promise about your friends on paper, she’s Dacia. She’ll put some kind of psycho spin on it.”

We’re all silent for a moment, even Lily, who’s studying her mother’s face with worried eyes. Sophie kisses her on the forehead and says, “Mama’s okay, little one,” before looking back over at me. “What were you saying before about a vision and the bump on your dad’s head?”

“You don’t have to worry about whether we get out,” Daniel says. “We do. It just may be a few days.”

I give her a brief overview of my visions in general as we make one of the cots so that she can put the baby down to sleep, and then explain about my most recent flash-forward.

“You were inside a van in the vision. And I can’t be sure, but I think it’s the one parked over by that cloverleaf-shaped building.”

Once Lily is down, pacifier securely in her mouth, Sophie turns back to me. “And these visions are solid? Not crystal-ball stuff that sometimes happens and sometimes doesn’t?”

“Rock solid,” Daniel says. “I’ve been in her head when she has them. The only limitation is that the vision only shows what she’s seeing and thinking at that moment. And”—he turns toward me—“that’s why I’m not worried about the fact that you don’t remember seeing me in the vision. If you were worried about me or even if I was dead, you’d have been thinking about me.”

Sophie rolls her eyes, possibly because it sounds egotistical when he puts it that way. Or, even more likely, because she can see that Daniel is very much alive, and all of the other hitchers she’s heard of, either in my head or my father’s, are dead.

“Daniel used to be dead. But now he’s not.”

I leave Daniel to explain that one while I open the note from Magda. There’s no salutation—as usual, Magda is as blunt as a sledgehammer.

I regret that this is the only option, but please trust that it is. You were dishonest with me in several regards. I, on the other hand, have never hidden from anyone the fact that my chief concern is the welfare of my daughters. Most of the adepts will remain here at Sandalford at least through the end of the year. Caleb will be transferred to Senator Cregg’s custody, due to his volatility. Once I have the formula for the cure in hand, Deo will be transferred as well, again due to the danger he poses to the larger community of adepts. You have been transferred to the Senator’s custody because you are apparently housing his psychopathic son, and the Senator wants to ensure that he does not harm anyone else.

After the election, the Senator has assured me that he will reunite you and Deo with the other adepts if he is satisfied that it can be done safely. By that point, he believes that many will be stable enough to return to the general population. In the interim, he has promised you will not be harmed and my daughters will have the medical treatment they need. Again, the next few months may be unpleasant for you and indeed for the other adepts who are averse to change. Maria will do her part to ensure they adjust to the inevitable. I just wish you and the Quinns were even half as cooperative. But rest assured this is all for the best.

Magda Bell

I toss the note to Daniel when I’m finished, and he reads it aloud.

“What she said about Maria,” Daniel says once he’s finished. “You think it’s true?”

I consider my answer, but in the end, I shake my head. “No. Just before we left, she was saying how easy it is for people to turn on those who are different. How easy it is to scapegoat them for everything that goes wrong in your life. Her family was killed in that sort of violence, and . . . if that was a performance, she wins the Oscar. Plus, most of the other things Magda said are bullshit. Why should that part be true?”

“So you think Pfeifer’s right when he says that a cure isn’t possible?” Sophie asks, confirming what I suspected—she was listening the whole time my father and I were talking the other night.

“Yes. For one thing, he’s the expert, but it also syncs up with everything Dr. Kelsey—the psychiatrist back at Sandalford—told me about the regions of the brain the drug affects. But Pfeifer did say they were close to creating a drug that would mitigate symptoms even before he was imprisoned. And it’s been fifteen years since, with others probably continuing his work. So maybe this formula the Senator is supposedly handing over will actually be helpful for some of the adepts.”

“I think it’s equally likely that he’ll give her the formula for drain cleaner,” Daniel says. “I don’t get why Magda would believe him. She never struck me as naive, but suddenly she’s accepting everything the Senator tells her at face . . . value.”

A far more likely explanation has just occurred to me. Judging from Daniel’s expression, he’s reached the same conclusion.

“But if she was nudged by one of Cregg’s adepts,” I say, “why would she hold back on handing over Deo? If you were doing it, wouldn’t you have just convinced her to hand everyone over at once?”

“Maybe. But a hard push like that would be less likely to stick. I might be able to do it, but . . .” Daniel turns to Sophie. “Does the Senator have any adepts with my ability?”

“You mean useless tricks like giving people leg cramps?” she asks. “No, I know what you mean. Pushers. Yes, they’ve got two, at least. Otherwise they wouldn’t have been able to pull off most of their fake terrorism stuff. I know one of them. Terrance. He wound up at The Warren about two years ago, after he was arrested for holding up convenience stores. He was, like, thirteen years old, and he’d just stroll in and convince the cashier to give him a few hundred in change for that ten-dollar bill he paid for the Slim Jim or whatever. The video shows what happened, but the cashier didn’t even remember the kid coming in. First two times Terrance got caught, he convinced the cops to let him go, but he has trouble sending out a group message—like when you told everyone to hand over their guns in the lab. If there’s more than one person in a room, someone will know Terrance is lying. And it usually wears off after a few days, anyway. How long does it stick when you do it?”

“Depends,” Daniel says. “Sometimes it’s permanent. Is this Terrance the strongest . . .” He hesitates, clearly not liking the label, but it’s the one that all of the adepts seem to use. “Is he the strongest Pusher . . . they have?”

“Maybe. But they could easily have someone more powerful or even have more than two. We had several dozen new adepts come in while I was there. Most of them within the past month, and most brought in through that Sanctuary organization Cregg’s wife runs. Some were like . . . really new. Not second-gen and not stable yet. One died, and a bunch of them had that . . . smell. Like your boy back at the cabin. The kid with the hair.”

“The ozone smell?” I ask.

“I guess? Kind of burns your nose. The girl who died had it bad. She only lasted about a week after she reached the camp in Nevada. She was like most of the newbies they brought in. None of them seemed to know what had hit them. I’m beginning to think they’re right about it going viral.”

“Not viral,” I say. “But it’s definitely spreading, at least in areas that have early political primaries.”

Daniel gives me a cautionary look. “Do we want to go into that right now?”

“Sophie’s telling us what she knows,” I say. “And a few days from now, we—or at least I—will consider her an ally. There’s a chance she could turn on us after the vision happens, but I suspect the Senator’s people have already figured out what’s going on with the drug sales. They probably got Cregg’s iPad from Taylor, too. Plus, to be honest, if Sophie spills this information to the Senator and he somehow manages to stop the transfer of drug formulas to those dealers, would that be a bad thing? It’s killing people.”

So we grab food and water from the boxes at the back and exchange information. I’ve no clue how long we talk because we don’t have phones or watches.

Sophie doesn’t know as much about the Senator’s operations as we’d hoped, but at least she’s able to provide us with a rough estimate of the people he has working for him—or simply has captive, in some cases—and what they can do. They have a few Zippos, a half dozen or so Movers, and some low-level Peepers. A couple of Fivers, including Olivia Wu, the girl who gave us the information on where to find Hunter Bieler and the other kids at Overhills. Sophie says they have two adepts who might be able to blow the circuits on household appliances, but none who could blow out an entire electrical grid. The two Pushers she mentioned. Terrance has been traveling with the Senator, and the other one with Dacia. She doesn’t believe they have an amp, which explains their interest in Deo, and as far as she knows, they don’t have any vessels. But with the steady stream of new people coming into the camp, she really couldn’t be certain about anything.

“As for the Senator himself,” she says, “I’ve only seen him once, and that wasn’t for long. He arrived home maybe five minutes before Whistler showed up with Pfeifer. They ran their test, which took forever, and then we left for The Warren. Anything else I know about the Senator is via Dacia. I know he told her not to touch you, Anna. That he had questions for you. Dacia wasn’t happy about that one little bit. I think she has a score she wants to settle, but I’m not sure whether it’s with you or with Graham Cregg.”

“Most likely both.”

We’re all yawning, all fighting the inevitable, when we finally roll Pfeifer’s wheelchair next to the bunk where the baby is sleeping and Sophie crawls in next to her. We debated pulling down the mattress and moving my father out of the chair but finally decided it’s better to wait until he wakes up on his own.

The fact that he’s still unconscious worries me. Sophie must sense my feelings, because she presses her fingers against his wrist.

“I’m not an expert. But it feels okay to me.”

“Do you have anything in that diaper bag that we can use to tie your arm to him?”

“Probably,” she says. “But that was mostly for show back at the cabin, and my arm hurt like hell the next day. This cell isn’t large enough for him to get outside my range anyway. You should get some sleep, too.”

As we’re making up our bunks, Daniel mentions the other thing that’s had me concerned since we entered the prison. “Are you worried about picking up other hitchers if you sleep?”

“A little. But more worried for Pfeifer than me. I was me in that vision. And . . . you were on board when I picked up Hunter. Remember how crazy those first few days were? If I had a new hitcher, it would have crossed my mind during the vision. Plus, I haven’t sensed anyone in this cell.”

“That’s not a good sign for the paranormal tourist business,” Daniel says.

“Just because I haven’t sensed anyone in this cell doesn’t mean the entire place is empty.” I don’t add that if I could just walk into a room and tell for certain whether there were hitchers hanging around, I’d simply avoid touching anything.

“At least the mattress is new. I don’t think anyone died on it. And it even has that plastic smell, so if it was the site of someone’s last happy memory, he or she got lucky at the mattress factory.”

I crawl into the top bunk and look over at Sophie to be sure she’s asleep. We’ve been really open with her, but some sixth sense told me to wait on this question because I felt that it might make Daniel a little uncomfortable.

“So . . . exactly who is Smith? You recognized him when we came into the building, and he was trying to figure you out when he left.”

“Remember when I was telling you about Sariah? I mentioned a supervisor at Bragg.”

“Yeah. You said I didn’t think it was entirely a coincidence that you wound up with that assignment.”

“Exactly. That was Colonel Smith. And . . . um . . . I may have kind of nudged him a few times back at Bragg. Not to do anything he didn’t want to do. Smith wanted to find out what the hell was going on with the Delphi research, too, he just wasn’t willing to push things. When I got back, I tried to tell him that Decathlon was testing new versions of the Delphi serum. But he was up for promotion, and keeping his nose clean, so he chose not to believe it. Higher-ups had assured him, blah, blah. It was clear he wasn’t going to be any help in stopping them, and he might even be a hindrance if he mentioned it to anyone else. So I nudged him to forget I’d ever spoken to him about it. He probably scratched his head a few times trying to figure out why he pulled strings to get me that Italy assignment. He’s a decent guy, but he puts too much faith in the chain of command. I was hoping to get him to remember just now, but . . . maybe I nudged him too hard the first time.”

My father coughs, a dry rattling noise. It’s the first sound I’ve heard from him since we got here.

“I really wish we had that risperidone.”

“I thought Taylor gave you another shot?”

“I didn’t mean for me.” I nod toward Pfeifer.

He gives me a warning look, but my father still seems to be out. Plus, from what I’ve seen, we have very few secrets from the hitchers in his head. They must know about the medication, and they don’t seem worried.

Once we’re in the bunks, though, neither of us can sleep. So we play a whispered game of twenty questions. The pauses grow longer, and our words grow more slurred, but each time I’m about to drift off, another wave of panic grips me.

“I feel like this cell is Schrödinger’s box.”

“What?”

“Schrödinger’s box. Or maybe that’s a bad analogy. It’s more like everything outside this cell is the box. It’s past midnight, so Miller either did or did not call Dacia. And Dacia either did or did not keep her word. As long as we’re in here, as long as we don’t know, it’s like Aaron and Taylor are both alive and . . .” I can’t bring myself to even say the alternative. “Like the cat. In the . . . experiment.”

“No,” Daniel says. “They’re okay. I’m not basing that on Dacia. She probably lied. But . . . they’re smart. Both of them. And I’d know. I don’t get Aaron’s vibes, but I’d know. They’re okay.”

NEWS ITEM FROM THE WASHINGTON TIMES

April 26, 2020

Alexandra Cregg, the granddaughter of Senator Ronald Cregg, has been taken into custody for psychiatric evaluation. Witnesses say that Ms. Cregg, 21, attempted to stab the Senator following a campaign rally earlier this evening. The attempt was easily averted by Cregg’s bodyguard, and no one was seriously injured.

A spokesman for the Cregg campaign noted that Ms. Cregg seemed to believe that the Senator was a member of the WOCAN group that held her captive for two days earlier this week. “This could simply be post-traumatic stress,” the spokesman said, “although we are not ruling out the possibility that someone was manipulating Ms. Cregg’s mind, hoping to use her as a weapon against her grandfather. That sort of terrorism could happen to any of us, but it’s even more likely that Senator Cregg would be a target due to his strong stance against psychic terror.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Brushy Mountain State Penitentiary

April 27, 2020

The lights on the sparkly pink sneaker flick on and off as I kick.

No, Myron, no.

I watch the lights go on and off. On, off. On, off.

Hands grip my shoulders, pulling me away from the old woman curled on her side, clutching her abdomen. She stares at me with a look of complete horror as I try to kick again.

Unexpectedly, the woman grabs my foot and twists. “She jumped to get away from you.”

The woman’s wrinkled face morphs into Senator Cregg, and then into Graham Cregg. I can’t hear what he’s saying because someone is screaming, but I can read his lips.

We’re more alike than you know.

I sit up so quickly that the top of my head scrapes the ceiling. The small room is in a state of chaos—baby crying, Daniel asking if I’m okay, and Pfeifer in the bunk below me, yelling at me in a foreign language.

And then he yells in English. “Keep the spider in its cage!”

As I’m telling them that he is in the cage, I get a visual from Will.

NOT A SPIDER NOT HIS FAULT

Yes, Will. It’s not really a spider. It’s Cregg. I know that.

JUST PASSING ON A MESSAGE.

I lie back down, rubbing my injured scalp. “Sorry. It was a dream. A nightmare.”

There’s a tiny bit of doubt in my mind, given the words that jolted me out of the dream. But I’m almost positive those words didn’t come from behind the wall. Everything seems quiet back there. Not even the scritch of his spider legs against the brick. I was remembering Cregg’s words. Only a memory.

I curl up facing the wall, in almost the same position as the old woman from my dream—memory—and try to block out the noises in the cell until I get my head together. No matter where this particular dream ends, I always wake feeling as though someone has kicked me in the stomach. But it also seems right that I should feel that way, like long-delayed justice.

“Anna?” It’s Pfeifer, standing next to the bunk. “Are you okay? One of our . . . hitchers picked up on your nightmare, but Leah calmed them down.”

“I’m okay.”

He stands there for a moment, and then he pats my shoulder. It’s such a hesitant, awkward gesture that it makes me want to cry. “It was just a nightmare. Not real.”

I blink away the tears and sit up, more carefully this time. Pfeifer steps back quickly, like he’s worried about invading my space now that I can see him.

“I’m okay,” I repeat. “Sorry if I woke you guys up.”

“What happened to your mouth?” he asks, tapping his lower lip. “It was bleeding.”

I run my finger over it, and a few flakes of dried blood fall onto the bed.

“Miller happened,” Daniel says, adding several choice words to illustrate his opinion of the man. “He’s been wanting to do that since last December.”

“It doesn’t hurt much,” I say. “But I’m going to make him pay for it later.”

Pfeifer gives me a grim nod. “You didn’t wake us, actually. We’ve been up for several hours.” He takes a seat in the wheelchair. The bruise on his head is no longer raised and has deepened to a reddish-purple. “Daniel said you haven’t slept much this past week. I guess you had some catching up to do.”

The facial expression, as much as the tone, indicates that I’m talking to Scott, not Leah. I don’t know if the others can tell them apart, but I’m getting good at it. It was like that for Didier, my hitcher from Rwanda. He had identical twin boys, and it was difficult to tell them apart when they were sleeping. But he could always tell Jean from Joseph when they were awake, even as infants. If pressed as to how, he could only say it was the light in their eyes.

Sophie and Daniel are sitting on the lower bunk across from me. The baby, who looks like she might start crying again at any moment, stands next to Sophie with her head against her mother’s knee.

Daniel’s concern is clearly etched on his face. He knows my nightmares better than anyone, since he’s lived through quite a few of them. I can’t remember if I had the dream about the old woman when he was inside my head, but it seems likely. And I know for certain that he was around for some rip-roaring Myron dreams.

“Who is Myron?” Sophie asks.

“Someone she doesn’t want to discuss,” Daniel says with a slight hint of venom.

“Hey,” Sophie says. “Back off. She screamed his name. Just wondering if it’s someone I need to be worried about.”

“Myron’s been gone a long time,” I tell her. “But . . . another dream seems to have stirred those memories up a bit. And it’s connected to Graham Cregg, so I think maybe that’s why it caused a commotion with his hitchers.”

“Yes,” Leah-Pfeifer says. “I’ve seen that dream before. It’s the memory I mentioned the other night, or at least part of it. The one I tried to latch on to right before he forced Scott to shoot me. And even if I don’t actually know whether he made her kill herself, it’s still sad. He loved her. That’s why I latched on to that memory in the first place.”

For the first time since my conversation with Kelsey, I feel movement behind the wall. Nothing that concerns me, really, but Pfeifer’s expression tells me that his hitchers sense it, too.

“My walls are solid,” I say, holding his gaze firmly, even though I’m pretty sure it’s no longer my father or my mother behind those eyes. “He’s not getting out. But he doesn’t like us talking about this subject. I think it hurts him.”

My words are somewhat calculated. The hitchers in my father’s head certainly won’t object to making Cregg feel a little pain. But the fact that I know this, the fact that it weighed into my calculations when I decided to make the comment, would be obvious to Will or any other mind reader he’s housing. They’d know I mentioned it purposefully.

“It’s still true,” I say aloud, feeling a little sorry for Sophie and Daniel. They’re only getting my verbal cues and not the mental game of chess that’s going on beneath the surface.

“Is not chess for you,” one of Pfeifer’s hitchers says. “More like checkers.”

I have no idea which one is speaking, but I ignore them and ask about the message Will telegraphed to me a few minutes back.

“You don’t think Graham Cregg killed his mother?”

Leah-Pfeifer says, “I didn’t send a message, but no, I don’t. She’s hard to read, though. Thirty years is a long time to just . . . hover. And she was unstable even before she died.”

It takes a moment for me to realize who she means. “Penelope Cregg?”

“Yes. That was the Senator’s test at his home in Virginia. The kind of test that his son gave you at The Warren. That’s why he wanted Sophie there, too . . . so she could block his late wife’s ability if she decided to give him too much of a bad trip.”

“That’s what happened in the cabin, isn’t it? And in the tunnel with Daniel and Deo.”

“I didn’t try to calm her down in the tunnel. Not even sure that I could have, since Sophie wasn’t blocking. Penelope had only just come on board, and she went wild when Davis pointed the gun at us. He and Whistler got a taste of what she could do as well. I don’t know what they saw, but that’s when Davis peed himself. She doesn’t want to hurt you or anyone here . . . but she’s not happy about the current situation with Graham.”

“So that’s why she sent that message through Will? Not a spider. Not his fault.”

Pfeifer nods.

I hesitate. The last thing I want is to anger a hitcher with her ability. I definitely don’t want to watch my father morph into the title character from a drive-in creature-feature again. And while Sophie might be able to block it, she said her ability gets weaker if she uses it too much. So I need to step carefully.

“I agree on the first part. I’d much rather he took a different form, too, but it’s not something I know how to fix. If she’s claiming he’s innocent . . . well, people can change a lot in thirty years. There’s solid evidence back at that townhouse to show that she’s very, very wrong. My memories of Molly Porter make it crystal clear that, even if Graham Cregg is not a mutant spider-rat, he’s most definitely a monster.”

“I can back her up on that,” Daniel says. “He ordered people killed. And he forced people to harm themselves, to harm others. Might not be easy to hear that about your child, but like Anna says, a lot changes in thirty years.”

“Where did you pick up Penelope?” I ask.

“At the house in Alexandria. Like Sophie said earlier. The Senator was testing us.”

“No. I mean where at the house. Was it on the patio?”

Sophie and Daniel both give me an odd look, and maybe they’re right. It’s not really important. But this is the first time I’ve been able to talk to someone else who picks up hitchers, and I’m curious. Was she still hanging out where she died? Or was she in her last happy place?

“Not on the patio,” Pfeifer says. “But that is the first place he took me. I spent ten minutes there, touching the bricks, the rosebushes, the metal edging around the bushes.”

Scritch. Scritch.

Pfeifer’s eyes widen and he falls quiet. Someone in that head of his is definitely monitoring the activity behind my walls. After a moment, he goes on. “Then they took me to the kitchen, a couple of bedrooms, onto the balcony that overlooks that patio. I ran my hands over most of the surfaces, even though some of the stuff wasn’t anywhere near three decades old. Senator Cregg was starting to get annoyed, I think, but then we stopped in this library up on the second floor. There was a piano in one corner. A few Impressionist-style paintings. All very expensive looking, and that’s probably why the small sketch drew my attention. It was in a plain wooden frame on one of the shelves, next to a leather-bound edition of Shakespeare’s collected works. The drawing was decent enough, although the perspective seemed—” His face goes blank for several seconds. “Okay. Guess I’ll keep my art criticism to myself. Anyway, the sketch was of a boy sitting on the patio outside. I think it was drawn from the library window. I picked up the frame, and nothing happened. But my thumb brushed over the canvas briefly as I was setting it down, and then . . .”

“Then everything went crazy,” Sophie says. “I saw it happening. That’s how I block. It’s like these little waves radiating out of a person when they use their ability. I focus on pushing the waves back.”

Lily has gotten braver now and is exploring the room, keeping up a steady stream of chatter, mostly nonsense syllables mixed with an occasional emphatic no or mama. She’s pulled most of the food packets out of the box and is now gnawing on the edge of a bag of freeze-dried lasagna. I don’t know if she’s hungry or just teething.

“So, sort of like an aura?” Leah-Pfeifer asks.

“Maybe,” Sophie says. “But no colors. Just sort of a pulsing in the air around them.”

Her description reminds me a bit of Caleb—how the door of Room 81 at The Warren pulsed outward, and the strange hovering waterspout offshore near Sandalford.

“I only see a small pulse for something like that leg-cramp trick Daniel did. But it’s bigger—way bigger—for the stuff Oksana and the others did to Whistler and Davis.” Sophie startles, and I guess she just received a mental flashcard from Will, because she says, “Yes. They did deserve it. I wasn’t passing judgment, just stating a fact. The waves coming off his body when they killed those guys reached clear into the middle of the lab. I couldn’t have pushed them back even if I’d wanted to.”

The baby shoves aside the food packet and pulls herself up to standing using my leg. Maybe that means I’m forgiven for frightening her when I woke up. I tug the collar of my T-shirt up over my eyes to play a few rounds of peekaboo and finally get a smile from her. Then she toddles back over to Sophie repeating the word boo.

“Has she shown any abilities?” I ask.

Sophie shrugs. “Nothing I can pinpoint, but you better believe that was something both of the Creggs were interested in. Same with the other three babies who were at The Warren, except they were just second-gen adepts. Lily is third-gen. The only one, far as I know. She’s not a Mover or a Zippo, or I think we’d have had a sign by now. But I was a low-level Peeper before they shot me up with this blocking serum. And Lily seems a little more intuitive than most babies. At least to me. But then she’s mine, and everybody thinks their kid is special, right? I hope she’s not this kind of special, though. Things would be a lot easier for her if she’s not an adept.”

I don’t ask whether Lily’s father was an adept, and the uncomfortable expression that Pfeifer is wearing leads me to think one of the hitchers picked up on something disturbing. If I was forced to hazard a guess, I’d say the father was one of the Fudds, and I doubt it was consensual. No point stirring up bad memories for Sophie.

“We’re just lucky she’s not like Anna was at that age,” Leah-Pfeifer says. “Before she learned to keep her walls in place, Anna was a regular spirit vacuum, sucking up anything in her path. Not a huge deal in most places, but there’s so much negative energy here. I can’t sense the actual ghosts, but Scott says there are dozens of them. That’s one reason he’s . . . hanging back a bit. We’re worried that he could pick someone up, and it’s already rather crowded in here. The atmosphere in this place has several of our current guests on edge, as it is. Keeping them mellow is going to become a challenge if we’re stuck here for much longer.”

I look around the cell nervously, even though I’m still not sensing anything. But then, I’ve got my walls at maximum and risperidone in my system.

The faint noise of helicopter rotors causes me to automatically look toward the wall, even though there’s no window in this cell. We haven’t heard any noises from outside since last night when we heard the chopper take off. This sounds different, although I guess it could just be the difference between takeoff and landing.

“If that’s Smith coming back to check on Miller, he’s not going to be happy that his orders weren’t followed,” Daniel says.

Pfeifer’s eyes go vacant and he stands silently for a moment, head cocked to the side like he’s listening. “It’s not Smith. Can you fly a helicopter?”

“Me?” Daniel asks. “No. I’ve jumped out of a few . . .”

Sophie and I both shake our heads, and Leah-Pfeifer crawls back into the bottom bunk. “It’s going to be hard to control them, and this is not our best chance to get out of here. So, if she asks, Miller is keeping me drugged.”

If she asks . . . “It’s Dacia?”

“Yes,” Pfeifer says, and I’m getting the sense that both my mother and my father are in the back seat right now. “Seven others. Two are kids. I can’t read one of them clearly. Drugs, maybe.”

Daniel’s face falls. There are a number of kids at Sandalford who might need to be medicated before a flight—all of the Zippos, for example. But we already know that Caleb is one of the adepts that Magda traded, so odds are strong that two of the four additional people in the helicopter are Caleb and Ashley. I can’t imagine they would risk taking Caleb without the one adult who has had at least some degree of success keeping him calm.

About ten minutes later, the gate clangs open and someone enters the corridor. Even without Pfeifer’s advance warning, I’d have known it was Dacia from the telltale clack of heels on the cement floor. But there’s another set of footsteps as well.

“Sophie?” Dacia calls out. “Are you in this block? We are looking all over.”

I can tell that Sophie is struggling with whether to answer. She looks around at the rest of us, and Daniel nods. There’s really no point in keeping silent. Maybe this is how we get out of here?

“I’m down here.”

The heels head this way.

“Ugh,” Dacia says as she comes into view. “This place is oribil. Worse than they told me. I am sorry you must stay here, Sophie, but is only a few days. Where is that man? Miller. He is supposed to be here.”

The guy walking behind Dacia is dressed in one of the all-black uniforms that the WOCAN bear brigade tends to favor. He looks like a young Steven Seagal, with a face that might be tolerable if not for the sneer. One of his hands is wrapped around the arm of a frightened little girl.

Maggie. I didn’t even hear her footsteps over the noise of the others. Her eyes are red and swollen from crying, and her cheeks lack their usual pink hue. I give her a small wave. She bites her lip and stares down at her shoes as the tears start again.

“Is he still unconscious?” Dacia asks, nodding toward the bunk where my father is stretched out.

“More or less,” Sophie says. “Miller gave him another shot this morning.”

“Maybe for the best,” Dacia says. She takes one of the grocery bags the man is holding and pulls out a six-pack of Enfamil. Regular, not soy.

“I have food for the Lily Bee! Milk and baby bananas and cereal . . .” Dacia shoves a container of mashed bananas through the bars and then hands the bag back to the man. “Why do you just stand there? Break them apart! Put them through bars.”

While the guy breaks the formula bottles out of the case, Dacia pulls a ball out of the other bag and holds it up for the baby to see. “And look! Just for Lily Bee.” The ball is too large to fit through the bars, though. Dacia tries to flatten it a bit but finally gives up and drops it on the floor. Lily isn’t interested anyway. She’s clutching Sophie’s shirt with both hands.

Aside from her question about Pfeifer, Dacia ignores everyone in the cell other than Sophie and Lily. I’m generally okay with being ignored by psychopaths, but this really isn’t Dacia’s style. She’s more the kind to kick you when you’re down, and it’s hard to believe she’s passing up a chance to taunt me about being on this side of the bars, especially when it means that Graham Cregg is locked up in here as well.

But her attention is fixed on Sophie, and when Sophie doesn’t answer or respond in any way, Dacia makes an exaggerated sad face. “It is out of my way to come here, but I take trouble on a very busy day to make sure you and Lily are comfortable. You do not even say thank you.”

“Thank you.” Sophie’s voice and expression are both as dry as bread crumbs, but she snatches up the baby food and formula.

Dacia sighs. “Sophie. I know this is not what I promise. But you are needed more here, so you must . . . how do they say? Take it for team. Maybe it is safer for Lily, too. The new boy . . . he may make a bigger bang at the lab than we are thinking.”

I don’t know if she notices Daniel’s eyes narrowing, but she turns toward him. “Yes, I see you trying to push me around, Daniel Quinn. You squint your eyes up all you want. Even if Sophie and Maggie were not here to block you, I do not push so easy as Alexandra Cregg. Not anymore. And maybe I have my own pusher now.”

On the last two words, she grips the cell bar with her gloved hand—the one with the missing pinky.

“It was you, no? You leave the little poison pill in her head to kill grandpa. It might have worked, too, if I hadn’t been there to peek inside her tiny little mind.” Then her eyes take on a malicious glint. “Not going to ask me about your family?”

“No point. You’d only lie. And we already know they’re okay.”

Dacia arches an eyebrow. “Do you, though? Are you so sure? The Senator says they are of value, so maybe I left the soldati behind to watch them. Or maybe because you are big pain of my ass I stay behind at cabin. Maybe I take care of them myself.”

She draws out the last sentence deliberately, baiting us. Tall, Dark, and Scowling is getting impatient, though. “We need to go, babe.”

Dacia gives him a wither-and-die look, but she turns to follow.

“Maggie wasn’t part of the agreement, Dacia. Senator Cregg isn’t going to be happy about this.”

I’m not sure why I say it. It’s likely to rile her up, and I don’t even know for certain that it’s true. I guess I just want Maggie to know that someone gives a damn. That she’s not simply a pawn.

My words hit a nerve, apparently. Dacia stomps back toward the cell, blue eyes blazing. “Maybe I do not care what the Senator wants or about his agreements or his timeline or if he will be stupid președinte. Who is he to tell me what to do? If I did not tell him Alex is brainwash, he would be dead. Lucas was right. He is a nothing and a thief. Big-shot Senator can do nothing with his normal, boring brain, and so he thinks to tell me how to lead?”

“You could just leave Maggie with us. Miller could take her back to Sandalford, and . . .”

Dacia laughs and tosses a remark over her shoulder as she walks away. I don’t understand Romanian, but I’m certain it wasn’t a compliment.

Once the gate clanks behind her, I turn to Daniel. “You couldn’t nudge her?”

“I wasn’t trying. Pfeifer’s right. They didn’t have the key to the lock, and I had no way of knowing if Maggie was blocking. Dacia said Miller isn’t here. So he must have gone into town for supplies for Lily. The smartest move is to wait until he gets back.”

“Did you actually nudge Alex Cregg to attack her grandfather?”

“Yeah. Figured it was worth a try.”

Pfeifer tosses the blanket back and sits up. His movements don’t look . . . right to me, and he’s tilting his head to the side again. Listening, but not with his ears.

“Dacia seems awfully eager to keep in your good graces,” Daniel tells Sophie.

“Why wouldn’t she be? I’m a blocker. We’re rare . . . it’s just me and Maggie, unless they’ve managed to make another one who survived. And Dacia’s lying when she says you can’t nudge her. She’s built up a little resistance, but she can be pushed, her mind can be read, she can be set on fire by a Zippo. All of it. And do you have any idea how many people Dacia has pissed off? Her plan is for me to be her shadow. She’d be even happier if Lily inherited my ability, because she’d be a lot easier to brainwash.”

“But if she’s got Maggie now,” Daniel says, “doesn’t that mean she no longer needs you?”

“I think it’s more likely Maggie winds up with the Senator and his wife. A politician would find it a lot easier to sell Maggie as a niece or as some poor little orphan they adopted. A twenty-three-year-old black girl with a mixed-race baby might raise a few eyebrows among the Senator’s base. So if Maggie can shield the Senator, and I get Dacia, it might maintain their rather shaky balance of power. Those two have some trust issues, believe you me.”

“Maggie may not last long enough to do the Senator any good if they’re using her to block Caleb. Magda already tried that. It drains Maggie. When she’s around Caleb for more than a few hours, she comes back looking like a zombie.”

“Which means they’re both in danger.” Daniel pauses as we hear the helicopter take off. “Along with Ashley and anyone else in that helicopter.”

It occurs to me as he’s speaking that there’s a very real chance Deo could be one of the passengers. Maggie wasn’t mentioned in Magda’s note, and yet she was just here. Who’s to say Dacia didn’t ignore the agreement to save herself a second trip?

Daniel paces the length of the cell. “Do you know where they’re going, Sophie? Dacia mentioned a lab.”

“I . . . can’t remember the name. But it’s outside of Knoxville. They’re planning to do another one of their WOCAN attacks there. Something to give a boost to the Senator’s antiterrorism speech tonight.”

“They have no idea what they’re dealing with,” Daniel says. “Miller better get back soon because we need to get the hell out of here.”

“No,” Pfeifer says. “We’re not waiting on Miller.”

His face goes blank for a moment. Then he stands up and pulls the mattress off the bottom bunk. He’s moving oddly again, the way he did earlier, and I’m not seeing Scott-Pfeifer or Leah-Pfeifer in his eyes. This is more Furies-Pfeifer.

He looks over at Sophie and says something in a different language, pointing to her and the baby. Then he holds up the thin mattress in front of him.

“Bareeyeer. Mattress bar-ee-yeer.”

And then he gestures toward Daniel’s mattress. “Go. Get.”

I catch on before Daniel does and tug the mattress off the bed. “She wants us to get behind it. Mattress. Barrier.”

Daniel and Sophie exchange a glance that says they’re not at all convinced this is a good idea. I agree. But I don’t get the sense it’s negotiable.

“I think that’s . . . Oksana.”

The name puts both of them in gear. I never saw her alive, but Jaden once described Oksana as not the most stable isotope in the lab. And in my experience with her spirit, I think that may have been an understatement.

Sophie scoops up Lily, and we hunker down behind the mattresses. I’m a little worried about Pfeifer, who is standing off to one side, totally exposed, but he’s okay in my vision. And I don’t think Oksana would be reckless enough to hurt the body that’s carrying her around.

The sound of screeching metal is almost earsplitting, and it’s joined a second later by a series of pings. I feel something—several things, actually—ricochet off the mattress.

When the barrage stops, we slowly lower the mattresses. Tiny chunks of the chain are scattered on the floor. Every single link was shattered, and the lock itself, one of the heavy-duty types, is now a twisted mess.

My father grins, a bright, maniacal expression that’s more than a little unnerving, and then Oksana, or whoever that was, is gone. It’s just Pfeifer now, befuddled, looking at the scraps of metal around his feet. Not a single one hit him.

“Seems a bit . . . dramatic,” he says. “Could have popped a single link, and we’d have gotten the same result.”

“Or simply waited until Miller arrived and let me nudge him to unlock the cell,” Daniel says.

“No,” Pfeifer says. “He’ll have his weapon drawn, and he’ll be expecting trouble. This way, we stand a better chance of taking him by surprise.” He glances toward the windowless wall, and I think he’s heard something outside, but maybe he’s just listening to one of his inner voices. “We need to go.”

We grab some of the supplies and push the door open. As we head toward the exit, I notice the ball that Dacia brought, still leaning against the bars. I check to ensure that no chain shrapnel is embedded in the plastic and then extend it to Lily.

She frowns at first. Then she takes the ball and hurls it past me with a defiant “No!” as it bounces down the hallway. I go after it, mentally kicking myself for not realizing she’d think it was a game, and worried that she’ll start screaming for the damned thing when we’re halfway to the exit.

But when I bring it back, her bottom lip juts out. “No. No baw.”

She clutches her mom tighter, and her frown doesn’t go away until I put the ball back on the floor. I half expect her to change her mind before we reach the gate, but she’d doesn’t. Lily remembers exactly who brought that toy.

There’s no sign of Miller when we reach the cafeteria, and a quick look outside confirms that the van I saw parked by the cloverleaf building last night is gone. It’s possible we could just walk out the front gate, but given that someone has invested money to renovate those cells, I suspect it’s locked. They’d need to keep out thrill-seeking teens wanting to snoop around a purportedly haunted prison. We also have no idea how far it is to the main road. Plus, Miller and a van (probably this van) are in my vision. So the only sensible alternative is to wait until he returns.

Daniel and my father head to the far end of the room and take up position on opposite sides of the door we came through last night. There’s really not much Sophie or I can do, so we take the baby into a small guard station inside the cafeteria. Someone removed the door and, judging from the wires jutting out of the shelves, the monitoring equipment. I do a quick search for weapons, but the place is empty, aside from one battered office chair and a crumpled MoonPie wrapper.

And I’m pretty sure there’s a spirit in here, too. My walls are up, so I’m probably safe, but no way am I touching that chair or anything else in this room. I crouch down on the floor near the doorway, next to Sophie.

I’m a little worried Lily will start chattering again and inadvertently tip Miller off. But for the moment, at least, she’s happily gnawing on a teething biscuit and tugging items out of the diaper bag.

Luckily, we don’t have to wait long. Lily has barely made a dent in the teether when I hear the metal door creak open. The noise is followed by a guttural scream and a heavy thwack as something hits the floor.

Daniel says, “Any weapons on your body are now red-hot, Miller. They’re burning through your pockets . . .” Whatever else he says is drowned out by whimpering noises and the sound of weapons clanking to the floor.

Lily’s interest is piqued by the action in the cafeteria, so I shift over to block the doorway. I have a clear line of sight now and see Miller currently suspended about eight inches above the floor, pinned to the wall. Blood trickles from his nose, and he’s holding two fingers in his mouth. A plastic grocery bag is on the floor in front of him, along with a pistol, a taser, car keys, his wallet, a couple of spare zip cuffs, and his phone. Miller wasn’t taking any chances. Apparently, everything that was in his pockets has been dumped onto the floor in front of him.

After Daniel scoops everything up, the force causing Miller to hover above the ground ends abruptly. Miller crumples to the cement, landing hard on his knees. He screams again, muffled this time by the fingers in his mouth. The burns were all in his head, but I’m pretty sure those fingers are now hurting for real, since they were between his teeth when his knees hit the floor.

Daniel shoots an annoyed look at Pfeifer. “That was risky. I mean, he deserved the punch. But why didn’t you pin him to the wall first?”

“Because it was one of my guests pinning him up there, and I wanted to actually feel his face under my fist,” Pfeifer says, and then looks back at me. “If you’d like to hit him yourself, Anna, I’d be happy to—”

“That’s okay,” I say quickly. To be honest, I do feel a tiny bit annoyed. I was fully planning on getting even with Miller for this puffy lip at a later date. And it probably would have been safer to let Daniel disarm Miller first. But there’s also a part of me that’s touched that my father wanted to punish Miller, too.

Miller is curled up on his side, holding his hands up to his quite-possibly-broken nose. Sophie picks up the grocery bag that’s near his feet, peeks inside, and then hurls it at Miller. Daniel gives her a baffled look.

“It’s not soy. And the last damn thing we need is a baby with an ear infection right now.”

There’s a brief argument about what to do with Miller. As much as I’d love to toss him into one of the cells, the only chain we have was just disintegrated. And even if that weren’t the case, I know Miller was in the vision. Leaving him here isn’t an option, so Daniel pops one of the cuffs on Miller’s wrists and hauls him outside.

Something is off when I see the van. It’s navy blue, and I’m certain it’s the same one. But I definitely don’t remember that sign on the side panel.

“Why didn’t you mention the advertising?” Daniel says.

“It wasn’t in the vision. I mean, there was a sign, but it can’t remember what it said. Believe me, Tennessee Ghost Tours would have stuck in my memory.”

The others are getting into the van, but Pfeifer hangs behind, just inside the doorway. His body is rigid and shaking. The red pipes along the ceiling are also shaking now. One of them quivers itself out of its support bracket and comes crashing to the floor. Along the wall, the windows rattle once, twice, then shatter outward.

The wall catches fire.

That’s not quite right, though. It’s more like a flame sprite dances across the cement, from one mural to the next, igniting the paint as it goes. Deer and raccoons now seem to be in a hopeless race against a raging forest fire. The fish pond ripples and blackens. A column near the middle of the room that once depicted a panther climbing a boulder is peeling away, leaving only scorched concrete below.

And then the fire stops as suddenly as it began. It’s like a blowtorch is turned off, and the flames instantly extinguish.

The reek of smoke and burned chemicals hangs in the air. Few traces of the artwork remain, and most of the paint has been scorched away from the metal pipes. All of that creative effort has literally gone up in smoke.

Pfeifer’s head jerks toward me, and for a second, I’m afraid that I’m next on the to-be-incinerated list. Daniel must think so, too, because he’s yelling for him to stop.

But whichever Fury is in control simply says, “Is not a happy place. This is how they feel.”

And then Leah-Pfeifer is looking back at me.

“It was building up. Too much for me to control. They needed to vent.”

Daniel stands beside me, mouth open, as he takes in the smoking ruin.

“Good decision,” he says. “Definitely better out than in.”

NEWS ITEM FROM THE KNOXVILLE NEWS SENTINEL

April 26, 2020

Presidential candidate Senator Ronald Cregg (UA-PA) and scientists from Oak Ridge National Laboratories are among the speakers scheduled at the upcoming Shield2020 Psychic Security Conference, sponsored by Decathlon Services Group.

The conference, which will take place on Monday and Tuesday at the Knoxville Convention Center, will bring together more than 400 state and local law enforcement, military, and government leaders with the nation’s leading authorities on the Delphi Project and its potential impact on national security. Participants will share best practices and lessons learned in controlling and apprehending individuals with psychic abilities.

When the conference was first announced in January, government officials and members of the two major political parties derided it as a campaign stunt in support of Senator Cregg, who was once on the board of DSG. There was a push to boycott the event. The escalating crisis, however, has made it far more difficult for Congress and the White House to ignore the issue, since Senator Cregg, who is essentially assured as the Unify America nominee, has made the battle against psychic terrorism the cornerstone of his campaign. With state and local officials now demanding action and resources, Republican and Democratic leaders seem to have reached a tacit agreement to scrap the boycott. Instead, they will use this conference to demonstrate what they are doing to address the crisis, although some of the participants stress that their attendance is simply to address the panic over the issue, and not a confirmation that psychic terrorism actually exists.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Oliver Springs, Tennessee

April 27, 2020, 3:54 p.m.

Daniel opens the van door, peels off a fifty, and hands me the debit card along with the rest of the cash he withdrew from Miller’s checking account. “I’m going to walk across to the drugstore. They should have soy formula. Hopefully burner phones, too.”

The cell signal came in on Miller’s phone as soon as we reached the main road leading out of the prison. Daniel was worried about Miller’s communications possibly being monitored, but we decided it was worth the risk to call and check on Aaron and Taylor. We’ve all had to change phones several times over the past few months, and neither of us committed their new numbers to memory. The number for Sam’s company, Quinn Investigative, is the same, however. Unfortunately, we got the answering machine, and Daniel didn’t want to leave Miller’s number, so we’re still in limbo.

“Be nice if that drugstore had a car seat,” Sophie mumbles, glancing down at Lily. The baby is crawling around on the floorboard now that I’ve stopped the van, but Sophie was holding her before that. Or trying to. The kid has a major case of the wiggles.

My father is in the seat behind Miller. He hasn’t said much, and his eyes are closed most of the time. I don’t think he’s sleeping, it’s more like meditation. Maybe he’s still trying to rein in Oksana or whichever whirlwind it was that trashed the cafeteria.

“We’ll find a car seat as soon as we get to Knoxville.” I stuff the money and debit card back into Miller’s wallet. There’s a corporate credit card in there as well, along with his driver’s license and a loyalty card from Harrah’s casinos. That was a lucky find, because it gave Daniel the idea to tell Miller this is a paid excursion to a casino in New Jersey. He was in a chipper mood after that, despite his badly swollen nose. It’s the first time I’ve seen Miller with a genuine smile.

Having Miller along may already have bought us some time, though. A text came in on his phone a few minutes after we turned onto the main highway. It was from Magda, letting him know that the Senator’s people had taken Maggie, and cautioning him to be alert for any other deviations from the agreement.

My hands shook as I sent back a simple 10-4, which seems to be Miller’s default response to most texts. Magda knows that this is a dangerous situation for Maggie. She saw firsthand how Maggie looked after a couple of days with Caleb. But it sounds more like she’s annoyed at Cregg for changing the terms of the agreement than actually concerned for Maggie’s welfare. Senator Cregg’s people could probably march in and take custody of all the adepts, and she’d stand aside as long as she gets what she wants.

Miller hasn’t given us much information beyond what we already know, however, despite Daniel’s interrogation, which was heavy on the nudge. As far as we can tell, Miller doesn’t know anything beyond the basics of the agreement that Magda made with the Senator. And he doesn’t seem to be especially easy for Daniel to manipulate. It took two tries to get the debit PIN, and I’m not sure how long any of Daniel’s suggestions are going to hold. About ten minutes ago, Miller started to look confused and angry, more like his usual abrasive self. Daniel gave him another, slightly stronger nudge, and Miller went back to telling us how much he won at blackjack last summer. I think the plastic zip cuff he’s wearing might be part of the problem. Each time he remembers his wrists are bound, it chips away at the casino cover story Daniel planted in his head.

“Yes, it’s soy,” Daniel says as he hands the bag back to Sophie. “No burner phones, though. We’ll try the Walmart in Oak Ridge.”

We’re about a mile down the road when Sophie leans forward and taps Daniel’s shoulder. “Where did you say we’re going?”

“Walmart.”

“No . . . the city. Oak Ridge. That’s the part of the name I couldn’t remember. The lab that Dacia is targeting.”

“Oak Ridge National Laboratory?” There’s a note of alarm in my dad’s voice, and I try to place the name. Something connected to World War II, I think.

“I don’t remember the National part,” Sophie says. “But yeah. It was Oak Ridge.”

My brain finally makes the connection. “The Manhattan Project.”

“When are we going to be at the casino?” Miller asks.

Daniel sighs. “I’m going to put him to sleep. If his phone rings, we’ll wake him up. Miller, go to sleep.”

“I’m not . . .” But then his eyelids droop, followed by his head.

“Is it still a nuclear facility?” I ask Pfeifer.

“Yes. Although a lot of other research goes on there now as well. Security is pretty tight at those places, though. They wouldn’t be able to just land a helicopter there.”

“Maybe not.” Daniel grabs Miller’s phone and begins dialing. “But I could probably talk my way past the guard. From what Sophie said, Dacia’s got at least one adept who can be persuasive.”

“Are you trying Sam’s again?” I ask.

“No. I’m calling Baker. Someone needs to raise the alarm.”

But Baker isn’t on duty, and Daniel can’t remember his personal number. We debate calling the police on Miller’s phone, but we’re close enough now that it seems wise to wait for a burner phone that can’t be traced.

Twenty minutes later, Daniel is able to place a brief, anonymous 911 call in the shopping center parking lot while my dad—or more accurately, my mother—and I try to figure out how to safely install Lily’s new car seat. We’re the only ones with any experience at all in that regard, but Leah’s is at least fifteen years out of date and mine is a vague hitcher memory.

Sophie paces around the parking lot as we wrestle with straps and hooks. I’d expected her to tell Daniel to buy a specific type of car seat, since she was particular about the type of baby formula. But she had no idea, and she’s totally clueless about installing it or getting Sophie strapped in. I can tell this really bothers her, and I realize for the first time that Sophie has never cared for Lily in the outside world. All of her experience with parenting has been at The Warren or at the Senator’s facility in Nevada. All of her experience as an adult, for that matter, has been inside an institution of some sort. She can’t drive. She’s never had a job. While she’s definitely smart, the educational program at The Warren wasn’t exactly top notch. No wonder she was willing to cash in on her blocking ability. That’s probably Sophie’s only marketable skill, and she has a daughter to support.

I turn my attention back to the car seat, which now seems to be correctly secured. Sophie heads back once we have Lily situated, carrying two large blue-and-white rectangles over her arm. Her expression is a little less miserable than it was a moment ago, and when she reaches the van, she slaps a rectangle over the Tennessee Ghost Tours logos on either side of the van. A bit of the T still shows, but the rest of it is neatly covered by a navy-and-white Coldwell Banker sign.

“Problem solved,” she says. “But we should probably get out of here. Otherwise we may have an angry realtor chasing us.”

One of the new phones rings just as Daniel pulls back onto the main road. It’s Porter. I put him on speaker.

“Thank God, Anna. Are the others with you?”

Daniel frowns. “I’m with her. We’ve also got Pfeifer and another adept. Have you heard from Taylor and Aaron?”

There’s a long pause before Porter answers. “Last I heard, Sam had turned the truck around and was heading back up to that cabin in West Virginia. Had one of his hunches. That would’ve been around seven thirty last night. I left two messages already, but was hopin’ maybe his phone’s just got bad reception. Mine never works worth a damn in the mountains. What—”

“I’ll fill you in later,” Daniel says. “Right now, you need to contact someone and tell them to increase security at the Oak Ridge National Lab. Baker, if you can reach him. I don’t have his home number. I made a call about twenty minutes ago to the local police, but I couldn’t give them any identification. They may have thought it was a prank.”

“On it.” Porter ends the call.

“It’s too late,” Pfeifer says. “Look over there, to the right.”

A massive plume of smoke is rising in the woods behind a Bojangles’ and a storage facility. As we watch, it seems to get another burst of fuel, and the cloud rises higher.

“Are you sure that’s the lab?” Sophie asks.

“No,” Daniel says. “But it’s sure as hell in that direction.”

He nods toward the sign we’re approaching, which directs us to turn right for Oak Ridge National Lab.

We do not turn right. The light ahead is yellow, and it’s clearly going to change to red before we get there, but Daniel floors it.

Just as we clear the intersection, we hear another explosion.

It’s loud. Loud enough that we feel it. Still, it’s not nuclear loud.

My dad echoes my thoughts. “They blew something up, but that wasn’t a nuclear detonation. Not even close.”

“Yeah, well, there are nukes in the vicinity,” Daniel says. “We’re not waiting around for the fire to spread.”

He gets no argument. We drive in silence for the next few minutes, except for Lily, who is not used to a car seat and probably frightened by the explosion.

Once we’re well clear of Oak Ridge, I lean toward Daniel and ask, “Can Caleb do that?”

“Caleb’s not even three. I don’t know what he can do. He’s definitely telekinetic. And while I was at The Warren, we had one incident that . . .” He shrugs. “He could be a Zippo, yeah. Or there could have just been a short in the equipment that he moved, and that’s what started the fire. But I don’t think that was Caleb. It’s much more likely that Dacia and her bears pulled a conventional attack. Not nuclear, not psychic. That sounded a lot like an IED. They may not still be around here. I just wish I knew where they were going.”

“I don’t know about Dacia,” Sophie says, “but the Senator is at the terrorism conference. He’s giving that speech tonight. Follow the Senator, and eventually you’ll find Dacia and Caleb, because he’s definitely going to make sure Dacia did as she was ordered. Like I said before, they’ve got trust issues. Oh, and can you give this guy back here another push? He’s moving again.”

Daniel curses softly and says, “Go to sleep, Miller.”

Sophie doesn’t know where the convention is taking place, so I google it and learn that the Shield2020 conference, hosted by Decathlon Services Group, is being held at the Knoxville Convention Center downtown.

The website declares that hundreds of officials and law enforcement officers will be there to share best practices and lessons learned for controlling and apprehending Delphi psychics. That sounds like the last place we need to be. But since we have no other ideas on how to find Dacia, I guess we’ll have to stroll into the lion’s den.

“Traffic’s probably going to get worse,” Daniel says, “once the situation at Oak Ridge hits the news. I’m guessing that, even if they don’t officially evacuate the area, a whole lot of people are going to decide it’s a good night to go for a long drive. Just to be on the safe side.”

Porter calls back a few minutes later. By the time he reached Baker, reports of an explosion near Oak Ridge were already coming in. Daniel brings Porter up to speed on everything and asks him to forward Sam’s cell number and any others he might have.

“I’m headed to West Virginia now. Your mama was ready to get into the car herself when I talked to her, but I told her it might best to . . .” He falls silent, and his unspoken words drive a stake of fear straight through me. Porter didn’t want Michele Quinn to go because he’s scared. He thinks he may find them dead.

“Anyway,” Porter says. “Gonna take a while to get out of DC this time of day, so I don’t know when I’ll get there. I’ll be back in touch as soon as I can.”

We’re about to end the call when Porter says, “Oh, one more thing. I got an odd call from someone I know over at Montgomery County Child Welfare. They remembered me asking around about Anna last year when . . . um . . . when I . . .”

“When you thought I was a scam artist. It’s okay, Porter. What did they want?”

“Well, they had a call from someone who wanted to track down a girl who was abandoned at Laurel Mall in 2004. Said that she knew the girl had been adopted, but that she’d be an adult now and graduating from high school next month. Thought she might need money for college. At first, I thought it was one of Senator Cregg’s people . . . only they know where Anna is. And then they tell me the person’s name. Leah Johnson. Seems she adopted her sister’s identity. She’s living in Colorado. Runs a small art gallery in a resort town.”

“Manitou Springs,” Pfeifer says. “I told you, Scott. I told you she wouldn’t . . .”

The last part trails off, but my father’s face goes blank again, so I suspect the conversation has just shifted to internal mode.

“Um . . . yeah,” Porter says, obviously confused by the dialogue. “Right near Pikes Peak. I’ll text the number when I stop for gas.”

All of this sort of floats over me, because my mind is still on the words that Porter left unsaid. I pull up the map again and start typing in a new route.

“What are you doing?” Daniel asks.

“Finding the quickest route back to West Virginia.”

“Anna.” He reaches over and grabs my hand. “We’re at least six hours away. Maybe more. Porter will be there in three hours, tops. There’s nothing we can do. But maybe we can find a way to help Caleb and Maggie.”

He’s right. I know that. But it doesn’t feel right.

It’s after six thirty when we finally reach the exit for the Knoxville Convention Center. Lily quieted down, thanks to a bottle, but she’s tired and cranky and wants out of the car seat. I scan the map, trying to find a place to park and maybe a hotel, because we can’t risk taking a baby—or for that matter, Pfeifer, whose face has been all over the news—anywhere near that conference. Or Miller, who is still in zombie mode. Daniel and I will stand out badly enough as it is, with our jeans and sneakers in a sea of business suits.

As I zoom in on the area nearby, however, the vision begins to replay in my mind. The World’s Fair Park is right next door to the convention center. Beyond it is the water, and the white tarplike building, and the odd lollipop-looking building I saw from the helicopter.

We turn the corner, and the convention center comes into view. It’s a huge building constructed mostly of glass. The large golden globe atop the tower, which is called the Sunsphere according to the map, reflects the lights of the city below. From this angle, I can tell that the bottom section is the tower from my vision.

“There’s going to be another attack. The glittery stuff I saw in the vision . . . it’s that giant gold disco ball. There will be police tape around this entire area tomorrow. At least, I think it’s tomorrow . . .”

I glance back at Pfeifer, but it’s too dark to see his forehead, and I’m not even sure I remember exactly what it looked like in the vision anymore. His eyes are closed again. I don’t know if the baby’s cries stressed him out, or if it’s something else, but he looks like he did at the prison when my mother said one of the hitchers needed to vent. What if he’s the reason that thing explodes?

“How much destruction are we talking?” Daniel asks.

“I think it’s mostly the Sunsphere, although I didn’t look toward the convention center, so I’m not certain. The tower part of the Sunsphere was still standing, though. So was that white thing next to it, which is some sort of outdoor theater. And they had this road open again, so the damage can’t have been too extensive, right?”

“Look over there,” Sophie says. “The theater area is lit up like they’ve got something going on. There are a lot of people hanging around. A concert, maybe? That’s not good . . .”

Daniel slows the van almost to a stop. A car behind us honks. There’s no parking available, so he pulls into the bike lane. The street we’re on is elevated above the amphitheater. I get out and run to the other side so that I can get a better look at the gathering.

The amphitheater sits in front of a lake, or maybe lagoon is a better word. It’s clearly man-made, curving like a snake between the convention center and the theater. The crowd under the canopy is mostly male, mostly in business suits, with a decent representation of military uniforms. The website listed two events today, the Shield2020 conference and a high school academic awards banquet. It’s pretty clear which one this is.

White-clad tables are arranged near the edges of the stage, with steamer trays and platters of food. A bar is set up at one end. According to the conference agenda, a cocktail reception and the keynote speech were supposed to be held in one of the first-floor exhibit halls, but apparently, they decided to move it all outdoors.

“Not a concert,” I say as I get back into the van. “They relocated the Senator’s speech.”

“Great.” Daniel pulls back into traffic. “And we don’t have any idea when that thing is going to blow.”

“Or why it’s going to blow.” I tap Daniel’s arm and flip the rearview mirror down so that he can see my father, whose eyes are squeezed tight.

“Okay,” Daniel says, flipping the mirror back up. “I was going to suggest a hotel room. But maybe we’ll drive down to the other end of the park. Let everyone get some fresh air.”

I saw the sphere in my vision, and I know it’s going to blow. But maybe getting my father out of here is what limits the damage to a big gold ball rather than a big glass building with hundreds of people inside.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Knoxville, Tennessee

April 27, 2020, 6:33 p.m.

I locate a huge paved lot near a park about a half mile from the amphitheater. It appears to be overflow parking.

“Can you walk that far?” I ask Daniel. “If not, we can drop them off and circle back.”

I’m worried he’ll be defensive about it, but he nods. “As long as I take it at a moderate pace. But you need to stay here. Someone needs to keep an eye on your father and Miller. I’ve leave you his gun.”

“We lock Miller in the van. Sophie takes Lily for a walk. And my dad has some alone time in that empty lot. I’m coming with you.”

It was clear from Daniel’s tone of voice that the suggestion was a trial balloon, and he doesn’t seem surprised that it failed to fly. I would have argued for the buddy system regardless, but it goes double since I don’t remember seeing Daniel in my vision. I know the rest of us currently in this vehicle will be fine when the sun comes up, but Daniel wasn’t there. He may have promised Aaron he’d watch out for me, but I have a responsibility to look out for him, too.

There are a few cars near the end of the lot closest to the park, but the section beyond the railroad tracks is as empty as it was in the satellite photo, aside from scattered fast-food containers and a few beer bottles.

Once we’re parked, Daniel gives Miller one last mental nudge to keep him sleeping while I open up the back of the van and tap my father on the shoulder. He jumps, hitting his head on the ceiling of the van. But nothing explodes, so I count myself lucky.

“We’re going to leave you here, okay, Dad? We’ll be back. And if anyone inside your head needs to . . . vent”—I nod toward the parking lot—“this might be a good spot. But try to keep it low-key. We’re in the middle of the city.”

Pfeifer gives me a shaky smile and unbuckles his seat belt. “Low-key. Sure.”

I’m about to close the hatch when the umbrellas in the storage area catch my eye. I grab two.

“Do you think Miller is pretty well under?” I ask as Daniel and I begin walking back toward the Sunsphere.

“Yeah,” he says. “It should hold. Even if it doesn’t, he’s in the cuffs. He’s really . . . obstinate.”

I hand one of the umbrellas to Daniel. He gives a confused glance at the cloudless sky and then says, “Oh. Got it. Not for rain.”

“They may not offer much protection from flying glass, but it’s better than nothing. Do you think it would do any good to call security?”

“Not really. And like you said, some protection is better than nothing. Everyone is under the amphitheater canopy, right? Even if we could convince them to evacuate, what if that thing blows right in the middle of them leaving? What I’d really like to do is find Colonel Smith. Give him a heads-up, so that maybe they can do some crowd control. Keep people seated until it’s clear that there’s no danger.”

“Smith is here?”

“Yeah. Remember? He said he’d check back in on us after the conference. And he was overseeing the school at Bragg before they relocated those kids to Sandalford. I’d say he fits the description of someone who could share best practices for dealing with Delphi psychics.”

Daniel manages to keep up a decent pace. We’re a little over halfway there when I hear microphone feedback off in the distance, and a woman begins talking. As we get closer, I hear applause, and then a voice I recognize from too many TV news clips thanks the woman for the introduction.

The response from my hitcher is strong. Stronger than I expect, strong enough that I miss a step as I shore up the ramparts holding him in.

“You okay?” Daniel asks.

I nod. “Tripped on the sidewalk.”

He gives me a skeptical look. “You need to let me know if there’s an issue . . .”

“There’s no issue, Daniel. I tripped.”

As we approach, I see that the crowd is larger now. A little over a third of the seating beneath the canopy is occupied, looks like mostly by the people at the reception earlier. But a new crowd has formed around the edges of the auditorium. This group, three or four dozen at least, is dressed mostly in purple-and-white T-shirts. A few have their children along. Some are carrying Unify America or Cregg for Our Future signs. One sign has the Republican elephant and Democratic donkey on the right and left, respectively. They’re both crossed out, and For 2020 Vision: Unify America is printed in the center.

That explains why the event was moved outside. Even though this kind of conference shouldn’t be a political event, the Senator isn’t about to miss out on a chance for extra publicity.

Daniel and I circle around back to the grassy area behind the seats. The food tables have been removed from the stage, and the podium is now decked out in purple-and-white streamers with the Unify America logo in the center. It sits between two giant monitors running Senator Cregg’s usual backdrop, a slightly hypnotic video clip of gently waving red-and-blue stripes that float across the screen, merging to purple when they meet.

The Senator thanks the conference attendees and also the small crowd that has gathered, calling them unintended, but very welcome, guests. That gets a snort from two men sitting in the upper seats, who seem to understand exactly why this change of venue happened.

“Given recent events at Oak Ridge, I’ll keep my remarks brief . . . and yes, it is possible for a politician to do that if we try really hard.” Cregg pauses, and several people oblige him with a half-hearted laugh.

His spider-rat son responds too, scratching again at the bricks in my wall.

Okay, fine. I get it. He’s the enemy. But you’re not helping.

Two more scratches and then silence.

“The attack at Oak Ridge this afternoon was far more serious than I . . .” Senator Cregg stops and clears his throat. “Than any previous attempt by the WOCAN terror group. This rapid escalation of violence is the very reason conferences like this are so vital to our national security.”

He sounds like his usual bombastic self on the surface. But I’ve listened to his speeches a lot lately, and I can tell he’s nervous. If the audience notices, they probably think it’s because of the attack at Oak Ridge. But the attack wasn’t a surprise to the Senator. Something else must have him on edge.

The control booth for the theater is a large concrete box at the center of the structure. We stop on one side of the box, and Daniel pulls out his phone. He zooms in and holds it up like he’s recording the Senator’s speech. But I can see the screen, and he’s not watching the stage. He’s looking out at the audience, scanning the seats for Colonel Smith.

“Strong and committed leadership at all levels of government is the only hope we have of combating this plague and those who have been afflicted by it,” Cregg says from the podium. “We can show mercy to those who, through no fault of their own, are caught up in this storm. But there can be no mercy for those who would use these powers against their nation, to terrorize their own people.

“And that is the reason,” the Senator continues, “that I gladly agreed to be here tonight, even though we have primaries in five states tomorrow. I have always believed that this is an issue that must transcend politics, but the horrific actions taken by . . .”

“Got him,” Daniel says softly as the Senator speechifies on, and motions for me to take the phone. “Hold it there until I get back.”

I have no idea what Daniel is up to, but I nod. He takes off, not toward Smith, as I expect, but over to a man in a purple Cregg for Our Future shirt who’s standing a few yards to the left of us. The guy follows him back to where I’m standing.

“See that man?” Daniel says. “Eight rows down, three seats in. His name tag will say Smith. Go tell him one of his soldiers needs to speak with him behind the control booth on an urgent matter. Then say, persuade, change, influence. Repeat that back.”

The guy does, and then Daniel nods toward the aisle. “After you tell him, take a seat. Under the canopy.”

“What is persuade, change, influence?” I ask once the man leaves.

“PSYOP motto.”

Two little boys are running around on the lawn near the lake. I cast a nervous glance up at the Sunsphere. “Listen, you do what you can with Smith, but I’m going to try to herd some of these folks toward the seats. That sphere could go any minute, and . . .”

He’s hesitant, but then he follows my gaze toward the two boys, who have now been joined by a third. “Okay, but . . . don’t be too obvious.”

Smith rounds the corner as I’m walking past. He recognizes me and moves in my direction, but then Daniel steps forward. I don’t hear what he says to Smith—I’m not even positive he says anything out loud—but the man immediately forgets all about me and follows Daniel back around to the side of the control booth.

Cregg is now detailing his five-point plan for dealing with the crisis. The flowing stripes on the monitor have faded into the background, behind the word IDENTIFY in large, bold type.

I approach a small cluster of people near the edge of the amphitheater and tap the shoulder of a woman in a Unify America shirt. “Excuse me. I’m a volunteer with the Senator’s campaign.”

She gives my definitely-not-purple and definitely-not-business attire a questioning glance, but I keep talking. “There are several reporters here, and I just saw one tweeting about all the empty seats. Could you and your friends help me spread the word to everyone standing out here on the lawn? Young, old, everybody—we need to fill in those gaps in the audience as fast as possible.”

“Sure! Happy to help.”

The woman talks to her friends, and they fan out into the crowd, which soon begins moving toward the shelter. I circle behind the stage to the other side and find a second volunteer to get that group of people into the seats.

Dozens of people taking seats at once isn’t a quiet enterprise, and the Senator seems a little annoyed at first. But he pauses his speech and waits for everyone to get seated. “Sure. Come on in,” he says with his usual snake-oiled smile. “Plenty of seats for everyone.”

His comment draws in a few more of the stragglers. There are now only two people out on the lawn, down near the opposite end of the lake, on one of the curved benches near the fountain. They’re much more interested in each other than in Senator Cregg’s speech, and I’m just going to have to hope they’re outside the blast radius.

As I head back to rejoin Daniel, the door to the control booth opens, and a young man in a purple shirt steps out. He closes the door, latches it with a padlock, and then begins walking briskly up the path that leads to the main road.

Daniel must have nudged Smith into listen-only mode. He’s standing rigidly against the wall, his cell phone in one hand, looking stunned. His eyes widen slightly when he sees me, but he remains silent.

“How did you do that?” Daniel asks, nodding toward the last group of people moving into the seating area. His eyes are slightly narrowed, and I realize what he’s thinking.

“It’s me, Daniel. I’m not going to let him out of his cage for something like this. I just employed a little basic psychology. Maybe we didn’t need to pull the Colonel into this after all.”

“No,” Daniel says. “We need him. Not for crowd control, but—”

A horn blasts twice. I look toward the road but then realize that the noise is coming from the speakers over our heads. On the stage, the Senator’s bullet points have disappeared from the monitors. In their place is a video. A group of around fifteen people stand in front of a dark-gray pickup truck parked on the side of a two-lane road. Some of them wave little WOCAN flags. All of them are dressed in black, and all are wearing bear masks, except for the woman in front, the one bear who doesn’t care. Dacia’s mask is tipped up to the top of her head, and she’s smiling gleefully at the camera.

“Hello Shield2020 people! Enough of boring speech. Let’s take a trip!”

The people in the video pile back into the truck. They’re mostly male and mostly adult, but I see three children. I’m pretty sure one of them is Maggie. The woman next to her is Ashley. I would have guessed it simply from her build—she’s a bit more curvy than the other bears—but I also recognize the vivid abstract print on her shoes. It reminds me a bit of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. She once told me they were nursing clogs, and said that when you wear scrubs every day, you need some outlet for individual taste.

The child she’s carrying is definitely Caleb. His head rests against her shoulder, and a fringe of blond curls peeks out from his mask.

The video isn’t live. It looks like it was filmed this afternoon in Oak Ridge. They pass a sign on the right that reads Y-12 New Hope Center a few seconds after the truck moves back onto the road. The camera pans to show the building, the other “bears” in the back of the truck, and then cuts to the truck driving down a long, two-lane road toward a checkpoint in the distance. Dacia is on the passenger side with the camera in selfie mode.

“We are humans of the future. You are humans of the past. We will no longer allow you to treat us like animals, to lock us away. You call us freaks and mutants. But we are superior. And there are more of us every day.”

She pans again to show that the driver and the person sitting next to her, who is either a kid or really short, are both wearing bear masks. Up ahead, a gate blocks the road, and two armed guards, one male and one female, approach the truck.

“Drop your guns.” The bear in the middle has a high voice. A girl, I think, and no more than nine or ten years old. But the guards obey her command without question.

“The ID in his hand is good,” Little Bear says slowly. She’s looking down, and I’m pretty sure she’s reading a script. “His name is Fred, and he’s the only person in this truck. You know Fred. He makes this delivery every week.”

The driver holds up his hand, and the audience can see that he’s holding a pack of cigarettes, not identification. The guard closest to the truck, however, gives it a cursory inspection.

A boom sounds in the distance, and the camera pivots behind the truck. All of the bears are watching the New Hope building, about a quarter mile back, when a second explosion rips the roof off. One of them pumps his fist, and a few others high five.

The guards are watching, too. “What the hell?” the female guard says, and then Little Bear glances back down at her lap and says, “That’s the controlled demolish . . .” A little sigh of frustration, and then she repeats, “The controlled demolition scheduled for today. You got an e-mail about it. Open the gate now so we can go.”

“We got an e-mail,” the male guard says, tapping the gate control with a badge that’s attached to his belt. “You can go.”

Here in the auditorium, feet pound up the stairs toward the control booth. A woman grabs the door handle and yanks, apparently hoping the giant padlock in front of her is an optical illusion. When it doesn’t open, she pounds on the metal door in frustration.

Senator Cregg is no longer at the podium. He’s tugging on the cord to one of the monitors. It blinks out, and he runs to the other side of the stage to take care of the second monitor.

Behind him, a second fountain springs to life. At first, I think it’s simply on a timer, but then the fountain grows, surging at least three times as high as the one at the far end of the lake.

Back on the remaining monitor, Little Bear is telling the guards, “Get in the booth and forget we were here.” And then the monitor goes black.

But the audio, which must be run separately, continues. “See? We simply drive through the gates to where the nukes are!”

The guy who locked the control door is still visible at the very end of the path. I need to see where he’s going and, more importantly, determine whether that second fountain behind the stage is what I think it is.

Dacia’s voice rings out, giddy with excitement. “We have an army now, and it grows each day. Just now, you watched us control weak minds of these guards. And we could be anywhere. Maybe we are sitting next to you right now. This time our psychic did not blow up nukes. Only buildings, and mostly buildings with no people. That’s why we wait until they close for the day. But next time? Who knows. Stop listening to the politicieni like Senator Cregg. Give us the WOCAN states for our homeland. Let us live in peace, and we will leave you alone.”

I’m almost to the path when the burner phone rings. It’s probably Daniel asking what the hell I’m doing, but I can’t stop. I look behind me, planning to signal to him that I know what I’m doing, but my eyes never make it that far. They stop at the overpass, where Ashley stands at the wall, holding Caleb. She’s still in the black clothes she was wearing in the video, but the bear mask is gone.

Caleb stares at the water, transfixed by the new fountain he’s created. Ashley glances over her shoulder and then at the convention center, with its hundreds of glass panes. She says something to Caleb, and the fountain subsides instantly. The only hint it was ever there are the ripples in the water.

He’s now looking up at the Sunsphere. There’s a crackling noise. I panic, before remembering the umbrella.

I don’t know if it’s my panic or just a stray thought that reaches him, but Caleb is looking straight at me now.

ANNA BIG BALL GO BOOM.

Then the cracking sound grows louder, and tiny golden and clear crystals rain down from above, covering the sidewalk and the grass. The people in the amphitheater are screaming, but they all stay beneath the shelter.

I stand alone on the lawn, beneath my umbrella, as the gilded snow falls.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Knoxville, Tennessee

April 27, 2020, 7:33 p.m.

The fact that I am alone in the middle of a glass blizzard, under an umbrella on a cloudless night, is going to raise eyebrows. It might be best not to wait around for questions. As soon as I’m certain the storm has ended, I toss the umbrella into the bushes and head for the park where we left the van. I’ll call Daniel when I get there and we can set up a rendezvous point.

It’s a little slippery at first. The glass fragments are so small that it’s almost like walking on sand. But the blast radius was limited, almost unnaturally so, and I’m reminded of the space around my father’s feet in the cell, which was clear of shrapnel from the chain. I suspect there’s a similar fragment-free circle near the spot where Ashley and Caleb were standing.

By the time I’m across the street, I’m able to pick up the pace to a run. Just another jogger in the park. Pay no attention to the gold glitter on my shoes.

My father is on the curb when I reach the empty lot. I sit next to him, and he glances at what remains of the Sunsphere. “I didn’t do it,” he says with a hint of a smile.

“I know.”

“But . . . you might want to avoid walking on that parking lot for a bit. The asphalt is a little spongy.”

“Oh. Well, at least you picked up the trash.”

“I got rid of the trash. I didn’t pick it up.”

Now that I look closer, he’s right. There are several small piles of ashes scattered about, along with a few oddly misshapen mounds that appear to be melted glass.

“The little boy did it, right? The one Daniel worries about.”

“Yes. Caleb. How did you know?”

He gives a small one-shoulder shrug. “There’s a seer in here. She’s just not very . . . reliable. Some of the things she sees never happen.”

“That seems to be pretty common with adepts. Stan, the guy back at Sandalford, is like that.”

“This one is also a bit unstable, though. Most of the adepts that Graham Cregg had killed were unstable.”

I nod. The only exception I know of was Jaden, and he seemed to think he got pulled in because he and Will were roommates and the Fudds needed another body to test my ability.

“So, you’re getting to know your hitchers,” I say. “Is that why you’ve been meditating in the back seat?”

“Partly. I want to know what they can do. But mostly because your mother finds it easier to keep all of our guests calm if I can shut out the external world. They were a little unnerved just after you left . . . a lot of talk about spiders and cages. Is it getting harder to hold him back?”

“Generally speaking, no. It was just when he heard the Senator’s voice. I . . . I used his own logic on him. Said we have a common enemy, so he needed to get the hell back. And it seems to have worked, at least for now. Tell your crew not to worry. The walls are intact.”

“But . . . you won’t be able to keep them intact.” The voice has changed, and even though I can’t see his eyes clearly in the dim light, I know that I’m talking to my mother now. “You can’t hold him at bay forever, Anna,” she says softly.

“With the injections, I could. Probably.”

“But, at some point, you need to pull down the walls and deal with him. Make him leave. Right? You don’t want him in your head. And we don’t want that for you.”

“I know. And when this is over, I’ll talk to Kelsey, and . . .” I don’t finish, because that reminds me that I don’t really know how much Kelsey can help me this time. We relied heavily on hypnosis to evict Myron, and that won’t work with Cregg. Usually I’m glad that I have only vague memories of those last sessions. My strongest memory is from after, when Kelsey held me while I cried. But it might be helpful to have a clear understanding of exactly how we made him leave.

“It’s okay, Anna. I’m not trying to push you. It’s just . . . you said you kept him at bay by pointing out your common goal. It seems the one driving motivation he had was finding a way to protect the adepts—at least the younger ones. Yes, he’s a monster. But he had at least that as a redeeming quality. And you may have to find the humanity in him in order to evict him.”

My phone rings. It’s Daniel. He didn’t see Caleb and Ashley, but he’d already guessed the boy was there due to the water plume behind the stage. Water effects are Caleb’s calling card. No one was injured, but people are still panicked, and the second day of the conference has been cancelled.

We agree to meet outside a nearby hotel in ten minutes, and as I’m hanging up, I see the call that came in just before the explosion. It wasn’t Daniel, as I’d thought. It was Porter. I freeze, scared to listen to the message. I guess my dad picks up on that, because he reaches over and squeezes my hand.

“If it helps, my seer is positive that your friends at the cabin are all okay.”

That’s not exactly reassuring, given what he just said about her reliability rating. But it’s the thought that counts, so I give him a shaky smile and tap the phone to play the message.

The voice isn’t Porter’s. It’s Aaron’s. Tears stream down my face as I listen. “They’re okay. Deo and Sam, too. Colonel Smith’s men—not Dacia’s—were guarding them, and he called to order them released.”

“Are they going back to Sandalford?” he asks.

“He didn’t say. I’ll call him when we get to the hotel and let them know about Magda’s deal with the Senator. I’m just so relieved that they’re safe.”

Pfeifer smiles, but there’s something a little strained about it. Like he knows something I don’t. Or maybe he’s just not very experienced with the whole dad thing and doesn’t really know how to handle an emotional daughter. Or he realizes that safe only means safe for now.

When we get back to the van, Sophie is waiting on a bench near the play fort. A large Subway bag is next to her, and Lily is asleep in her lap.

“Guess you were right about the gold ball,” she says, standing carefully to avoid waking Lily. “I heard a splintering noise, and when I looked up, it was like fireworks with all of the pieces catching the lights from the city.”

“I didn’t do it,” Pfeifer says. “It was that Caleb kid.”

“And I think we’re lucky it was just the ball,” I say, remembering the way Ashley kept looking at the larger target off to her left—the very large, very fragile-looking convention center.

“Oh, FYI,” Sophie says, “Miller’s awake again.”

I sigh, wishing I’d gone back for the gun rather than leaving it with Daniel. We walk over to the van, and I look inside. Miller’s eyes are wide open, staring balefully back at me. I pause before opening the door. His hands aren’t visible through the window, so I have no way of knowing if he’s still restrained.

“Just slide the door open and we’ll check,” Pfeifer says in a voice loud enough for Miller to hear. “I’d be happy to ‘vent’ again if he gives us any trouble.”

Miller hasn’t freed himself, fortunately, although the red grooves on his wrists, which are almost as vivid as the self-inflicted bite marks on his fingers from earlier today, suggest that it’s not from lack of trying.

It takes longer than ten minutes to get the hotel, even though it’s only a few blocks away. We could have walked in half the time, if not for Miller. Cars are clogging the intersections, and the area around the convention center is now cordoned off and teeming with police.

Daniel is at the curb.

“Aaron called,” I tell him, fighting the tears again. “They’re okay.”

He nods. “Yeah. I convinced Smith to have them released.”

I’m not sure if Daniel means convinced or convinced, but I guess it doesn’t really matter. He nudges Miller again and removes the restraint. I’m a little nervous about that, but we’ll need a credit card and ID to check into the hotel. The only ID we have has Miller’s face on it, and it would be a bit awkward to have him sign for the room with his hands bound. As it is, the clerk gives Daniel an odd look, because Miller seems to be waiting for instructions from him before doing anything. It’s not like it was with Alex Cregg, where he nudged her about the general scenario, and her mind filled in the blanks on its own. Miller seems to be getting better at resisting. I think back to what Daniel once said about Whistler—nudging him didn’t always stick, because he’d built up some resistance from being around Dacia and the other adepts at The Warren. Maybe Miller is building up an immunity due to his time at Sandalford.

“Where’s the Colonel?” I ask once we’re inside the elevator.

“He’s meeting us in the bar in half an hour. I told him we needed food and a shower, although I guess we’re stuck in these clothes.” Daniel grabs one of the sandwiches out of the Subway bag, rips off the wrapper, and takes a bite without even checking to see what kind it is. “Obviously, I wasn’t able to follow the Senator,” he says around a mouthful of sandwich. “His security team was already on alert after Dacia hacked into his presentation, and they closed ranks as soon as that thing exploded. I couldn’t even get close enough to get the tag from his car.”

“There’s probably no point, anyway. I think it’s safe to assume the Senator will follow Dacia, and we know where she’s going.”

Daniel raises his eyebrows. “We do?”

“In the video, she said she has an army. And we both know that’s only partly true. Most of her bears aren’t psychic at all. She’s going to Sandalford, to try to get the rest of the adepts to side with her.”

“Would he follow her immediately, though? You heard him tonight—there are primaries in five more states tomorrow.”

The elevator opens and we file out. Except Miller, who is reaching for the operating panel when my father grabs his arm and yanks him out into the hallway.

Daniel huffs angrily. “Walk in front of me until I tell you to stop, Miller.”

The two rooms are adjoining, and Sophie takes Lily into one of them, hoping for a little quiet. Once we’re inside the other room, Daniel pulls out both the last zip cuff and the gun, pointing the latter at Miller.

As I put the cuffs on Miller, my dad says, “Make it as tight as you like,” in a vaguely British accent. I snort out a laugh, partly because I wouldn’t have pegged him as a Princess Bride fan, but also because I know Deo would laugh at that line, too. And after being constantly on edge all day, it’s an unbelievable relief to have a thought like that enter my head without it pushing me into a worry spiral.

I duck into the adjoining room for a quick shower. Sophie and Lily are both sprawled out on one of the beds. When I get back, Daniel is on the phone with Aaron and the others, except for Porter, who is driving back to DC. They’re in the truck—I can tell from the background noise—and I feel a wave of homesickness. My place is there, with them.

“But the whole WOCAN thing was a joke,” Taylor is saying. “Cregg was just using them to stir up fear. Why is Dacia suddenly beating that drum? It doesn’t make sense.”

“She’s not simply calling for separate states,” Daniel says. “It sounds like she wants that area to be a . . . I don’t know, a reservation, I guess? For Delphi adepts.”

“Of which there are maybe a few hundred, total,” Taylor says. “Okay, let’s say a few thousand, with the new cases cropping up.”

“And the bulk of those are most likely temporary,” Pfeifer says. “Unless they’ve changed the formula names on the spreadsheet that Taylor showed me, the vast majority of what Graham Cregg has been selling to the dealers is the short-term variety that the military wanted.”

I ask if he thinks that’s why so many deaths are being reported right as Taylor says that it’s still way too few people to fill up the West Coast.

“Maybe that’s just her opening pitch,” Deo says. “Ask for five states, and they’ll give you one?”

Daniel says we need to leave if we’re going to meet Colonel Smith on time, but I take the phone. “Please tell me you guys are not headed back to the Outer Banks.”

“Well . . . not tonight,” Deo says, in a voice that I know from long experience indicates he’s just told me a partial truth, at best.

“Sam, you’re a responsible adult,” I say. “Dacia is heading for Sandalford. The Senator will almost certainly follow her. Please, take them back to DC.”

“Um . . . Sam’s not here. He rode back with Porter,” Aaron says. “I’m the only responsible adult, and as much as I’d love to avoid it, the fact that Dacia and Cregg are headed toward Sandalford means we’re needed there, too. Deo, especially.”

“Because Maria and Stan say so? You were the one saying you didn’t believe his stupid paths. That things could be changed. At least wait until we can all go together.”

“Kelsey’s there,” Deo reminds me.

“And a bunch of other people we care about,” Aaron adds. “You want us to abandon them?”

“No. Of course I don’t. I just . . .”

I just want them to be safe. I want everyone I care about to be safe and for all of this to be over.

“Come on,” Taylor says. “Give her a break. She’s worried. We’re not going directly to Sandalford, Anna. We’ll stop for the night, and then we’re going to meet up with Kelsey, Maria, and some of the other adepts tomorrow. We don’t have a location yet, and I don’t know how long we’ll be able to keep what we’re up to from Magda, or even how many of the adepts will be able to sneak out. But . . . we’ll let you know where we are.”

Taylor Quinn being the voice of calm and reason is probably a sign of the apocalypse. But I say okay and promise that we’ll be leaving around daybreak.

I missed the first half of the conversation, so Daniel gives me a quick recap as we go downstairs.

“Porter arrived to find Aaron, Taylor, and Deo under military house arrest, but Smith called and instructed the guards to release them.”

“Because you nudged him?”

“Yeah. Then I nudged him again to meet us here. To listen. To give us a chance to explain what we know about the Senator’s role in all of this. If I have to do more, I will. But I’m tired. Dealing with Miller is draining. And . . . Smith thinks I started investigating all of this out of concern for Aaron and Taylor. He does not know my biological father was in the program or anything about my ability. We need to keep it that way, because I don’t think he’s the type who will appreciate knowing I pushed him around.”

“You had him pinned against the concrete wall out there earlier while you were talking. What does he think happened?”

“He . . . kind of doesn’t remember that bit.”

Okay, so it’s not just controlling Miller that’s draining Daniel. He’s burning the candle at both ends—nudging both Miller and Smith.

“What exactly do you think Smith can do to help us?”

“At a minimum, provide us with transport back to North Carolina in the morning. The Outer Banks isn’t that far out of his way, since they’ll be flying him back to Bragg. That keeps us from driving fourteen hours in what will likely be reported soon as a stolen vehicle . . . those real estate signs Sophie slapped on the side aren’t going to help if they call in the tags. But ideally, I’m hoping Smith will realize he’s playing for the Dark Side. He’d be one hell of an ally to have against Dacia and the Senator. And that’s the key reason you’re here—as a visual aid.”

“What?” I glance down at my disheveled clothes, not sure whether I should be offended or amused.

“The cut on your lip,” Daniel says. “I want Smith to have a visual reminder of the kind of people we’re dealing with. To let him know that Senator Cregg, Dacia, Magda, Miller—none of them have the adepts’ best interests at heart.”

“And you think Smith does?”

“Yeah. I’d like to think that would be true even if he didn’t have a son at Sandalford, but . . .”

“What? You’re kidding.”

“No. The boy has low-level telekinesis. They were able to hide it by homeschooling him, but I’d heard a couple of rumors when I was stationed at Bragg . . . and Smith admitted it when we spoke earlier at the amphitheater.”

Again, I’m not sure whether he means Smith admitted it voluntarily or via nudge, but I don’t have time to ask. Smith, who has spotted us, is seated at a two-person table. I guess he wasn’t expecting me to join them. Daniel must have wanted his visual aid to be a surprise.

The place is crowded, so Smith carries his beer out to a fire-pit table on the patio. Daniel joins him, and I go to the bar to order food. The last thing I ate was before we left the prison, and that was a rock-hard atrocity that claimed to be a breakfast bar, so I’m starving. Daniel asked me to order him a burger and fries, despite scarfing down two of the subs before we left the room. This is the first time that I’ve seen him as ravenous as Taylor. Nudging these guys must be draining him even more than he thought.

When I join them on the patio, Smith stands up and introduces himself, which is kind of weird. Yes, he’s now in civilian clothes without a name tag, but he still knows who I am, and I know who he is. It could be a memory gap due to Daniel messing around with his head, but I suspect it’s more Smith’s way of distancing himself from what has happened over the past few days. Or signaling that this is a fresh start. That seems a little convenient to me, as though he wasn’t complicit in our being abducted and locked in an abandoned prison overnight. But Daniel seems to think he’s a decent guy, so I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Plus, he went all you will obey my orders on Miller last night when it came to Lily’s welfare. That earns him a few brownie points.

“You’re sure it’s safe for her to be here?” Smith asks.

At first, I think he means because my face has been in the news in connection with the murders at Fort Bragg, but this must be a follow-up to some conversation the two of them were having, because Daniel says, “She’s in control. The psychiatrist at Sandalford prescribed a drug that has helped her to block her . . . unwanted guest. And we need to get her back there so that Dr. Kelsey can evict him.”

I don’t think it’s going to be quite that simple. But I keep silent, partly because I have no idea how much Smith knows about Graham Cregg and his abilities. In the note that Magda left, it was clear that the Senator convinced her—either legitimately or through one of his own psychics—that he’s simply been an innocent bystander and that the real fault for any mistreatment of Delphi adepts lies with his dead son. He may have done the same with Smith.

I’m also worried that my spider-rat managed to chip away at my walls earlier this evening. He’s nowhere near full strength, but the fact that he could throw me off like that is disturbing. Granted, he was responding to the voice of someone he hates. The voice of someone I’m increasingly certain was an emotionally—and quite possibly, physically—abusive parent.

You may have to find the humanity in him in order to evict him. I can see the logic behind my mother’s advice, but I don’t really want to humanize that monster. With Kelsey’s help, I got rid of Myron by sheer brute force. We can do the same to Graham Cregg.

A TV screen mounted at the end of the patio is tuned to CNN. Captions scroll below a reporter standing before the hollowed-out shell of a building that used to be the New Hope Visitors Center. Twenty-five people killed and more than sixty wounded. Two other buildings were damaged—an office building and the water treatment plant—although there were only minor injuries.

“Doesn’t seem to be much rhyme or reason to what they hit,” Smith says. “Why a water treatment facility?”

I pull out my phone to check the map I was looking at earlier. “I’m not sure about the other building. But the water treatment plant was located right near the gate. It would have been the very next building they saw after New Hope.”

Smith takes the phone from me and examines the map for a moment. “So . . . a target of opportunity? Could be. Especially if it turns out that the third building they destroyed was one of the next stops on that road.” He gives me back the phone. “Any particular reason why you were looking at this map?”

Daniel is about to answer for me, but I hold up a hand to tell him I can manage on my own. “We were hoping to rescue the children Dacia Badea is holding captive, since she has a record of killing kids. Sophie remembered her mentioning the lab at Oak Ridge. We might have made it there in time to stop them if someone hadn’t locked us inside a prison cell last night.”

Smith gives a little point-taken nod. “Quinn was just saying that you saw the child responsible for the destruction tonight.”

“Yes. I saw Caleb with his aunt, Ashley Swinton, above me on the Clinch Avenue overpass. But I don’t think the Sunsphere was their assigned target. I think their instructions were to hit the convention center, and Ashley redirected Caleb’s focus in order to limit casualties. She kept glancing over at the building, and then she whispered something to Caleb about the big gold ball.”

“You were close enough to hear what she said?” Smith asks.

“No, but she didn’t need to be,” Daniel says, clearly annoyed. “You know that. You’ve dealt with psychic phenomena for several decades now. And Caleb is . . . multitalented. He’s telekinetic, but he can also push thoughts to people at a short distance, among other things.”

“He pushed my name,” I say. “And ‘big ball go boom.’ After which the big ball did indeed go boom.”

“And you think Dacia Badea was targeting the convention center because of the Shield2020 event? We were all outside.”

“All outside in seats pointed directly toward the convention center,” Daniel says. “What better way to get Dacia’s point across. Do you know when they changed the venue of the speech? And why?”

Smith shakes his head. “There was a sign inside the building directing us to the amphitheater. Most of us assumed it was just the Senator seeking out the cameras.”

“If you have such a low opinion of him, why are you cooperating with him?” I ask. “For that matter, why would someone in the military be working with a presidential candidate who is trying to unseat your commander in chief? Aren’t there rules about politicizing the military?”

Daniel shoots me a cautionary look. Maybe these aren’t the best questions to ask someone whose help you’re seeking. But we need answers before we even consider trusting this man.

Smith catches the look and gives a soft chuckle. “Fair enough. I’ll assume Quinn shared with you my . . . family connection . . . to the program. Most of the people who were used as guinea pigs by your father and Graham Cregg were enlisted personnel, but I volunteered. Dumbass move, but I was a brand-new lieutenant who wanted to show the older enlisted I wasn’t afraid. The serum didn’t have any effect on me, so I thought I might have been one of the control group. A few years later, Dalton was born, and when he’s about six months old, my wife watches his pacifier float across the room toward him. He’s a good kid, and his ability is pretty limited. Still can’t levitate anything more than a few pounds, and he’s got good impulse control. But he’s slipped a few times, when he was upset or nervous. Especially as a little kid. My sister-in-law lives in town, and she has a big damn mouth, so . . . yeah. There were rumors. And when things began to heat up and those kids were found dead at Overhills, well . . . Magda Bell’s proposal to move the kids and shelter them until we could figure out what was happening seemed like a godsend. Eventually, we decided to send Dalton, too, although my wife still isn’t fully onboard with that decision.”

I don’t respond, and I’m trying really hard to keep my face neutral. People who need a family connection in order to sympathize with those who are different or at risk seriously try my patience.

My poker face must suck, though, because Smith says, “My decision wasn’t simply because I have skin in the game, Ms. Morgan. That school fell under my command. Those children are my responsibility. And even though I was a fairly green officer when this program began, I gave it my tacit approval when I volunteered as a subject.”

He takes a long swig of his beer. “As for working with Senator Cregg, you’re right. The military steers clear of anything even faintly political. But the White House has been under a lot of heat for not taking . . . control . . . of this situation. And my command has likewise been under a lot of heat over the past six months for not ‘containing the problem’ when we had the chance. The directive—to make the Delphi problem go away—came from the current administration.”

Daniel and I exchange a look, and then Daniel says, “Wait a minute. You think Dacia Badea was taking orders from the White House when she killed those kids at Overhills?”

“I don’t know,” Smith says. “Probably not. What I will say is that if it spares the White House any sort of political embarrassment, I can promise you they will not bat an eye if Dacia Badea kills every single adept, as long as she cleans up the mess and that’s the last they hear of her. This program has been covered up by leaders of both parties for decades, and the president doesn’t like the fact he’s the one in office, facing a tight three-way race, when the whole damn thing blows up. Have you seen the polls? Cregg could win this thing.” He stops, shaking his head in dismay. “My new orders were simply to help facilitate this transfer, and I don’t know anything for certain. But I think the administration cut some sort of deal with the Senator. Cregg solves the Delphi problem, and he’s added to the ticket.”

Daniel looks skeptical. “What about the current VP?”

“They’d just dump him,” I say. “FDR had three different running mates. But what do you mean by Cregg solves the problem?”

“Cregg says they’ve got a cure.”

“He’s lying. At least concerning the second-gen Delphi. My father says it’s simply not possible. Maybe a treatment to . . . curb our abilities. But it’s not permanent. It might not even be safe.”

“No offense, Ms. Morgan. But your father has been in a mental institution for the past fifteen years. Science has made many advances—”

“Not that many,” Daniel says. “The section of your son’s brain that houses his Delphi abilities is deeply connected to the rest of his brain. Are you going to let them test this so-called cure on him? Or is he exempt?”

Smith clearly isn’t happy with Daniel using his son as the hypothetical test case, so I shift the topic. “Tell the White House this is a bad idea. Graham Cregg left behind ample evidence of his father’s involvement in every aspect of the Delphi program. We have spreadsheets, diaries, bank accounts. He and his wife—his first wife—stole the formula they were testing at Stanford back in 1973, hoping they’d eventually be able to cash in on it. And they did, once they found my father.”

Daniel eyebrows quirk up slightly, but his poker face is probably better than mine. He’s right. I don’t know for certain that what I’ve just said is accurate. I still haven’t gotten around to having that conversation with my father, and to be honest, I’m not entirely sure he knows how Cregg obtained the original research. But even though I can’t be positive that the puzzle pieces are in the right places, they seem to fit.

A loud thump at the back of my head comes just as the waitress arrives with our food. I’m glad for her interruption because it gives me cover. I take a bite of my pasta and send a loud message back to my hitcher.

Chill out, Cregg. If you want us to stop your father—

Another thump.

—then stay back.

Again, he thumps. Just a single light knock, almost a tap. Is he trying to signal? One thump for yes, two for no?

Thump.

“And you have sources to back these assertions up?” Smith asks.

Thump.

“Yes,” I say.

“Not with us,” Daniel adds quickly. “We don’t even have toothbrushes with us, because we were abducted at gunpoint. But yes. We can back all of that up.”

There’s a tiny note of hesitation in his voice, but I nod. Even if Dacia confiscated the iPad, which I doubt, Taylor said most of the information was housed on a server.

Thump.

Smith is about to ask something else but then stops, staring over my shoulder at the television. I turn to see a reporter in front of the amphitheater. The Breaking News chyron at the bottom reads: Woman Found Dead at Site of Knoxville Attack.

I give Daniel a questioning look, because I thought he said there were no serious injuries, let alone a fatality. He shakes his head.

“There was a couple on the bench at the other end of the lake,” I say. “But I didn’t think the explosion would carry that far. I thought they’d be safe.”

But the camera isn’t focused on the far side of the lake. The police are gathered around the bushes near the Sunsphere. It’s the same spot, in fact, where my father stands in my vision.

I can’t see the body. There are police standing all around, blocking the view. But I can see one of the shoes. A nursing clog, in a Van Gogh print.

Ashley.

NEWS ITEM FROM THE KNOXVILLE NEWS SENTINEL

April 28, 2020

The firm that manages security for Oak Ridge National Laboratory issued a press release today confirming that video footage of a breach at the facility yesterday afternoon was fake. The WOCAN terror group released the footage in order to claim responsibility for a chemical explosion that began in a tank at the water treatment plant and spread to two other buildings on the Oak Ridge campus.

Authorities claim that video footage of the gate shows no breach. The two guards who were featured in the video appear to be actors, as no one matching their description is currently employed by the security firm, GuardTech International, a subsidiary of the Decathlon Services Group. The background footage has been identified by the company as identical to footage prepared for an unpublished documentary on the Manhattan Project.

A spokesman for GTI noted that it is sadly very easy for people with basic video-editing skills to create a convincing fake in a matter of hours.

When asked how the explosions could have spread to buildings located nearly a half mile apart, a GTI spokesman said the facility is connected by a number of underground tunnels. A request for additional details on the tunnels and the precise cause of the explosion at the water treatment facility was denied on the basis of national security.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Knoxville, Tennessee

April 28, 2020, 6:11 a.m.

I wake screaming for the second night in a row. Or maybe the third. The days are running together at this point.

It wasn’t the first bad dream of the night, just the first that jolted me completely out of sleep. My shoe, kicking the old woman. Someone grabbing me, pulling me away. And then the body morphs into Penelope Cregg, sprawled on the patio. Someone holding me by the back of my shirt, lifting upward and twisting the collar so tightly that it cuts off my air. Standing on my tiptoes, straining to pull in the tiniest bit of air.

You did this. Your fault.

Lily doesn’t seem as upset by my outburst as she was yesterday. She’s sitting on the other bed with her mother, her lower lip quivering as if warning me that she will start crying if I scream again.

“It’s okay, Lily. Go back to sleep.”

“No!”

Sophie laughs, sitting up. “She was already awake. Lily is a morning person. Can you watch her while I get a shower? Give her some of those banana puffs if she gets fussy.”

I find something on the TV to amuse Lily, keeping the volume low so that Daniel and my dad, in the adjoining room, can get a bit more sleep.

It ends up being a moot point. Miller, who spent the night duct-taped to a chair in their room, is now awake and loudly demanding the bathroom. Daniel quiets him, either by waving the gun or giving him a mental nudge. Then I hear muted voices and furniture moving around, so Miller must have convinced them that he actually needs to pee.

Once I have Lily settled, I send a text to Aaron, telling him to call me when he wakes up. The odds of it being a private call seem slim, since he’ll be in the truck with Taylor and Deo, and we’ve got nineteen or twenty people jammed into these two hotel rooms, if you count the ones residing inside heads. I need to let them know about Ashley, though. It’s not like we were especially close—and Taylor still holds a pretty sizeable grudge about Ashley pulling her brother’s life support—but I still feel awkward telling them via text.

The phone rings almost as soon as I hit send. And he, at least, has privacy—Deo and Taylor are apparently still asleep back in the RV. They made it as far as Chesapeake, Virginia, last night and then parked in a store lot to get a few hours of sleep. That’s still a few hours out from Carova Beach, so he decided to get an early start.

“Couldn’t sleep anyway,” he says. “It feels weird to be in the RV without you.”

“I miss you, too.”

“What on earth is that music in the background?”

I laugh. “The Mickey Mouse Club. I’m babysitting right now. Aside from Lily, none of us has had much sleep. Daniel and I didn’t get back to the room until around midnight. After we finished talking to Colonel Smith, we had to go in search of something to restrain Miller. He’s pretty resistant to Daniel’s influence, and you’d be surprised how hard it is to find duct tape in the middle of the night.”

“What did you guys find out from Smith?”

“He thinks Cregg has brokered a deal with the White House. Cregg solves the Delphi problem, and in exchange, he’s the next vice president.”

“Why would Cregg take VP? He stands a decent chance of winning outright.”

“Yeah, but an even better chance of winning in 2024 if he spends a term in the number-two slot. Third parties are always at a disadvantage, and you’ve got the whole electoral college issue to consider. Smith says he isn’t certain they’ve struck a deal, and it’s possible that even if they have reached an agreement, it’s off the table after last night. The good news, though, is that Smith agreed to fly us to the closest heliport to Sandalford. And Daniel and Smith are scheduled to talk with someone from DHS before we leave, a friend of Smith’s who’s familiar with the Delphi Project and is somewhat sympathetic to the plight of the adepts. We leave after the meeting, so we’ll be there by two at the latest.”

“So . . . that’s why Daniel isn’t in your vision.”

“Yes. One part of the mystery solved. And . . .” I sigh, really hating to deliver the next bit of news. “I also know why we’ll be nosing around the site of the explosion. I’m guessing you guys haven’t seen the news yet?”

“No,” he says, yawning. “Did something else happen?”

“Yeah. They found a body. And unless someone swiped her shoes, it’s Ashley.”

“Damn,” he says. “I thought . . . Daniel said she was holding Caleb when that thing blew up. Is Caleb okay?”

“She wasn’t killed by the blast. I think Dacia ordered Ashley to have Caleb hit the convention center, and Ashley directed his attention to the Sunsphere instead, to protect the people inside the center. When Ashley didn’t follow orders, Dacia killed her and they dumped the body there.”

“How did they do that? The place had to have been swarming with police last night.”

“Probably the same way they talked themselves past the security gate at a nuclear facility.”

“So . . . your dad is going to try and pick up her spirit? Is that a good idea, when he’s already got a dozen in his head? I mean, I’m definitely not suggesting that you do it instead, but . . .”

“Don’t worry about that,” I say as I divert Lily’s attention away from an electrical outlet with a handful of banana puffs. “Ashley would think she’s gone straight to hell if she had to cohabitate with a giant spider-rat. And I don’t know if it’s a good idea, but she could have information that will help us. Plus, we both know it doesn’t matter. It was in the vision. It’s going to happen.”

I don’t mention the other argument in favor of scooping her spirit up. Much like Hunter’s ghost back at Overhills, we can’t just leave Ashley here in Knoxville. There’s no doubt in my mind that she’s stuck on this plane of existence. She had too many questions about her sister, too many worries about Caleb, and too much guilt about what she did to Daniel to allow her to move on quickly. The odds seem strong that she died violently, and that will likely hold her here as well. Ashley will need closure before she can go gentle into that good night, and she stands a much better chance of getting that closure if she’s not left to roam around the Sunsphere in search of answers that won’t be here. Molly told me that it took months for her to make her way back to the women’s shelter, and she died only a few hours away from DC. How much longer would it take Ashley to work her way toward the answers she needs if she’s left here?

Of course, I could be entirely wrong on that point. Hitchers aren’t physical, so maybe they don’t have to walk from point A to point B. Maybe they just have to think about their last happy place really, really hard, and then they’re transported back, the way Dorothy got home from Oz.

“Just . . . be careful,” Aaron says. “Okay?”

“I will.”

“Oh, before I forget, do you have another number for Kelsey? Deo tried the number he had in his phone last night, and we couldn’t reach her. I tried again this morning, even left texts, but no response.”

“You could check my phone and see if she called from a different number when we talked . . .” I have to think back to when this was. “Day before yesterday, I guess. But I don’t think so.”

“Okay. Maybe she’ll get back with us. She’s the one who’s setting the place and time for all of us to meet up. I’m assuming it’s not too far from Sandalford, since no one there has access to a car—”

“You may be underestimating Maria and her wabbits.”

“True.”

We talk a bit more about our meeting with Smith, their night under house arrest, and engage in some idle speculation about whether the current administration is really corrupt enough that it would want to simply erase the adepts for political gain.

“If so,” Aaron says, “then Graham Cregg inadvertently did us a huge favor by releasing the formula to those dealers. Although not a favor to the . . . okay, I’m just going to borrow a label and call them the neurotypical population. Way too many of them are dying for a temporary thrill. But the government doesn’t know it’s temporary. And it’s going to be a whole lot harder to hide wiping out thousands of people than it would be wiping out dozens. And five more states vote today.”

“Maybe Cregg won’t win the primary in those states. That can’t have been good publicity for him last night. That should give the other woman . . . what’s her name? The governor of Texas? It should give her a boost, right?”

Aaron laughs bitterly. “I was going to argue your point, but I think you did it for me, babe. Juanita Breyer is still what’s-her-name to most of the public. Senator Cregg, on the other hand, just got a ton of free publicity. He’s out there, trying to engage other leaders in fighting against these terrorists, and they attack him and his followers. He’s going to be spinning this like crazy on the morning shows, the same way he did the attack by his granddaughter. And that will only make it more likely that this deal he’s brokered goes through.”

“Do you think Dacia’s still working with him? Maybe they planned this. She sounded furious at him when she was at the prison, and Sophie keeps saying that she and the Senator have some major trust issues, but . . .”

“It’s possible they’re still working together. Or the Senator could simply be doing what all good con men do—seizing every opportunity to take advantage of people when they are scared, misinformed, and at their most vulnerable.”

“Well, at least I know now why my dad needs to pick up Ashley. She’ll know whether Dacia’s anger at Cregg is an act or if she’s really a rogue bear.”

After we hang up, I check local news to see if there’s any new information about the explosion or Ashley’s murder. The only thing I find is an article claiming the attack at Oak Ridge was an accident and the video shown at the amphitheater last night was faked. I click on the comments, because I’m a masochist, and there are already a half dozen people saying any idiot should be able to see that it’s faked. No one asks the obvious question. If this was really an accident, how could WOCAN have found relevant background footage, filmed a fake attack, edited it into the foreground, and planted it at the rally in Knoxville in a little over two hours? Hopefully reporters will ask that question eventually, and push until they get answers, but from what I’ve seen over the past few years, it seems just as likely they’ll let this fade away. The press release invoked the magic words national security, which acts as a Cloak of Invisibility to hide all logical inconsistencies.

We leave at eight and manage to get Miller out of the hotel and into the parking garage without attracting attention to the fact that his hands are bound or that I’m hiding a gun behind the diaper bag I have clutched to my chest. Before he left for his meeting with Smith and the woman from DHS, Daniel gave Miller a strong nudge, instructing him to follow my orders. But I’m not taking any chances.

I’m not too keen on being the designated driver, either. It’s not really Graham Cregg’s occasional suicidal urges that have me worried. He seems, at least for the moment, to be in cooperative mode, and I think he’d much rather have revenge on his father than plunge all of us to our deaths.

Thump.

My bigger issue is that, once we pass the point in time where I have my vision, it’s entirely possible that I could have another one. It’s unlikely, since I’ve never had them that close together, but I can’t rule it out, and then I’d be unconscious behind the wheel.

Sophie’s nose wrinkles as she crawls into the van with Lily. “What’s that smell?”

“Probably the smoke on my clothes,” Pfeifer says. “Or maybe it’s this guy. He’s pretty ripe.”

As I get into the driver’s seat, I get a good whiff, and yes, Miller needs a shower. We should probably have found a way to make that happen while we were at the hotel, since we’re going to be enclosed in a helicopter cabin with him for the next few hours.

There’s something else underlying the body odor, however. It smells a bit like something burning . . . like ozone burning.

What was it that Colonel Smith said to Miller back at the prison? I thought your boss solved that problem. And Miller responded that something hadn’t kicked in yet.

“He’s had the blocker serum,” I say out loud.

“You’re sure?” Pfeifer doesn’t wait for me to answer, just grabs the duct tape and begins securing Miller to the car seat. “That would explain a lot. Daniel was saying last night that he’d never dealt with anyone so difficult to push, and I can’t say that Miller strikes me as particularly bright or strong-minded.”

The fact that Miller doesn’t react at all to that comment, or to the fact that he’s being bound to the seat, tells me that he’s still under the influence of Daniel’s command. So either it hasn’t kicked in fully or it only suppresses, rather than fully blocks, the impact.

My dad manages to wrap the tape around Miller twice before the roll runs out. He then presses the back of his hand against Miller’s neck. “He’s hot. Not dangerously so, but that’s more evidence supporting your hypothesis.”

As we’re exiting the hotel garage, my phone rings. It’s Deo. He doesn’t waste time with hello but jumps to his point as soon as I answer.

“We’re in Corolla, where the four-wheel-drive road begins. I still can’t reach Kelsey. Can’t reach Stan, either. Taylor even called the landline.”

“And we had to leave the RV in a parking lot,” Aaron adds. “The storage place was being watched. One of Dacia’s bears . . . not in uniform, but I picked up some stray thoughts that identified him.”

“We’re scheduled to leave at nine, but I’ll call Daniel and see if—”

“Anna,” Deo says, “it’s a four-hour helicopter ride. Taylor checked. We can’t wait.”

“Damn it, D,” I begin, but I know I don’t have an argument. If our positions were reversed, I’d be storming Sandalford without them, even though there’s really not much I could do to help. Deo, on the other hand . . .

“Go. Be careful. Call me. I love you guys—wait, wait, have you tried Miranda? She and the kids may be with Jasper.”

There’s a long silence on the other end, and then Aaron says, “I’m still not sure I trust him in a high-pressure situation, Anna.”

“I’m not saying to pull Jasper in. My point is that, unless Magda gave her the weekend off, which she never does, Miranda would have been down there twice a day to cook. So she may know if anything unusual is going on. But . . . Aaron, if Miranda and his kids are at Sandalford and there’s a problem, then you absolutely do want Jasper with you when you go in. Because if they’re in danger and you don’t let him know, he’s going to consider you as much the enemy as Magda or Dacia or Cregg.”

We say our good-byes, and I toss the phone back to Sophie. “Text Daniel. Tell him what you just heard and see if they can speed things up.”

As we approach the convention center, I get a good look at the shattered Sunsphere. It no longer looks like a giant lollipop. Now it reminds me of those utensils you use to dispense honey without making a mess. Each layer of the sphere is open to view. Some layers are empty, but the ones that have furnishings—tables, chairs, and so forth—are remarkably intact. It doesn’t really look like it was the scene of a massive explosion, but more like someone opened the gold-colored blinds that were hiding the interior.

Clinch Avenue, the upper-level road that passes by the Sunsphere, is open. I’m not surprised to see traffic cones blocking off the entrance to the lower-level road, World’s Fair Park Drive. I glance around quickly, and when I don’t see any police cars, I decide to interpret those cones as a suggestion rather than an iron-clad rule and bump the passenger-side tire up onto the sidewalk in order to pass without crushing them.

The fact that the road and several walkways pass under Clinch Avenue means that there are convenient places to hide the van. I pull into one that seems to provide the best cover from the road. There are two trucks parked here as well. Maintenance vehicles, I think.

“Are you sure about this?” I ask my dad.

He gives a wry chuckle. “Not entirely. But you are.” He shakes his head when I start to protest. “There’s room for one more. At least this one won’t have abilities that your mother has to monitor.”

“But she’s going to be frantic. The newly dead are different.”

“In most cases, I’m sure they are. But your mother had to calm me down when she came on board. That is—or rather she is—the only reason I made it through everything with my mind mostly intact.”

My dad and I exit the van and step into the scene from my vision. The morning sun is amplified by the water, the stretches of white concrete, and the bright-white of the amphitheater, but most of all by the glittering glass fragments that cover everything that couldn’t be swept—the lawn, the bushes, the rocks near the railroad tracks. Even the sidewalk is only partially clear. Tiny gold specks remain, and now I’m thinking of Aaron’s eyes and remembering having that thought in the vision. Worrying about the people I love, and remembering feeling that gut-wrenching dread and pushing it away.

No. No. I will not go there. Aaron and Taylor are fine. They have to be. Deo is fine. Kelsey is fine. They are all completely fine, and I’ll see them soon.

Pfeifer crouches down next to bushes and runs his hand along the leaves. Then he touches the ground, the sidewalk, the police tape, taking his time to cover each surface carefully. His approach is analytical, scientific.

I shiver, looking around. Cars are driving on the road above. I doubt we’ll be able to stand here much longer without someone noticing. The police. And the Senator could have someone watching, waiting.

Sophie must have spotted something that alarms her, because she opens the door and waves for us to hurry.

“We need to go, Dad.”

Pfeifer looks at me, startled. As his eyebrows go up, I notice the bruise on his forehead, no longer red but now bluish purple.

“Come on,” I say. “We have to go. Sophie’s—”

“Ashley’s here, Anna. I can feel her. She’s just . . . slippery. It’s like I can’t quite latch on to her. Or maybe I was wrong, maybe it’s just too crowded and chaotic in here . . .”

Glancing down the sidewalk, I see what alarmed Sophie. Two police officers have just turned this way. I hold one palm up toward the van in a gesture that I really hope Sophie interprets as stay where you are.

And then I turn my attention to my hitcher.

We need Ashley. And we don’t need her to be frightened. Stay in the very back. Do you understand?

I get a solitary thump in response. Of course, he’d thump if he was lying, too.

And then I dismantle one of my walls. Not all of them. My trust is exceedingly thin, and I’m not budging a single brick on the two layers at the back. If Ashley can’t exist in the cramped mental space that remains, we’ll simply have to leave her here, because this is all I have to offer.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Knoxville, Tennessee

April 28, 2020, 8:21 a.m.

When the front wall is down, I brush my hand along the upper leaves of the bush. I don’t expect an instant response, but then I feel Ashley whoosh in like a shopper when the doors open on Black Friday. She’s frantic, just as I told my dad she would be, but she’s suppressing it. Holding it back, because she knows exactly where she is and why.

My dad’s arms are wrapped around me, and I lean into him until the wave of dizziness passes. He’s talking to the police officers, one young and one middle-aged, explaining that we were walking on the upper sidewalk looking for this place a friend said had a really good breakfast buffet when I began feeling faint. He was trying to get me to the benches over by the restrooms. To get a wet paper towel. Thought maybe I was overheated.

I’m steady on my feet now, but I play along, still leaning against him. And then Sophie appears, holding Lily. She has the diaper bag slung over her shoulder.

“I couldn’t find paper towels. But then I realized I have wipes in the bag.”

One officer says we need to get back to the upper-level sidewalk. This is a crime scene. The other asks if we need an ambulance, and I decide that’s my cue for an expedited recovery.

“I think I’m okay.”

“Could we just get a cab back to the hotel and order room service?” Sophie says testily as she shuffles Lily to her other hip. “If I’d known we were going to walk this far, I’d have brought her stroller.”

The younger officer points us to the elevator that leads to the upper level. My dad thanks him, apologizes again, and then we leave.

“That was close,” I say once we’re inside. “But I wonder how we’re going to get the van?”

“We’re not,” Sophie says, handing me Miller’s wallet. “I cracked a window. Left the keys inside. There’s nothing in there we need. We definitely don’t need Miller.”

It takes a few minutes, but we manage to catch a cab in front of the hotel across the street. As we pull away, there’s no sign the police have discovered a van parked between the maintenance trucks with a man duct-taped to the back seat. The temperature is in the low eighties, and he’s in the shade. His mouth isn’t taped, so if they don’t find him by the time Daniel’s nudge wears off, I’m sure he’ll start screaming.

I lean back in the seat and take some deep breaths. Ashley seems to be doing the same. She’s remarkably chill for a new hitcher.

Because I was waiting for you. I wanted you to pick me up. Not Pfeifer. I don’t know him.

We didn’t think you’d like being housed with Graham Cregg.

I don’t. But my transportation options are limited, and . . . the enemy of my enemy.

Taylor’s assessment of that aphorism runs through my mind, and Ashley says:

She’s not entirely wrong. But right now, we have to prioritize. Not just for Caleb but for all of the kids at Sandalford. That’s where Dacia’s heading—

We know. We’re on our way.

We need to hurry. Dacia believes she can manage Caleb on her own. She said she’s good with kids. Right before . . .

Ashley doesn’t finish the thought. I’d have been very surprised if she had, actually. Even though she’s clearly accepted that she’s dead, the process of becoming dead is not something my hitchers like to think about, especially at the beginning.

She’s crazy if she thinks she can handle him. I can barely handle Caleb.

Dacia is crazy, period. And judging from Lily’s reaction to her, she’s not good with kids, either.

She’ll kill him, Anna. When she realizes she can’t control Caleb, she will kill him.

We’re not going to let that happen. And . . . I think Caleb might have something to say about it.

Maybe. He’s strong. But he’s still a little kid. You can distract him. And he’ll have these brief flashes of insight where it seems like he’s almost an adult, but most of the time, you can’t really reason with him. And I’m worried about Maggie. Caleb sucks the life right out of her. He doesn’t mean to, but . . .

I know, Ashley.

How did she die?

It’s such an abrupt change of topic that I think for a moment Ashley is still talking about Maggie. They I realize she means her sister.

I don’t know, exactly. Daniel and I started that conversation, but we never had a chance to finish it. And I think maybe he wasn’t ready to talk about the details. He just said Sariah trusted the wrong person.

Yeah. That was sort of a habit with Sariah. A family trait, I guess, since I trusted Senator Cregg to let her go. I don’t think she was alive, even then. Oh, and I can promise you that Dacia and the Senator are no longer working together. Dacia was screaming into the phone yesterday. Something about money he’d stolen from joint accounts she held with Lucas. And she was pissed about the military guy ordering her around. Said she was not a soldat. That they were supposed to be partners, and it was time he realized that she’s the one with the real power. That’s why she decided to ratchet things up at Oak Ridge. The original plan was to blow up the sign at the entrance and leave. Another low-level attack to scare people. But when we got there, Dacia starts telling Caleb we’re going to play the “go boom” game. I’m surrounded by assholes in bear masks, so I can’t talk him out of it, although it really didn’t take much encouragement. Caleb likes to use his ability. He doesn’t want people to get hurt, but . . . he’s a little kid. Easy to manipulate.

Daniel thought the explosions sounded like IEDs.

The one at the visitor center was an IED. They set that up yesterday morning, just in case Caleb didn’t come through. But Caleb was responsible for the damage to the water treatment plant and the other building. The second building wasn’t even something Dacia planned. It just sort of . . . happened . . . once Caleb got started.

Is that why you had him create the waterspout first? At the park last night?

Yes. Water calms him, maybe because he spent so much time in the isolation tank when he was a baby. If Caleb had fired full blast, it wouldn’t just have been that sphere. Dacia would have gotten her wish for a bloodbath, either at the amphitheater or over at the convention center. That’s why she . . .

And we’re back to the thing Ashley can’t face yet.

The airfield is located on an island in the Tennessee River. You can see the water beyond the landing strip, blocked in some places by bushes. A small airplane is on the runway, preparing for takeoff, and an Army helicopter—hopefully ours—is parked on the tarmac nearby. Once the cab drops us off, Sophie goes inside in search of a changing table for Lily, and my dad and I take a seat on one of the outdoor benches so we can watch for Daniel and Smith.

“Are you all right?” my father asks. He hasn’t spoken since he finished giving our cover story to the police, and he sounds annoyed.

“It wasn’t your fault, Dad. Ashley apparently has a thing about hitching rides with strangers. And Cregg has agreed to behave. To stay behind the wall. I don’t think he wants to share my head with someone who’s freaking out, and she definitely would be if he breaks that barrier.”

He shakes his head and sighs. “I don’t trust him. You shouldn’t either.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, you may have to trust him to some extent.” The voice is my mom’s now. “I’m not saying he’s innocent. But some of his madness was inherited. And some was shaped by his father. When you’re told that you’re a killer from a young age, does it make you more likely to kill?”

“Maybe. Or maybe it makes you determined to never, ever do it again. Even when our choices are limited, we have to take responsibility for the decisions we make.”

I don’t want to back down, even though I get the sense that my mother is partly playing devil’s advocate. And, to be honest, I do understand what she’s saying. Those who grow up in abusive situations are more likely to abuse. They have a major disadvantage compared to those who grow up in loving and supportive environments. But at some point, they decide which path to follow. Maybe they deserve a less harsh judgment when they simply follow the path of least resistance, but they aren’t blameless.

Leah-Pfeifer smiles softly. “You’re right. But the easiest way to get Graham Cregg out of your head will be to help him find peace. And to do that, you may need to understand his perspective.”

“I don’t think it’s peace he’s looking for. I think it’s vengeance.”

A loud and resounding thump comes from behind the wall. For the first time since she came on board, Ashley screams.

It’s okay, Ashley. That’s just code. One thump for yes, two for no.

Maybe from your perspective. But there’s mortar on the floor in here, so could you avoid getting him to agree so strongly next time?

Sophie and Lily rejoin us as a black car pulls up to the tiny terminal building. Three people get out—Daniel, Colonel Smith, and a very short, middle-aged woman in a gray pantsuit. She shakes hands with Daniel and Smith, and looks like she’s about to get back into the vehicle, but then she changes her mind and walks briskly toward the bench where we’re sitting. Her eyes are blazing and locked directly on my father.

We all stand. Sophie hands Lily to me and does a little head nod to indicate that I should step back, just in case things get nasty. Then she moves closer to my father so that her block will be stronger.

The angry little woman doesn’t introduce herself but simply says, “Dr. Pfeifer, I just wanted to tell you that your research has created more problems for this nation than anything I’ve dealt with in thirty-two years of government service. Your decision to play God is killing people.”

It’s definitely my mother looking back at first, and her expression is angry, almost defensive. But then she moves back, and my father speaks, his voice thankfully calm and level. “Guilty as charged, Ms. . . .”

She doesn’t answer for a minute and then spits out her name. “Janet Berman, DHS.”

“Ms. Berman. This is my daughter, Anna. That’s Sophie and her daughter, Lily. As I was saying, I’m guilty on several counts. But the Delphi serum didn’t begin with me. When the US government began funding that research, I was in kindergarten and my prized possession was a Six Million Dollar Man lunch box.”

Berman starts to interrupt, but he holds up one hand. “No. You marched over here and started indicting me, so have the decency to let me tell you my side. I’ve spent the past fifteen years thinking about this, and I freely admit that I didn’t pause to consider the ethical issues when I accepted government funding for my research. My only concern was learning more about how the brain worked, and how we could build on hidden talents that, frankly, I would have sworn didn’t exist before I joined the project. I was in it for the science, for the knowledge, and if you’d asked me back then, I’d have told you that my responsibility ended there. If you had complaints about the application of that research, I would have directed you to take it up with Washington. My views changed over time, mostly because my wife forced me to look up from my research occasionally and pay attention to the world outside my lab. So yes, I am responsible.” He glances at me. “As my daughter said a moment ago, we all have to take responsibility for the decisions we make. But there are a whole lot of people in the government—the government that pays your salary and that of Colonel Smith—who share in that responsibility. One of those individuals is currently exploiting my research to further his own economic and political interests at the expense of pretty much everyone else. I’m going to do what I can to stop him, and it would be nice if others who work for the government who funded the mess actually stepped up to the plate to do the same.”

Berman’s narrowed eyes remain fixed on my father’s face as he speaks, her mouth pursed into an angry little bow. When he finishes, she continues to stare at him for a moment and then shifts her gaze toward Smith.

“Call me once you land.” Then Berman turns on her heel and returns to her car.

Smith doesn’t say anything, either to her or to us. He just begins walking toward the helicopter.

Daniel follows Berman for a few steps, and I hear him thank her for the meeting. He motions for us to follow Smith to the helicopter, although I can’t say I’m entirely certain whether Smith’s offer of a ride still stands.

Pfeifer veers slightly to the right of where the helicopter is parked. “I’m going to go . . . vent . . . over by the river. I’ll be back.”

“Very good idea,” I say, handing Lily back to her mother.

“Not much of a diplomat, is he?” Daniel says when he catches up to us.

I fight back a laugh at the irony of that coming from Daniel. “Maybe he just has a low tolerance for hypocrisy.”

“So . . . was he able to pick up Ashley?”

“No. She decided she’d rather ride with me.”

“And that’s . . . safe?”

“Graham Cregg’s key goal in all of this is stopping his father. He’s agreed to stay behind the back wall in the interest of accomplishing that goal.”

“Don’t—”

“Trust him? Don’t worry. I won’t.”

NEWS ITEM FROM CREGGFOROURFUTURE.COM

April 27, 2020

All campaign events scheduled for tomorrow have been canceled due to a family illness. Senator Cregg urges all supporters in Connecticut, Delaware, Maryland, Rhode Island, and Pennsylvania to get out and vote. The campaign will resume its regular schedule on Friday with rallies in Indianapolis and Gary, in preparation for next Tuesday’s primary election.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Carova Beach, North Carolina

April 28, 2020, 3:17 p.m.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it, Lily?” Sophie points down at the water. “See? That’s the ocean.”

“Not yet. That’s just the sound.” Daniel points off in the distance to the wider expanse of blue. “That’s the ocean over there.”

I tell the pilot to pivot to the north as we cross the sound, so that we can land at the fire-and-rescue station without flying directly over Sandalford. The station is only a few miles up the coast, however. If Magda has the guards watching in both directions, they may notice that it’s a military chopper, rather than one of the rescue helicopters that more typically fly along the coast.

“That’s Long Point Island,” I tell Daniel. “The one shaped a bit like an arrowhead. You can see the Quonset huts that Magda had built on that side. And . . . there’s a boat up on the shore.”

“Do you think it’s Jasper and Miranda?”

“No clue. But I’d feel a whole lot better if we knew whether Aaron managed to contact them.”

The pilot curves down to the south as we approach Carova Beach and the coastline comes into view. “I’ve never seen the ocean from the air,” I say. “The waves look like tiny little dots from up here, but they can pack a pretty big wallop down there on the shore.”

“I’ve never seen the ocean at all,” Sophie says. “Lake Michigan a few times. And Lake Erie a bunch of times, but the beach there is mostly rocks and dead fish, at least where we went. I like to swim, though. There was a pool at The Warren.”

That surprises me, but Daniel is nodding, and I get internal confirmation from Ashley.

You didn’t see all of The Warren. There’s a reason that many of the kids were happy there. It was a pretty good place from their point of view. Until it wasn’t.

Sophie seems happy right now, looking down at the beach. Happier than I’ve seen her before. Lily is chattering and pointing out the window, too. I think Sophie could be right about Lily being a bit of an empath.

A twinge of worry twists my gut as I watch the two of them, and I can tell that Daniel is thinking the same thing. Maria’s talk about the adepts fighting the “bears” on the beach keeps running through my mind. I have no idea what we’re heading into. Stan’s paths could be wrong. We could be wrong about Dacia heading here—

Thump. Thump.

And then Ashley gives Cregg’s opinion a strong second.

We’re not wrong. She’s here.

Okay. Dacia’s here. But we still shouldn’t be bringing a baby into this.

So what’s today’s cutoff for too young to be in a war zone? Caleb’s age? Peyton’s? Maggie’s?

Fine. We shouldn’t be bringing another baby into this.

Smith clearly thought so. He’d tried to convince Sophie to stay at Fort Bragg. To be honest, I thought Smith was going to keep all of us there. I’m pretty sure he toyed with the idea, otherwise we’d have been here two hours earlier. We sat in the helicopter for nearly an hour, and then Smith sent some enlisted guy out to tell us we should come inside. By that time, we didn’t argue because we were all in dire need of a bathroom.

But Sophie and Lily got back into the helicopter with the rest of us. She was adamant that she will be needed, and after her recent separation from Lily, there’s no way Sophie would leave her daughter behind. As much as I hate to admit it, she’s right. Dacia may think she can handle Caleb, but Maggie is doing the handling, and she can’t do it alone.

Daniel’s meeting with Berman apparently consisted of him talking and her listening. He spoke to Smith a few times on the flight from Knoxville to Fort Bragg, but he got only monosyllabic responses, and Smith offered no guarantees on whether he’ll be supporting us. He simply told Daniel he has to make some calls and that he’ll be in touch. You’d think he could have made those calls during the two hours we were stuck at Fort Bragg or, better yet, let us leave and then make them.

Leaning forward, I ask Daniel, “How much influence were you able to exert over Berman and Smith?”

“Some.” He rubs his forehead. “I gave Berman an extra nudge as she went back to her car. But here’s the deal. They’re both operating within a bureaucracy. Nothing gets done on the say-so of any one person. And if a political deal has been reached . . . do you really think this administration will care if Cregg is dirty? Or if his family profits from the drug sale?”

Sadly, I know he’s right. And that means this lift to Carova may be the only bit of help Smith gives us. Maybe all he can give us. And when the time comes to fight, we could be facing not just Magda’s private security and Dacia’s bears but also Smith and whatever military force he’s been ordered to use against us.

Could the government simply wipe out the adepts without anyone knowing? It’s possible. Carova Beach is still relatively empty this time of year, although a few cars and brightly colored beach umbrellas are out. There will be even more a week from now. This stretch of the island is less densely populated than most areas, but warm weather is on the horizon, and soon, most of these houses will be occupied. People would definitely notice then. They wouldn’t be happy about having their vacation disrupted.

But given the recent mob violence against adepts like Cameron Applebaum and against those simply perceived as possible psychics, like all of those kids in Florida, I can’t help but wonder whether the rest of the nation would even care?

If the public was magically granted an eyewitness view of our battle against Cregg and, quite likely, US soldiers, would they cast us as the heroes or as the villains of this tale? Would it matter to them that we are fighting to protect children? That most of the people who will be fighting on our side are children?

Maybe I’ve spent too much time reading the comments sections lately, but I suspect that it will not matter to most “neurotypical” people. They will view us as a mistake of science to be purged from the face of the earth. A select few will be sincerely troubled. A larger group will tsk and say it’s a pity, but hey, that’s what happens when you tamper with nature. Others—a far larger group than I would have believed even a year ago—will cheer our demise, and the fact that most of the victims are children will not matter to them at all.

It will not matter because these children are not like their children. It will not matter to them that the adepts never asked for the powers they have or that the vast majority of these kids worked hard to avoid trouble. They struggled to keep their light hidden, because they understood the consequences of being different. Most of them were even willing to live belowground, like rabbits in their warren, to avoid those consequences.

And then Senator Cregg came along and decided a little fear might help him win the presidency—or at the very least be a nice fat windfall for his bank account. Time to pull these kids out of the shadows. Time to put them on display and reap the full payoff for Penelope’s theft of the Delphi formula all those years ago.

If Colonel Smith is right, if the current administration simply wants the Delphi problem managed and doesn’t care how, then there will be no better time for them to manage that problem than the present. Each day brings us closer to vacation season, and armed troops rolling down the beach scares away the tourists.

I check my messages again to see if there is anything from Deo or Aaron, but Daniel’s text telling me they were on the way to the airfield is the last thing on my list. Should I try calling them or wait? I’m about to ask Daniel when I feel something brush lightly across my forehead, like a spiderweb or a strand of hair. My hand goes up automatically to check, even though I’m certain nothing is there. It’s Snoop—and if he’s peeking into my head right now, he knows I’m using the nickname he hates. So I lamely add an apology. And then I think that he could be colluding with Magda. Or even Dacia . . . and add another apology, because I don’t really believe that. Deo and Taylor both seem to think Snoop—Jeffrey, his name is Jeffrey—is a good guy. I trust their instincts.

A moment later, Daniel’s phone buzzes. He stares at it, confused, and hands me the phone. “Do you know what this means?”

No big deal. Getting used to Snoop.

“Yes. I was looking at my messages just now, and your number was the last thing I saw. Snoop must have snagged that thought.” The phone buzzes again.

Do NOT come to Sandalford. 202 Crane Rd. Code is 15*234439. Leave lights OFF.

Keep to back road. Be careful. Bears on patrol.

Another message from Snoop comes in as I’m texting back to ask if he’s heard from Deo.

And that formula thing you were thinking about. His mother regretted stealing it. She wanted the Senator to destroy it after she saw what it did to Graham. That’s why the Senator pushed her out that window. I picked that little gem out of the Senator’s head just before they burned down The Warren last October. I hate Graham Cregg as much as anybody, but he didn’t kill her.

Thump.

Still no response to my question about Deo. I scan back through Snoop’s final text again. It explains a lot, and I find myself fighting a tiny bit of sympathy for Cregg. It would be awful to have a parent who committed suicide, but how much worse to think that you had something to do with it? And then to learn that your father—the person who had been fanning the flames of guilt all those years—was actually the responsible party? No wonder Graham turned on his father when he learned the truth.

We touch down next to the fire station. Our heads have barely cleared the rotors when the pilot takes off again. Apparently, he was told to dump his human cargo and get back to Bragg. Sophie holds one hand up to shield Lily’s face from dust and sand. The station, mostly staffed by volunteers, is either empty right now or we’re not enough of a curiosity to generate interest, because no one steps outside during our brief landing and takeoff.

It’s a little over a mile to the address on Crane Road. We stay two blocks back from the shore, where there’s tree cover we can duck under if we hear or see a vehicle. Sophie and Lily would both be much happier about the trek if we were able to walk along the beach. They seem to have warmed up a bit to Daniel, however. When I look back at one point, Lily has a bird’s-eye view from her perch on his shoulders, and Sophie seems happy to have a break from carrying twenty-five pounds of wriggle.

The warning about bear patrols has me jumping at the slightest sound, however. I wish Aaron were here, not only for the usual reasons, but also as an early warning system. I feel exposed.

“We’re okay,” my dad says.

“Is that based on something you know or simply to keep me from worrying?”

He smiles. “A little from column A and a little from column B. My seer seems to think the worst thing that will happen between here and that address is we pick up some sandspurs on our jeans. You want to explain why she thinks of herself as a Fiver and not a seer?”

I spend the next few minutes explaining The Warren and its slang, with Daniel and Sophie chiming in.

“Sandalford was Aaron’s contribution,” I say. “An in-joke. The name is a pun on a warren in Watership Down that isn’t quite the happy place it seems to be on the surface. Magda seems to love the name, so she must not have read the book.”

“Or,” Daniel says, “maybe Magda did read the book and knew exactly what Aaron was implying.”

That hadn’t occurred to me. But he may be right.

The house on Crane Road sits one row back from the ocean. It’s fairly new construction and considerably smaller than the mansions along the beach. A Carova Realty sign is nailed to one of the beams on the porch. That’s the company Miranda Hawkins works for on occasion as a house cleaner. Either Miranda gave them the code voluntarily, or Maria plucked it out of her head last time she was at Sandalford.

We brush the sand from our feet and enter the house. The blinds are closed, so it’s dark. I make out a sofa and a large table—a pool table, maybe. When we close the door, a scuffling noise comes from up ahead. Daniel hands Lily back to her mother and draws Miller’s gun, pointing it toward the sound as we move forward. And then, from the other direction, I hear footsteps hurrying down the stairway. Not thundering down, though. Someone relatively small. Female.

Daniel pivots around, pointing the gun at Kelsey.

She gasps. “Dear God! Put that thing away!”

I rush forward and wrap her in a hug. “We’ve been trying to reach you. I thought you were in the lockdown at Sandalford. Why didn’t Snoop tell us you’d be here?”

“I was at Sandalford until a few hours ago. I’m not entirely sure he knows I’m here. Maria is running the operation in cells, telling people only what they need to know. That will go double now that Dacia is there, although secrets never last long at Sandalford.”

“Is Deo—”

“No. He’s still there. I’ll explain later. We have an emergency. Is this Sophie?”

Sophie nods, looking confused.

“Good. We need you to take over.”

“Take over what?” Daniel asks.

“Caleb.” I say the name at the same instant that Kelsey does. The same instant that Ashley thinks the name. “Maggie and Caleb are here, too,” I add.

Daniel intercepts Lily and puts her back on his shoulders. She happily grabs a handful of his hair while he laces his fingers together to form a baby backrest behind his head.

“You should probably stay down here with them,” I tell my dad, nodding at Daniel and the now-laughing Lily.

“As should you, Anna,” Kelsey says. “He’s medicated, but—”

“No. I have to see him. I’m not sure if it will make things better or worse, but Ashley is in here.” I tap the side of my head.

“Oh. We thought your father . . .” Kelsey glances over at my dad and gives him a nod. I feel like I should make introductions, but then she turns and heads back up the stairs. Sophie and I follow.

“He’s had as much sedative as I can safely allow. It should have kicked in by now, but it hasn’t. Dr. Batra gave me several vials of morphine, too, but Caleb’s so small . . . I wanted to hold off until there was no other option. If he doesn’t calm down, though, he’s going to hurt himself. Maybe others, too. He blew out that entire wall of windows in the great room at Sandalford this afternoon.”

She turns down the hallway toward a bedroom on the second floor. “This suite has the largest tub. Taylor mentioned there was an isolation tank back at The Warren. I have the lights dimmed, the water warm, and soft music playing, but . . .”

Kelsey’s comments raise about a half dozen questions for me, chief among them how Caleb wound up at Sandalford and now here. But I push these aside and focus inward, because I need Ashley’s advice on what to say to Caleb.

If he blew out of a wall of windows, he already knows, Anna. Dacia had me put him on an IV sedative before . . . so he wouldn’t see what she did to me. But you can’t keep secrets from Caleb. He doesn’t read people automatically like Maria. His ability is more like Dacia’s, I guess. If Caleb thinks you aren’t telling him something, he’ll go hunting around in your head until he finds it. As soon as I knew Maria wanted to pull him in to fight, Caleb knew, too.

And he was frightened.

No. He was excited. Ready to fight. As I said, he likes using his ability. And he knows how much I hate the Creggs and Dacia. But we can’t allow him to follow that instinct. He’s still just a little boy, and . . .

Will he know that you’re . . .

That I’m in here? Probably. Depends on how much Maggie and Sophie are blocking him.

If he doesn’t know, should I tell him? Will that make things better or worse?

I don’t know. But Caleb feels very alone right now. Daniel Quinn is paying attention to the wrong child.

I don’t think that’s entirely fair to Daniel. Sophie is nervous enough leaving Lily in the same room with my father, given what she’s seen him do. There’s no way she would have handed her child over to him. And if Caleb had read Ashley’s thoughts, he would have picked up a whole lot of ambivalence about Daniel.

But Kelsey is standing with the bathroom door open. There is a hurt, angry, and extremely powerful child waiting, so I don’t have time for any more internal dialogue.

The first thing I notice when I step inside is the wall of water rising straight up from the edge of the large garden tub in one corner of the room. It doesn’t quite touch the ceiling but hangs in midair, a bit like a shower curtain, just translucent enough for me to see a tiny huddled figure at one end.

Maggie is propped against the outside of the tub, near where Caleb sits. Even in the dim light, it’s obvious she’s not well. A small mountain of empty granola-bar wrappers is next to her feet, but she looks like she’s lost weight since yesterday. Her cheeks are almost sunken.

“Get her out of here,” Sophie says to Kelsey. “Downstairs or outside. And if you can, find some more food . . . for both of us.”

Kelsey’s already on it.

The curtain of water ripples, thickens, as we move closer, surrounding Caleb like a cocoon. He’s watching me, although I sense this more than see it.

ANNA. GO. AWAY.

The words are clearly a command, accompanied by a gentle push that slides my feet across the marble tile toward the door. He’s pushing Sophie toward the door as well. He’s straining to do it. I can tell because the water curtain drops about a foot. But Sophie is straining, too, her jaw clenched tight as she braces herself against the wall.

Caleb’s tone reminds me of Peyton Hawkins last fall, when I first told her about Kelsey. As soon as she heard the word doctor, Peyton said her monkey—her name for the force inside her head—didn’t like needles. Fine. Neither do I. So it was easy to back off and give her space.

But Peyton wasn’t alone. She had—and still has—her mother, her brother, and her father, all of whom love her and will do their best to protect her. And her talent is aptly called a monkey. I was worried that she might break a few glasses if she didn’t get her way. Caleb’s ability is King Kong. He can level buildings.

Making him angry is a bad idea. But the instincts of every parent I’ve ever hosted tell me that Caleb doesn’t really want me to go. Or at least, he doesn’t really want Ashley to go.

“I’m sorry, Caleb. I’m sorry you’re hurting. But I won’t go.”

The wall of water forms a giant hand that reaches out and pushes me toward the door again. It’s not as forceful a push this time, but I’m now drenched. Sophie is still dry. It’s almost like he splashed me in anger.

But . . . he only splashed me. Even with Sophie blocking, Caleb could have done worse than splash. That hand he sent to push me could as easily have been two streams of water up my nostrils. Into my lungs. But instead of drowning, I’m wet, like him. It might not be an invitation to join him, but I’m going to take it that way.

I kick my shoes into the corner, peel off my jeans, and step through the wall of water. It doesn’t part easily. Caleb seems to be reinforcing it the same way I reinforce my own walls inside my head. But I persist and eventually step into the other end of the tub, giving Caleb as much space as I can while still being here with him.

The water is warm. Some guest must have left behind bath salts, because I catch a hint of lavender in the steam surrounding us. Kelsey was clearly desperate, resorting to every trick she knew to try to calm Caleb down.

I lower myself into the half-full tub and meet the red-rimmed eyes of a toddler in superhero underwear. Aquaman. I don’t know if that reflects Caleb’s sense of humor or Ashley’s, but it fits.

Ashley is in there. In there with Spider Cregg.

Yes. But not in the same room, okay? He can’t hurt her.

I want to add that Cregg doesn’t want to hurt her, but I don’t know that for certain. And absolute honesty is probably the best bet with Caleb. If he senses that I’m misleading him, that I’m lying in any way, things could go very bad, very quickly.

Do you understand why she’s in here, Caleb? Why Ashley’s in my head?

He stares back at me, and the expression is so familiar that I have no doubt Daniel is his father. It’s the same look Daniel wore when he sat on the picnic table the other day, trying to decide whether he was ready to talk about Sariah.

Maybe Caleb doesn’t trust himself to talk, either, because when he answers my question, it’s with a flood of images and sensations rather than words. I see Ashley’s face close up, under the streetlight, and then I watch as the Sunsphere cracks and the fragments take flight like seeds from a dandelion puff. Dacia’s angry face and Ashley telling him, sleep, baby, it will be okay in the morning. Waking up at Sandalford with no Ashley, no Maggie. Dacia telling him Ashley will be back soon. That he will stay with her and Maggie for a bit. Staring into Dacia’s ice-blue eyes and extracting her memory of shooting Ashley. Her memory of shooting the children at Overhills. Of shooting a string of other people. He pauses for a moment longer on one face, a woman with curly light-brown hair. Then I see a baseball bat, long before Dacia had a gun, coming down to hit Molly.

I make it quick for you.

The next memory isn’t Dacia’s. It must be from Caleb’s perspective. The glass wall behind Dacia explodes out toward the ocean and Dacia flies backward, clutching Maggie to her body. The picture freezes with Dacia inches from the window.

The bear lady made Ashley dead because Ashley told me to only explode the big gold ball. I wanted to explode the whole house when I found out. Not just the window. But Maggie was there. Other wabbits, too. It would be bad to hurt them.

Yes, Caleb. You were a very good boy.

Tears spill over, streaming down his little face. “Don’ wanna be good boy any . . . more.”

It’s the first time I’ve heard Caleb speak aloud. He sounds younger than the voice in my head, and the quiver in that last word absolutely breaks my heart. I pull him into my arms without thinking, and I don’t hesitate when Ashley moves to the front, even though it’s a risk, even though it pushes me to the back of my head and closer to Graham Cregg. Ashley knows how to soothe Caleb better than I do. And as for Cregg, I am so angry right now, so livid in the face of this child’s pain, that I will rip into that mutated spider-rat with my bare hands if he so much as touches the wall between us.

I haven’t been inside my mind office in a while. At least I don’t remember being back here, although I guess Cregg must have stashed me somewhere when he was cruising around in my body. Once I find the two file cabinets marked Jaden and Molly, I huddle down next to them. I could use Jaden’s calm right now. I could use Molly’s determination.

Even back here, I feel Caleb’s small body shaking against my chest, his hands clutching my shirt just as they clutched Ashley’s coat yesterday. I can only imagine his pain at seeing Ashley killed. And that one image, the woman with the light-brown hair. He lingered on that one face, like it’s someone he knew. Someone he remembered.

I’ve never seen a picture of Caleb’s mother. I don’t even know how old Caleb was when Sariah was killed. I don’t know how much he remembers about her. But that was her. I’m certain. He pulled out Dacia’s memory of killing not just the aunt who has taken care of him but also his mother. It’s a miracle that the kid was able to pull back his anger when he saw Maggie.

The thought that enters my brain next isn’t one I want to entertain. In fact, I spend several minutes trying to convince myself that it’s being planted by Graham Cregg. I visualize myself standing up, moving around to escape him, to escape the thought, but I know that it’s pointless. What I’m thinking, what I’m remembering from the nightmares I’ve had lately, isn’t something that Cregg is pushing on me. If anything, I can blame my mother’s comment about needing to hunt for the human side of the monster.

All I can think about is the dream this morning. Standing on the patio, staring down at the broken body of Penelope Cregg, her pinky neatly severed by the metal edging strip around the rosebushes. A hand gripping my collar, twisting, lifting me off my feet. Your fault.

I don’t want to feel sympathy for the monster. But I do. Sitting here in this tub, one step removed from my body that clutches a sobbing boy that much of the world would call a monster, too.

Graham Cregg had choices. Most of the ones he made were horribly wrong. But would any of that have been changed if he’d had someone to hold him that day as he stared at the broken body of the person he loved most?

CHAPTER THIRTY

Carova Beach, North Carolina

April 28, 2020, 5:42 p.m.

When Caleb is cried out, the waterwall surrounding us rolls down, refilling the tub almost to overflowing. I feel Ashley stand and carry Caleb out of the bathroom. Kelsey is waiting with towels and blankets to replace our wet clothes. Caleb curls up into a small, still-damp ball in the middle of the large bed, his eyes drooping with exhaustion, as my hand gently rubs his back.

Then, without a word, Ashley swaps places with me. The filmy barrier between my brain and my body slips away. I feel the fuzz of the blanket beneath my fingers and hear Caleb’s soft, ragged breaths as he drifts into sleep.

I’m surprised at how late it is. I wouldn’t have thought we were in there more than ten or fifteen minutes, but the clock says it was more than an hour. I’m also surprised to see that the dry clothes Kelsey is holding are actually my clothes.

“Taylor grabbed the things you left behind at the cabin. I can stay here with Caleb if you want to go up and talk to her.”

“Maybe we could talk in here? I don’t think I should leave him yet.”

Kelsey goes to get Taylor, and Sophie, who has been sitting in a chair on the other side of the bed, says, “You think it’s okay for me to step out? Lily’s hungry and tired . . .”

“She’s had a rough couple of days and she needs her mom. I think we’re fine, at least for now. And thanks for your help, Sophie. I wouldn’t have been able to get through to Caleb without you holding him back.”

She nods and gives me a nervous smile. “I’m glad I could help. But I’ll be honest. He makes me nervous. When I block the others, even your father, I see clear waves. Actual patterns that I can push back against. But I was having to shift constantly with Caleb. I don’t know if he was purposefully trying to get around my block or if it’s because he’s dealing with so much emotion right now, but it was like fighting a hurricane.”

Once she’s gone, I discard the blanket I’m wearing and change into the jeans and sweater on the dresser. Caleb tosses a bit, but by the time Taylor comes in, I’m next to him again and he settles back down.

Taylor hands me the drawstring bag I bought in DC. “Your phone and some other stuff.”

“Why aren’t Aaron and Deo here?”

“Why hello, Anna. Happy to see you too.” She grins. “Don’t look so guilty. If you showed up here without Daniel, I’d have asked you the same thing. Aaron will be back soon. And coming here without Deo wasn’t my idea, okay? Kelsey needed someone to help her with Caleb and Maggie. No one was really in need of a remote viewing, so I was the obviously expendable member of the Scooby Gang.”

“Okay, I’ve got a lot of questions, but maybe we should get Daniel and my dad in here so you can catch us up all at once?”

“I already filled them in, and . . . they’re . . . sort of not here anymore.”

“What?”

Caleb stirs uneasily, and Taylor says, “Okay, you need to listen and not get upset. They just left with Aaron and Jasper Hawkins.”

I’m stunned into silence. All I can think of is Jasper standing on the beach at Long Point Island last autumn, gun in hand, clearly fighting the urge to shoot me for simply being Scott Pfeifer’s daughter.

“That’s . . . not good. Jasper hates my dad. He’ll kill him.”

“Maybe he would, except Dacia has his wife and children at Sandalford. Your father wants to help rescue them. I can’t guarantee the truce will last beyond that rescue, but Jasper has a nice little cache of weapons—some at their fishing cabin and others stashed over at Long Point Island. Weapons are something we’re seriously lacking, so that’s where they’ve gone now. And from what Daniel was saying about this Colonel Smith, Jasper may be the only armed ally we have.”

“Did Daniel hear back from Smith already?”

“Not yet. Against my better judgment, I just e-mailed the Colonel links to most of what we have on Senator Cregg. But Daniel doesn’t seem hopeful. Do you think he’s wrong?”

I just shake my head. Daniel knows Smith better than I do. If he isn’t hopeful, neither am I.

“They’re stopping here on the way back to pick us up. Well, us if you think you can leave Caleb.”

“We’ll see how well he’s sleeping. I’m not sure how much I can—”

“He’s Daniel’s kid, isn’t he?” Taylor interrupts, nodding toward Caleb.

Her question surprises me. And the fact that I didn’t respond with a quick how the hell would I know seems to be all the answer Taylor needs.

“I should have noticed the resemblance before. I’ve seen family photos from when Daniel was only a little older than that. His hair darkened, and he keeps it short now, but he had those same curls back then. And that same little dimple in his chin.”

I’m worried she’s going to ask more questions. But luckily, Kelsey arrives, bearing a tray with three mugs. I’m hoping it’s coffee, but as she comes closer, I catch the scent of chocolate.

It will do.

“There is no coffee,” Kelsey says with a knowing smile. “And I’m afraid this cocoa is from a packet. We had to jimmy the lock on the owner’s closet, and there’s not a lot to choose from. Mostly granola bars and beef jerky.”

She puts the tray on the bedside table and sits down next to me.

“When did Dacia arrive at Sandalford?” I ask.

“A little after three this morning,” Kelsey says. “It was Dacia, seven additional guards, an unconscious Caleb, Maggie, and another child. The helicopter landed right in front of the house, so there’s no way they could have taken Magda’s security by surprise . . . the noise woke the entire house. I think Magda was expecting something of this nature. Maybe Senator Cregg offered Miller more than Magda was paying him.”

“According to Ashley,” I say, “the Senator and Dacia have definitely parted ways.”

“But that’s a fairly recent development, right?” Taylor asks. “And since Miller was . . . indisposed, shall we say . . . the news may not have filtered down to his team. They probably got their marching orders back when Miller left with Dacia.”

Kelsey sniffs. “Miller has always thought Magda is too lenient with the adepts, so whoever paid him probably didn’t need to sweeten the pot much. Whatever the reason, they walked right past Miller’s men and into the house. Into Bell Isle, as well. Magda knew something was going to happen. Even before she got back to Sandalford, the military scientists had packed up and moved out. The three parents who were there as well, along with their kids, because they refused to leave them. Magda called a meeting last night to inform me and the nurses that we’d be receiving medication—a cure, to use her words—for the adepts within the next few days and would need to monitor them closely for at least a week. And then she went back to her house and we went to bed. I think she was expecting the Senator. If she’d thought Dacia was the one who’d be showing up, and that Dacia’s guards would be holding her captive in her own house, she’d have grabbed her girls and left without giving anyone else a second thought. The adepts knew, though. There was this sense of . . . anticipation . . . all day. The only thing I have to compare it to is how kids act right before Christmas, but it wasn’t as positive. When the helicopter landed, the children were awake. Maria greeted Dacia like a long-lost friend.”

“But . . . that doesn’t make sense. Snoop sent me this address, saying Maria gave it to him.”

“She did,” Taylor says. “Snoop has also been sending messages from Maria to someone in Dacia’s camp for the past month now. Offering to help them fight the Senator if she’ll help protect the adepts. I suspect Dacia fully intends to renege on that deal, but it doesn’t matter. Maria is playing Dacia.”

“You don’t play Dacia Badea!” I lower my voice to keep from waking Caleb. “She reaches out and combs through your mind to see if you’re lying, Taylor. To see what you’re hiding. And that other kid Kelsey mentioned? She’s probably the little bear in the video they played at the Senator’s speech last night. If she could talk her way through the gates at a nuclear facility, the kid can convince Maria or Stan or any of the others to tell the truth. This plan can’t possibly work.”

“Do you remember the way Maria sent you the information about your dad?” Taylor says. “In the meeting. How she kind of pushed it out to us?”

I nod. It’s pretty much the same thing Caleb did a few minutes ago. Only a few of the Peepers can both send and receive. None do it quite as well as Maria, but Caleb could give her some real competition in a few years.

“Okay,” Taylor says. “That’s the rest of the plan. Maria will be sending a message when Dacia scans her thoughts.”

“More likely she’s already sent it,” Kelsey says. “Dacia hugged Maria for a very long time when she first saw her last night. It was long enough that some of the older boys were exchanging glances. Normally they’d have been snickering or telling them to get a room. But none of them said a word.”

“What message was Maria sending?”

“The script Stan and I helped write,” Taylor says. “Training the adepts, but only the stuff we want Dacia to know about. How much Maria hates the Creggs. Why she doesn’t trust Magda. A few fake personal details that Maria wouldn’t want revealed so Dacia will think she has leverage. Maria shoved all of that out while Dacia was scanning, and hopefully Dacia thinks she pulled the truth out of her. Oh, and as for that kid in the video . . . she was one of the wabbits. She only wound up with Cregg because she was on the wrong side of The Warren that night. Maria doesn’t think she’ll take Dacia’s side.”

“You may be underestimating Stockholm syndrome. Most of the adepts at The Warren seem to have had a rather healthy case of it. They may think of Dacia as their friend.”

But Ashley disagrees.

No. Not Dacia or Lucas. They considered them worse than Graham Cregg. I was there for nearly a year, and I can tell you those two were universally hated. Even the teenage guys who I’m certain thought Dacia was hot steered clear of her.

Couldn’t that have been because they were afraid of Lucas, though?

Maybe. But don’t forget, Dacia could read Lucas’s mind. Which means she knew what he was into and tolerated it. Or more likely, enjoyed it. There were no secrets in The Warren. They knew which Fudds were the bad ones.

Kelsey is watching me closely when I return to the world outside my head. So is Taylor.

“That was Ashley. Not Cregg. She doesn’t think any of the adepts would side with Dacia over Maria. But . . . even if we grant that, which I think is a very dangerous assumption, what’s to stop Dacia from scanning someone who can’t send her a false script?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Taylor says. “The other adepts will steer clear of her as much as possible. And Maria will stick by Dacia’s side like glue. She’ll try to send a message to block their actual thoughts if Dacia reaches out and grabs one of the other adepts. But we couldn’t write a script for everyone. Maria will have to improvise, based on what she knows about the person. And then there are language issues . . . Maria’s English may trip her up. Also, Dacia’s ability is probably a little different from the Peeper we used during our practice sessions. It might not work exactly the same . . .”

Taylor trails off, probably because I’m staring at her, openmouthed.

“Yes, okay? We’re well aware that there are several dozen ways this could go horribly wrong. That’s one reason Maria needed Deo there to boost her ability. And that’s also why this has to end tonight. According to Stan, every path on which we survive ends in a fight with the Senator tonight. The longer we drag things out, the more danger for everyone, but I’m guessing especially for Maria.”

Kelsey nods. “Maria’s the one who convinced Dacia to let me take Caleb and Maggie from Sandalford, although . . . Dacia believes we’re back in the hut on Long Point Island.”

“Dacia trusted you to go back there on your own?” I ask. “That doesn’t sound like her.”

“No.” Kelsey looks down at her lap, and even in the very dim light, I can see that she’s uncomfortable. “She assigned two guards to transport us.”

“Which is about the time we entered the picture,” Taylor says. “Aaron followed your advice about calling Miranda, but we couldn’t reach her. So . . . he called the construction company where Jasper has been working and left a message. Jasper called back almost immediately. He hasn’t been able to touch base with Miranda since yesterday morning. She has the kids call him every night before bedtime, but there was no call last night. He tried to call again early this morning, and it kept going through to voice mail.”

Taylor says that Jasper decided to give it until his lunch break and then drive over to see what was going on. But he left early when he got Aaron’s call. They agreed to meet at the halfway point, a few miles north of Sandalford.

“Which meant we had to drive right past Sandalford on the beach,” Taylor says. “This was a little after nine, so we decided to wait until the wild-horse tour showed up and join them. We drove past quickly, but even from down on the beach, we could see there was an extra guard at the gate and guards on the deck over at Bell Isle, which was new.”

Once they met up with Jasper, he’d agreed to drive Deo to Sandalford. They worked up a cover story claiming Deo had been over on Long Point Island, hoping it wouldn’t clash with anything Maria might have concocted if Dacia was already asking why the resident amp was missing. The guards let Deo in, but not Jasper.

“It’s a miracle Jasper kept his cool,” Taylor says. “But he knew he couldn’t take on all those guards on his own. So he meets us back at the rendezvous point. Once Deo was inside, we started getting a much clearer picture of the situation. That’s why Snoop was finally able to get the message to you, even with your walls up. And I suspect that’s also why there’s no window in the great room at Sandalford now.”

Kelsey nods. “Dacia seemed to think Caleb was a one-trick pony, possibly because she was relying on the records from The Warren. They show him as strongly psychokinetic. That’s something they’d have trouble hiding with an infant. But the other things we’ve seen him do—planting thoughts, clairvoyance, precognition—none of that’s mentioned in the records. I suspect Ashley did that?”

I check and report back. “Yes. Ashley hid his abilities from them as much as possible. Also, Caleb’s mom before she was out of the picture. Daniel, too. They were worried that Cregg might decide Caleb was a . . . liability. Or maybe just too much of an asset. The more they could hide, the better.”

“Well, Dacia seriously underestimated him,” Kelsey says. “It’s a miracle no one was hurt. When he woke up asking for Ashley, Dacia thought she could lie. Or maybe she just thought Maggie could block him sufficiently if he was upset. Apparently, she told Caleb he’d see Ashley soon. But first, they were going to go outside and play the “go boom” game again. I guess she wanted to test him further, to see what he could do. Caleb must have picked up on her lie about Ashley. A few seconds later, the window shattered and Dacia was flying backward along with the glass. And Maggie.”

“Caleb showed me that part. He said he didn’t want to hurt Maggie or the other adepts. I just don’t get why Dacia wants to use Caleb. She’s got hired guns. People who can blow things up the old-fashioned way. And now she’s got other adepts, although a lot may be the temporary kind.”

“It’s probably for show,” Taylor says. “Or poetic justice. I mean, I’d settle for simply taking down Ronald Cregg. But wouldn’t it be sweet if he was taken out by a force he’s tried to twist for his own personal and political gain for the past four decades?”

Thump.

Ashley doesn’t startle at Cregg’s nonverbal communication this time.

I’ll second that thump.

“Anyway,” Kelsey says, “Maria convinced Dacia to keep Caleb away from the other adepts for the time being. Away from Deo, too. She tried to get Dacia to let the other little ones go as well. Dacia almost agreed, but then one of her bodyguards said the little kids would be useful as hostages, if nothing else. And so it was just me and Maggie and Caleb in the van.”

“What happened to the guards?”

“Jasper shot the one who was driving. Caleb disarmed the other one,” Kelsey says. “Jasper would probably have killed the second guard, too, but we convinced him that one shot might be mistaken for a car backfiring. Two shots might make someone come investigate. We have the guard locked up downstairs, but he should have already been back at Sandalford with Maggie. Dacia is nervous without a blocker. Before Daniel left, I had him nudge the man into calling his supervisor to say there was trouble with the boat, but—”

Kelsey stops, listening, and for a moment, I think she’s worried that the guard has gotten free. But the noise is outside. The glow from outside is a little brighter, too.

Taylor goes to the window. “The guys are back. We should have disabled the stupid motion sensor, though. What good is sitting in the dark if it flicks on every time someone comes to the door?”

Kelsey heads down to open the door and caution them to be quiet. Assuming Sophie had any luck with Lily, there are two sleeping babies in the house. I put a small pillow against Caleb’s back and tuck another blanket around him. When I look up, Aaron is in the doorway.

“And . . . that’s my cue to leave,” Taylor says.

I’m glad. Not because I have any qualms about kissing Aaron in front of his sister. But tears are stinging my eyes, and I actually do have qualms about crying in front of Taylor.

The past few days have been a rollercoaster of worry, and it’s unbelievably wonderful just to have Aaron’s arms around me. I breathe him in, and the stress drifts away. I’m sure it will be back, but I want to savor this moment.

“Taylor said you picked up Ashley. Does Caleb know?”

I nod. “She’s the reason he finally calmed down.”

“Do you think you can leave him?”

“Maybe? Kelsey has him pretty heavily sedated, and now that he’s under, he’ll probably sleep. And Sophie is here. But . . . I might be better off staying here, just in case. There’s not much I can do to help.”

Thump. Thump.

Ashley doesn’t second these thumps, though.

You should stay here. If Caleb wakes up, and I’m not around . . . I mean, if you’re not around.

It’s okay. I know what you mean.

But Aaron is shaking his head. “We can always bring you back here if necessary. But Deo wants to see you. And don’t give me that worried frown,” he says, kissing the crease between my brows. “If one of Stan’s paths shows something happening to Deo, he hasn’t told any of us. Deo just suggested that it might be useful to trigger one of your visions. Maria has several Fivers, but most of them fall toward the probabilities side of the spectrum rather than the certainties side.”

“I can try. But there’s no guarantee that I’ll see anything that’s relevant. You know that. It’s . . . random.”

“Is it, though?” Daniel asks. I’m not sure how long he’s been standing in the doorway. It’s almost like he’s afraid to step over the threshold, and I know why. His eyes travel toward Caleb, as though he can read my thoughts, and then he clears his throat.

“Is it really random, I mean? I know that’s how Jaden said it works, and I know that a lot of the things you’ve seen have been pretty inconsequential. But when you’ve triggered a vision with Deo, it’s always seemed to be something you needed to know. Like it was a guided vision.”

“Guided by whom?” Aaron says.

By Jaden, I think.

But Daniel says, “By Anna, obviously.”

He’s right about the boosted visions, though. Each time that I’ve chosen to trigger a vision, it has given me some bit of knowledge I needed. As though being open to the gift changed it.

And maybe I am the one guiding the gift toward that spot, but I’m not entirely willing to discount where my mind went first. In one sense, I really do hope that wherever Jaden is now, he’s totally unconcerned with what is happening in this realm. I’d like to think that he and his mother are sitting in a park on a summer day, with their favorite books in hand. But I know that if he can see us in this world, he’d do whatever he could to push me in the right direction.

Jaden Park would be a damn good guardian angel. He’d laugh at that, but it’s true.

I’m about to tell Daniel he could be right, but something in Aaron’s expression stops me cold. He freezes, and then tears out of the room just before a gunshot rings out. Engine noise. Someone’s yelling, and there’s a thud and two more gunshots.

“Please tell me you didn’t leave Jasper alone with my father,” I say to Daniel as we run down the stairs after Aaron.

“No. Taylor’s with them.”

I reach the ground floor, taking the last few steps on a skid. But we’re too late. Through the open door, I can see Jasper. His gun is drawn, and my father is sprawled on the other side of the dirt road.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Carova Beach, North Carolina

April 28, 2020, 7:28 p.m.

I charge toward Jasper, screaming. He fires again, not even glancing at me, or at Daniel, who is holding me back.

But Jasper isn’t aiming at my father. He’s shooting at a vehicle, now nothing but taillights that are barely visible in the cloud of dirt churned up by the tires as it drives south.

“A Vigilance van,” Jasper says. “It shot once, then swerved off the road. I don’t know if he was aiming at Pfeifer specifically, or at all of us.”

Taylor and Aaron are bending over my dad. He’s conscious, but his head is bleeding, and his left leg is very clearly broken.

“I’m sorry,” Aaron says. “Miller was driving, so I didn’t pick anything up until he entered my range. By then it was too late.”

“Miller?” Taylor says. “You left him in Knoxville. How did he get here so soon?”

“Probably the same way we did,” I say. “And he wasn’t stuck at Fort Bragg for two hours.”

My dad is mumbling something. I pick up the words not ideal and risperidone.

“We’re going to get help,” I tell him. “We’ll call an ambulance.”

“Dacia was expecting the helicopter to return with more people this evening,” Kelsey says as she drops down onto the sand next to me and begins examining Pfeifer’s leg. “Mostly adepts. They may have stopped to pick up Miller.”

“Let’s get inside,” Daniel says. “He could circle back around.”

“Okay,” Kelsey says. “It may not be just his leg that’s broken, though. We need to find something flat so that . . .”

The rest of what she’s saying fades away as Pfeifer grips my arm. Even with his face twisted in pain, I can tell it’s my mom at the front. “Anna. I need you to lower your walls. You’ll be in charge, I promise. I’ll control them.”

My mind flits to my bigger fear. Not the hitchers inside of Team Pfeifer, but the one inside of me.

“She will control him. I need you to trust me.”

“I do.”

“Anna? No!” Aaron tries to pull me away, but my father’s hand is like a vise on my arm. I’m thinking, Ow, that’s going to bruise, when a wave of energy surges through me.

I don’t have time to pull down a single brick. The entire horde tears through my walls like they’re made of wet paper.

I’m not sure how long I’m out. Long enough for them to get me and my father into the house. Dad is lying on what appears to be half of a Ping-Pong table. Jasper is at the window, watching in case the vehicle returns for a second pass.

These aren’t things I see. My eyes aren’t even open. I simply know.

For several minutes, I lie perfectly still, finding my equilibrium. I’m at the front of my head, but the front feels narrow. Constricted.

I slip back a bit to survey the rest of my mind office. The wall is still in place, but it doesn’t look anything like my usual neatly stacked bricks. This reminds me of the waterwall Caleb built. It’s not water, but it has that same rippling quality. More like a force field.

There’s a crowd behind that barrier. Some appear more solid than others. I scan quickly, locating a few faces I recognize. My mother and Ashley are near the front. Will and Oksana are a bit farther back. I assume the other two women I lumped together with Oksana as the Furies are there, too, but they weren’t in my head long enough for me to give them faces.

Near the back, I see Penelope Cregg. Next to her is a boy of around twelve. I don’t recognize him at first, but something about his features is familiar. When I make the logical assumption that this is a younger Graham Cregg, my mind promptly substitutes the spider-rat avatar I’ve been using. Penelope turns toward me, snarling, and he morphs back into a boy. Except for the eyes. He has spider eyes, like the ones I saw in my reflection. And then those vanish, too. Just a boy now.

Having him appear as you think of him won’t help hold this coalition together.

I don’t argue my mother’s point, even though I suspect quite a few of her fellow hitchers would agree with me that there’s a lot to be said for truth in advertising.

Outside my head, my father is cursing, loudly and fluently. I want to open my eyes, but my mother isn’t finished.

Scott told them no ambulance, and you need to back him up on that. He’ll be okay until—

A vision flashes through my mind. There’s no humming sound preceding it, so I don’t think it’s one of Jaden’s visions. I’m inside a house. Not this one and not Sandalford, but still on the beach. Through the windows, I see the night sky over the ocean. And vehicles on the beach. Two jeeps, parked facing north. It looks like there’s something between them—traffic cones, maybe?—but it’s too dark to tell anything else.

I’m not even sure vision is the right word. This is only an image. A still shot, frozen in time. I can’t even pan around. It’s worthless, a stupid stock photo dropped into my mind without context. But then I see the reflection in the windows and realize where I am—Bell Isle, the house where Magda lives. She’s standing next to the girl in the wheelchair. Clara or Chloe? I can’t remember. Miller is there, too, on the sofa. They don’t look happy.

NOT YET. BUT SOON.

Will’s message appears as the image fades.

“We have to go,” I say.

Everyone in the rec room falls silent. And then they all start asking questions at once.

I hear them, but I don’t answer. Aaron seems to think it’s because I’m still disoriented. He tells them to back off. To give me space. I feel strangely buoyant as I get to my feet. Even though I’m in the driver’s seat, in control, I’m somewhat disconnected from my body. Not in a bad way, though. It’s more like the body is irrelevant.

Like it’s a vessel.

“We have to go,” I repeat. “Miller is back at Sandalford. The Senator, too. Or . . . he will be soon.”

“Anna,” Kelsey says, “before you go anywhere, please talk some sense into your father. We need to call—”

“No,” Pfeifer says. His face is pale, and he’s clearly in pain. But he’s shaking his head adamantly.

“He’ll be okay.” And I do think that’s true. I don’t know for certain, though. There’s only one thing I’m certain about. “We have to go. Now.”

“Okay,” Daniel says. “But . . . what’s the plan?”

I’m about to tell him I haven’t had time to think up a plan yet. That I’ve just taken on more than a dozen new boarders, and maybe someone else could brainstorm that problem? But my hitchers have apparently been giving this a great deal of thought. My mouth opens and words roll out.

“Nudge the guard again. Hard enough for him to forget Jasper shot his partner. He’s supposed to take Maggie back to Sandalford. We go along for the ride.”

I reach up and touch my face as I speak. My hands are under my control. And it’s me talking. But it’s also more than me.

“A Trojan horse strategy,” Taylor says. “And once we’re inside?”

“We wait until Maggie is safe. And then we fight.”

Again, the words are out before I know what I’m going to say. It’s as though there’s a conference going on inside my head, but I can’t hear it. I only get the action memo.

That frightens me. It’s not like in the visions where every step, every word, is foreordained. And unlike the memory gaps when Cregg was in charge, I know what I’m saying.

You’re in control, Anna. But if I let you hear everything going on back here, I don’t think you’ll be able to function. It’s a bit—

Chaotic. Yes. I remember from when I picked up the Furies that night in the lab.

They like that name, by the way. They say they are all Furies now. United. One goal. But . . . we have to go.

“Getting through the gate isn’t going to be easy,” Taylor says. “There are five of us. Against fifteen guards, at least. Even with Jasper’s weapons, we’re seriously underpowered. Our best bet is to simply go in and tell Dacia we’re joining her. Maria told Dacia that she trusts us. That we will fight with them against Cregg.”

“Dacia won’t believe that,” I say, this time not drawing on whatever psychic consultations are going on at the back of my head. I know this because I know Dacia. The Furies know her too, and none of them disagrees. “Dacia’s not stupid. She knows we’ll turn on her. If we wait, we’ll be fighting her people and Senator Cregg’s people at the same time. Maybe even the damn military.”

Taylor shrugs nervously. “Fighting her first is one of the main paths. But Stan said the odds . . . You know what, never mind. Let’s just go.”

Daniel and Aaron fetch the guard and move my father to one of the beds on the ground floor while Kelsey goes up to get Maggie. I thought Maggie might be hesitant to leave, but she seems eager. Caleb still exhausts her, even when she’s not in the same room. She crawls into the passenger seat and buckles up as soon as Jasper brings the van around from behind the house.

Kelsey pulls me aside. “I gave your father the morphine intended for Caleb, over his protests. His leg is badly broken, and I don’t want him moving around. Are your walls still up?”

“Sort of. There’s something there, but it’s not my usual barrier. I’m in control, or maybe I should say we’re in control. My mother is doing some of the . . . management tasks.”

Kelsey still looks worried. “And Graham Cregg?”

“He’s behind the wall with the rest of them.”

“Is your mother managing him, too?” There’s a question in Kelsey’s voice, and I understand why. She knows how easy it is for Cregg to turn the tables.

“He’s under control,” I say, trying to remember how much, if anything, I’ve told Kelsey about Penelope Cregg. “We have to go.”

“I know.” She hugs me tightly. “Promise me you’ll be careful. Remember what happened when you tried to use Hunter Bieler’s ability? Don’t take any unnecessary chances.”

“I’ll be careful.”

Taylor is next to me. Kelsey reaches out to hug her too, but then sees the gun Taylor’s extending toward her.

“I don’t want that,” Kelsey says. “I don’t know how to use it. Give it to Sophie.”

“Already gave her one,” Taylor says. “Safety is here. Trigger is here. Turn safety off. Point. Pull trigger.”

Sophie stands on the steps, arms crossed, a small silver pistol in one hand. She looks annoyed, but I don’t think it’s about the gun. “I’m not certain I can block that kid if he’s as wound up as he was today.”

“It shouldn’t be as bad,” Kelsey tells her. “Even if he wakes up, he released a lot of the pain earlier. We’ll manage.”

Sophie looks less convinced, but she nods. “Be careful.”

We crawl into the back of the van for the short ride to Sandalford. Whatever Daniel said to nudge the guard seems to be working. The guy slides behind the wheel without the slightest hesitation and seems relaxed, no doubt relieved that the “freak” he’s transporting now isn’t one of the dangerous kind. He’s totally oblivious to both his injured trigger finger and his five extra passengers.

Daniel and Jasper take up position at the back of the van, rifles in hand. I sit closer to the front, next to Aaron. Taylor offers me one of the guns from the stack, and everyone looks a little nervous when I laugh. To be fair, the laugh didn’t really sound like me, maybe because it was both my laugh and a reaction from the steering committee. But if Taylor had seen what the Furies did to that cafeteria at the prison, she’d understand that I do not need that rifle.

Something occurs to me then. One of the words my dad mumbled when Kelsey was examining his leg. Risperidone. Yes, he was on the drug, too, and at a much higher dosage. But it probably hadn’t had time to kick in. I’ve been on it for weeks. So yes, me taking on the Furies is probably not ideal—which is the other thing he mumbled.

Your father had to hold back. He struggled to control their abilities, especially for those first few days. That’s why he had to keep venting, but . . . think of the damage at the prison and in that parking lot as a tiny valve letting off just enough steam to keep him stable. The risperidone isn’t going to stop the Furies from getting the job done. If we have to, we’ll crank it up to eleven.

I think of Kelsey’s comment about Hunter Bieler. I’ll be perfectly happy to get out of this with a blistered hand. But Hunter’s ability is a tiny match. The firebug inside me now is a blowtorch. Nothing happened to my dad, but who knows? As Jaden often noted, different brain, different rules.

I’m not suggesting we put you in danger. Kelsey’s right. I said, if we have to, we crank it to eleven. We won’t start there.

Do what you have to do. I’ve been singed before.

Aaron moves closer. “Talk to me, Anna. Let me know what’s going on. It’s still . . . you, right?”

“Cregg’s not in control.”

“Yes. I can see that. But it doesn’t answer my question.”

“I think I’m a group project now. Anna to the Infinite Power.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Neither do I, actually. But someone back there must.” He raises his eyebrows, and I go on. “It’s like . . . I’m in control for the most part, but some preliminary negotiations for what I do happen behind the force field. My mother is . . .” I stop, trying to think of a way to explain it. “She’s the conductor. There are different instruments, and she’s controls when they play and how loud. But I can pull the plug if . . . Never mind, it’s a crappy analogy.”

Aaron smiles. “Now that comment sounded like you.”

I hold his gaze for a long moment. “This is me. But Kelsey was right to be nervous. Everyone needs to remember that Cregg is still in here. So is his mother, and she seems to be holding him at bay, but . . . keeping an eye on me might not be a bad idea.”

“Always happy to do that.” He leans in and kisses me before the van rounds the curve onto the shore road, jostling us apart.

Another van passes, heading in the opposite direction, as we turn onto the shore. The driver flashes his headlights in greeting. Snoop’s warning that Dacia has bears combing the beach was dead on.

I exchange a nervous glance with the others as we approach the gate, wishing that Daniel would tell the driver to hold our course and keep going down the beach, even though I know we can’t do that. Judging from the expression on Aaron’s face, he’s feeling the same way, but then he’s always on edge when we’re at Sandalford.

The man at the gate isn’t with Vigilance Security. Must be one of Dacia’s men. He waves us through without question, though, and the driver heads down the path toward the guesthouse where they park the company vehicles. The fist clenching my stomach loosens a tiny bit.

Maggie looks back at me, a question in her eyes. I nod, and Maria’s voice immediately fills my head. Taylor, Aaron, and Daniel look up too. A conference call, apparently.

Finally you are here. We could not reach you even by the text. Miller is back. And Dacia knows Caleb is not on the island.

The driver pulls up next to one of the other vans and is about to turn the engine off when Daniel yells, “Turn the van around!” Our driver obeys and heads back toward the gate, but Maggie is struggling to keep her blocker off. She can normally hold it longer than this, but she’s exhausted.

Maria continues broadcasting while Daniel issues commands. Apparently, Dacia left several minutes ago with one of the adepts and someone Maria calls Dacia’s ugly sex bear.

Two guards, one male and one female, are near the guesthouse. The female guard waves for our driver to stop.

“Keep driving!” Daniel says, but Maggie’s shaking her head. She can’t hold back the block any longer.

My mind is veering into panic mode. The van we passed must have been Dacia. And that was three, maybe four, minutes ago.

Our driver lowers the window, and the woman says, “Hey. Thought you got the suck assignment of staying on the island with the superfreak? How’d you talk Weaver into swapping duty?”

The guard’s weapon isn’t out, so she must think it’s just the driver and Maggie. I motion for Maggie to get out of the van. She looks frightened but opens the door. “I want to go inside. I’m tired.” The other guard mashes out his half-finished cigarette, clearly annoyed that his break was cut short, and follows Maggie.

Our driver is still pondering the woman’s question. “I . . . I don’t know . . .”

“They’re coming,” Aaron whispers. “Get ready.”

I’m puzzled for a second, thinking he means the driver’s uncertain response has blown our cover. But he’s also picked up a vibe from four guards rushing toward us. One of them is holding Maggie, who’s struggling to get out of his grasp.

The female guard leans forward. “Who the hell have you got back—”

“DROP YOUR WEAPONS. HIT THE GROUND.”

All but two of them comply with Daniel’s order. The guard holding Maggie and the guy next to him, who must also be within her blocking radius, aren’t affected. Then one of the two still standing begins firing at the van.

“Go!” Daniel yells. “Get us out of here.” The driver accelerates, but the guard at the fence is advancing on us and reaching for his weapon.

There’s no conscious thought in my next action, no consideration of how to respond. I simply push the guard running toward us. A piercing wail fills my head, metal on metal, like the sound that I get when a vision hits, but louder. Then the guard flies back toward the wooden slat fence, maybe fifteen yards behind him. He smacks it hard, and the fence splinters, instantly dumping him onto the dunes beyond.

But the guard isn’t all that gets pushed. The windshield of the van shatters outward, along with both of the front windows. The driver, too, along with the headrest from his seat and the rearview mirror. Daniel and Aaron slam into the front seats. Only Jasper and Taylor, who are behind me, escape the impact.

The metallic screech inside my head fades. I slide closer to the driver’s seat as the van decelerates, and look out the now-shattered window. The only guards now standing are the two within Maggie’s radius.

“If you don’t want the kid hurt, get out of the van, hands behind your heads. Now.”

Maggie screams something. It sounds like no, but it could be . . . go.

Daniel begins yelling commands again, and I feel Maria trying to send a message, but it’s drowned out by the NNNNN sound again, painfully loud, as I pin my focus on the guard holding Maggie. Again, there’s no conscious questioning, no debating what course of action to take. Something inside me merely reaches out in the direction of the two men and squeezes. The only physical action is my hand clenching.

Maggie wrenches free of the guy holding her, who’s now only worried about getting air through his constricted windpipe. As soon as she’s under the raised deck, four metal chairs fly off the upper level and crash into the backs of the guards still on their feet, both of whom are clawing frantically at their throats. They two men face-plant into the sand.

The noise in my head stops as soon as I release the guards.

“The chairs weren’t mine,” I say.

“Good,” Aaron says. “That means Maria’s wabbits are giving us some help.”

Taylor shoves past me, grabs the wheel, and floors it, swerving toward the deck and very nearly hitting our former driver. “Get ready to bail, guys.”

She brakes inches from the columns that support the upper deck, and Daniel throws the door open. The guys pile out. I expect Taylor to follow suit, but she yells, “Be careful!”

“You, too!” Aaron reaches forward and gives my hand a quick squeeze. And then he’s gone.

“I thought you were staying with them,” I say to Taylor.

“Buddy system. Strap in.”

The guard at the gate is struggling to his feet, but he shuttles out of the way like a crab when he sees the van barreling toward the cracked section of fence. Taylor plows through, taking the van over the slight incline and onto the shore.

I say a silent prayer that the tires didn’t hit any nails or sharp edges. If they did, we’re going to be hoofing it.

“They’ve only got a few minutes’ head start,” Taylor asks. “Dacia may not even know which house—”

“She knows. Maybe not the specific address, but Miller will remember where he hit my dad.”

“Miller’s not with her, though. He’s at Bell Isle. You didn’t hear what Maria said?”

“Not the last bit. There’s a really loud noise when they take over. It drowns out everything. My head is still ringing. And . . . I’m starving. Like, I-could-eat-the-dashboard starving.”

“Not surprised. Welcome to my world. I’d usually have something on me, but I gave my last Snickers to Maggie.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“No,” she says. “You’ll be useless.”

I dig around in the glove box and find an economy-sized bag of gummy bears. They’ve clearly been in the van for a while because it’s more like a solid lump of gummy. I pry the mess out of the wrapper and take an experimental bite. And then a bigger bite.

“That’s gross,” Taylor says.

“Tastes good.”

“Hopefully there’s something more substantive in the storage closet when we get there. You need fuel. Maria seems to think you play a central role once the Senator and Smith arrive . . . which is soon. She didn’t want you to leave Sandalford, but I knew that wasn’t negotiable.”

Taylor turns off the lights and parks the van two houses down.

I don’t see headlights or a vehicle in the drive. Only the light by the front door, the one Taylor said is on a motion sensor. The air around the house is thick with dust, just like it was after Miller’s hit-and-run. I abandon stealth mode, taking off at full speed.

Even before I see the body in the doorway, I know.

Hunter Bieler’s face flashes in front of me, and I know there will be one bullet wound to Kelsey’s temple. I make it quick for you.

She’s slumped forward, half in the doorway and half out. I drop to the ground and pull her into my arms, screaming her name.

And searching.

I knew Kelsey was dead before I rounded the corner. I knew it.

But I can’t believe she’s also gone.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Carova Beach, North Carolina

April 28, 2020, 8:42 p.m.

I shove another handful of stale Wheat Thins into my mouth and wash them down with flat, sickly-sweet cola. My stomach churns, and for a moment, I think I’m going to have to tell Taylor to stop the van. But I fight the nausea. She says I need carbs in order to end this. I want to end this.

And I have to focus on that. Otherwise, I will curl into a ball of anger and misery.

A small part of me also wants to go back to the house and unleash that anger at the one person Dacia left there alive. But it would be pointless. Pfeifer is unconscious, plus I don’t think my mother would let me. And my anger at him isn’t entirely fair. Aside from his larger role in creating this insanity, he’s not responsible for Kelsey’s death. He’s so drugged he probably never heard them come in. The fact that he was drugged and silent is probably the only reason he’s alive. If they’d checked the place thoroughly, he’d be dead, too.

Also, as Taylor pointed out, Sophie knew my father was in the house. She didn’t tell them. The fact that he isn’t dead tells us that she didn’t go with Dacia willingly.

Taylor got a brief text from Deo as we were walking to the van. Sandalford is secured. A few of the guards retreated to Bell Isle, and one of the Vigilance vans is parked over there, so he’s pretty sure that’s where Dacia has gone.

She responded simply that we were on our way back. Nothing more. I won’t let Deo learn about Kelsey from a text.

I see the lights of Sandalford ahead, but something’s different. “What happened to the fence?”

The slat fence surrounding Sandalford has vanished. Well, not entirely. Boards, some of them charred and smoking, lie scattered along the beach, in the dunes, and even a few in the water. One sticks up from the sand, pointing out to sea. Farther down the beach, the identical fence around Bell Isle remains standing.

“Wow,” Taylor shakes her head in amazement. “The wabbits just blasted the holy hell out of their cage. And look . . .”

Pieces of board are arranged on the wide expanse of sand in front of the house to form two words: WABBITS ONLY.

I wish Kelsey could see it. She hated that fence. Hated that the children at Sandalford, even those who could control their abilities, looked out at that beach every day but were rarely allowed on it.

Grief washes over me again. How do I tell Deo?

But Deo is sitting on the deck stairs when we pull up. His face leaves no doubt that he knows. He’s in a house full of psychics. Of course he knows. Stan was probably monitoring six or seven paths in which Kelsey died, and the son of a bitch never bothered to tell us.

Maggie is next to Deo. While I appreciate the thought, I really don’t care if we trigger a vision.

Not a good idea, sweetie. We’ve got a lot more going on inside here than just the visions right now, and I’m not sure . . .

My mother doesn’t finish the thought. Several times on the ride over, I’ve felt her hovering. Trying to decide what to say. How to console me. Scanning my colors or whatever to manipulate me into feeling better about this.

I’m angry at her, too. I know that’s not fair. It’s not like my mom is to blame. Yes, she’s here and Kelsey isn’t, but they’re both dead, and I’m about to make sure that the Senator, the person responsible for setting this entire fiasco in motion, pays for it.

Then I guess it’s a good thing we’re outside, because I’m going to hug my brother.

I open the door and go to the one person in the world who I know shares the pain I’m feeling right now. Over the past eight years, I’ve held Deo many times as he cried. Many times, I felt like crying, too, but I drew my strength from the knowledge that Deo was counting on me. That he needed me to be strong.

And now he’s the strong one. His jaw is clenched tight as he pulls me to him and my tears spill against his chest. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. My pain and his are the same.

A voice says we need to get inside. Rifles and scopes or something, but the other words are drowned out by the humming sound of an approaching vision. It’s faint enough that I think I could move down a step and maybe the vision wouldn’t happen, probably because Maggie is here. But if I can get any information that will help us—
nnnNNNnnn

Deo and Aaron alone. Walking down the beach toward me. I watch and wait.

nnnNNNnnn

Most of the ashes are gone by the time they reach me. Deo scatters some into the water. Some more along the beach.

nnnNNNnnn

It rained all morning, but now there’s sun. The beach is empty. Peaceful. I’m glad they both—

NNNnnn

The vision was different. It kept fading in and out. Maybe interference from Maggie? And it was so short.

When I open my eyes, Aaron is carrying me toward the service elevator. Deo must have gone up the other way. I lean my head against Aaron’s shoulder, glad that at least the vision pulled me out of a grief spiral. There will be time for grief later.

Aaron presses his lips to my forehead and holds me tighter, but doesn’t speak. He lost his dad. Maybe he understands that words, no matter how well-intentioned, do more to soothe the person speaking than they do for the person in pain. I struggled to find the right words to say to Daniel when he told me about Sariah, but what he said then is true. There are no right words.

The only thing that will help is time. And in this case, maybe some justice. Not revenge, not lashing out in anger, but ensuring that these kids aren’t treated as a means to an end.

Aaron sets me on my feet. “I got a vibe from the woods out back. One of Dacia’s men must have come over from Bell Isle. That’s why we were getting everyone inside. Are you ready? Because if you need some time . . .”

“No. I’ll have time later. What happened here after we left? Were any of the adepts injured?”

“Two, but not seriously. One was grazed by a bullet. Another was just a stupid accident—one of the Zippos got carried away blasting down the fence and burned the arm of the kid next to him. Two guards are dead, and two ran down the beach to Bell Isle. The rest are barricaded inside the walk-in freezer. Did you get anything from the vision?”

“No. It was weird. Everything was fuzzy, and it was really short. You and Deo are walking toward me on the beach, scattering Kelsey’s ashes—”

I stop, realizing that the vision did give me something I needed. Nothing that will help with tactics or strategies. Nothing that says when the Senator will arrive and whether we’ll be facing another set of security guards or actual military personnel and equipment. All of those things remain unknown.

But no matter how blurry and choppy it was, the vision gave me the one bit of knowledge I needed desperately after having a chunk of my heart ripped out tonight. The two remaining pieces of my heart were there, on that beach with me.

Losing Aaron or Deo after losing Kelsey would absolutely end me. I don’t know what else happens tonight, but I know that they will be on this beach sometime in the near future. That’s the most powerful weapon the vision could have given me. It gives me hope. It gives me the freedom to protect these kids in a way that would make Kelsey proud.

It makes me fearless.

“I got something,” I tell Aaron. “It won’t make sense to anyone except me, but . . . let’s go.”

My initial reaction when we enter the great room is that it looks basically the same as before. Fewer knickknacks on the shelves, and one of the couches is now out on the deck. It’s only when you feel the cool ocean breeze coming in that you realize this room is now a large, open-air patio.

The entire Warren seems to be gathered in the adjoining dining room, seated at the tables arranged in four long rows. Mostly empty platters of sandwiches and crumpled chip and cookie bags are scattered in front of them. They’re quiet. Subdued. It’s not just that they’ve worn themselves out fighting the guards and wrecking the fence. It’s Kelsey. She wasn’t a wabbit, but she was part of The Warren nevertheless. They’re mourning her, too.

Behind the wall in my head, I feel the hitchers move forward, scanning the tables, looking for people they know. The Furies were also part of this family.

“Where is Ein?” I ask Aaron. Normally, he’d be hanging out near one of the tables, begging for crusts. But I don’t see him.

“He’s in the rec room with the two injured kids. Miranda has Peyton and TJ back there, plus a couple others who are still a little young to be . . . useful.”

The older adepts cluster at one table—Maria and her friend Pavla, Stan with a guy who must be his brother, Harv. Taylor, Daniel, and Deo are there, too, seated a little away from the others.

They all look up when we enter. In this house with no secrets, they must know I have an entire chorus in my head right now. Not only their former friends but also Graham Cregg. At least a few of them have known that for months. Certainly Maria did. Any shred of doubt I had on that point is erased when Maria’s eyes dart toward me, then quickly back down to the table, as soon as the thought enters my head.

Maria and Stan probably knew there was a good chance Ashley and Kelsey would die. It just didn’t serve the greater purpose of The Paths to tell me. A hot coal of anger builds inside me, but I fight it back. Not the time.

“Do we know when the Senator arrives?” I ask. “And how many people are at Bell Isle, total?”

Stan says, “Our best guess is that Cregg will arrive in about twenty minutes. The paths—” He jumps, and looks toward Maria. I think she kicked him. She knows I don’t want to hear about his damn paths right now.

“Four guards,” Maria says, “including Miller. He plays like he is not working for Senator, but Dacia knows. Her guys took his weapons. Dacia is also there now. Sophie, Lily, Caleb, and one other adept. The girl Dacia brought who can push minds like sexy Fudd over there. Magda and her daughters. The nurses, Dr. Batra. So . . . fewer than we fought here, and not so many guns.”

“For now.” I start to tell her about the picture vision I got earlier, but she holds up one hand.

“I already tell them. Your walls are flimsy now. I pick this bit up from earlier, before you and Taylor go . . .” Maria stops, looking like she’s about to cry. “Our two Fivers see them, too. Jeeps. Soldiers.”

A couple of boys at the table across from us exchange a look. One of them is the kid who asked the question at Maria’s meeting last week about whether any of the adepts were forced to come here. “Okay, I get that this Senator is crazy. But I don’t believe soldiers are actually going to hurt us. Most of our parents served in the Army.”

“Maybe they got orders,” one of the girls says. “They have to follow orders.”

“Not illegal orders. And killing a bunch of civilians, even ones like us who are different, is an illegal order. Most soldiers won’t do it. My father wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t give that order to his men, either.”

I look over at Daniel with a question in my eyes. Is that Smith’s son? But it’s clear he doesn’t know.

“Can you read the people at Magda’s house?” I ask Maria. “Maybe with a boost from Deo?”

“Very little. Sophie is blocking. Or . . . maybe not Sophie. Maybe there is other blocker. Maybe the ugly sex bear. Maybe Miller. They both stink like the new kids at The Warren. The smell that burns . . . the . . . nose.”

Aaron’s arm tightens around my waist, and he glances toward the deck. Maria looks in that direction, too. The dunes make it hard to see from this angle, but headlights are illuminating that section of beach. And they’re stopped in front of Bell Isle.

Stan’s paths seem to be off by about eighteen minutes. I turn to Taylor. “Get your best people and let’s go.”

“No,” Maria says softly. “You can be mad at me later, Anna. But I am second-in-command, not Taylor. I am never the general as you joke to others. Stan tells me since before you rescue us from the silo place that every path where we win, you are general. But almost every path where we lose, you are general, too . . . so don’t think you are so big shot.” She gives me a sad smile, then calls out, “Teams Alpha, Beta, and Psi. Go. Everyone else, to defense stations. Jasper and Pavla, take the other vans. Sexy Fudd, you are my driver.”

“I have a name,” Daniel says.

Four of the older kids, including Taylor, head to the far end of the room and pick up weapons. Others grab protective gear, most of which is too large for them and all of which is stamped Vigilance Security, from another pile. A few take up positions here in the great room. The majority of them, however, head down to the second floor. Every room on that floor has a view of the beach, and most have a glass door leading to the deck.

“I’m reading seven people,” Maria says. “Senator is in one jeep. Other jeep is Dalton’s father. The Army man who came here before. Five more people I don’t know.”

Daniel, Maria, Taylor, and I head toward the elevator. I expect Aaron to follow, but he holds back. “I’m on defense, babe. I know my limits. Here, I may be able to pick up something in time for us to act. But put me in the middle of a conflict between Dacia and the Senator, with everyone wanting to murder everyone else, and I’ll be useless. I love you. Please be careful.”

“I love you, too.”

One much-too-short kiss later, I hurry to the stairs.

“So,” I ask as we pile into the van, “am I the only one who didn’t know Maria thinks I’m leading this show?”

Taylor snorts. “God no. If they’d told me that part, do you really think I’d have agreed?”

Daniel doesn’t answer, but he wasn’t here during their training sessions and is therefore in the dark about everything. Deo also doesn’t answer, but he was here. So I ask again.

He sighs. “They never gave me details. But she did say a few times that you and I were central to the plan. I didn’t know you’d be turning into a psychic version of Ben 10, though. I thought it was about the visions, since yours are the only ones with any clarity or certainty. Did you get anything?”

I don’t have time to respond, because Maria gets in the front passenger seat and yells, “Go, go! Follow the others to back road, then turn around and drive along Magda’s fence toward shore. It will hide us.” Then she turns to those of us in the back. “Okay. Intelligence brief. Two men are already sneaking around behind Sandalford. But we have people waiting. So if you hear a crashing noise, maybe a fire alarm, just ignore. Anyway, Senator is bringing the money Dacia is so angry about. He is very worried right now because on verge of big political deal. He gives Dacia the money so she goes away, but . . . he won’t let her keep it because he is kokot. And he won’t let her keep Sophie as blocker. Dacia does not trust. There will be fight.”

Daniel turns toward the shore when we reach the edge of the fence, but the other two vans keep driving down the rough path that runs behind Sandalford and Bell Isle. Taylor tells him this is her stop. She grabs a rifle, then leans forward to kiss Deo.

“Stay safe. See you guys soon.” Then she disappears around the fence with one of the older adepts.

“Where’s she going?” I ask.

“Sniper duty, apparently,” Daniel says. “Although it’s the first I’m hearing of it.”

“Because you are not in chain of command,” Maria says. “We could not practice with guns before. So we only have six who say they can already shoot. Taylor’s psychic stuff is no help here, and she tells me she is damn good with gun. So Taylor is sniper.”

“She is damn good,” Daniel says. “I taught her. Doesn’t mean I want her out there. And where are the other vans going?”

“They’ll unload most of the adepts into the woods,” Deo says, “and then keep driving as decoys. Hopefully if Smith brought backup, they’ll see the vans, think wabbits are escaping, and give chase.”

Maria rolls down the passenger-side window and is still for a moment. “Our lookout says Dacia is getting in van with Caleb, Sophie and baby, Miller, and two of her bears. We will hear van start.”

Right on cue, an engine cranks.

“Go,” she says. “But stop before end of the fence.”

“And then?” Daniel asks.

I field this question. “Then I get out so Graham Cregg can have a little chat with his father. None of them knows I’ve picked up the Furies or Penelope Cregg. I stand the best chance of getting close enough to grab Caleb when the opportunity arises. And he’ll come with me because of Ashley.”

“I thought we had to get inside Magda’s house,” Deo says. “You had that vision from inside Bell Isle.”

“That’s what I thought, too. But it’s more like remote viewing—a glimpse of the future through someone else’s eyes.”

“We’re coming with you, though. Right?” Daniel says.

“No. This is just me and Deo. He’s the other one they want, and . . . too many of us will spook them. And I think you’re right that it would be better if Smith doesn’t know you’ve been influencing him. You need to be our last resort.”

“She is right. Stan says . . .” Maria stops, catching my expression and says, “I am sorry, Anna, but Stan has helped us too. He did not hurt anyone, and I will not let you blame him. His paths helped bring us here. And he says in the only path where we make it to the happy place, Daniel stays quiet until the battle ends. If you step in and shove the soldier man around, Daniel, we may live, but we will be in cages. I don’t like cages.”

I exchange a look with Daniel. When he was my hitcher, the close space tormented him. That was part of his frustration during rehab from the coma, too. Deo has never been caged in a hospital like I have, but he and I both have lived in too many houses with bars on the windows. So, no cages is one point on which all of us can agree.

My plan is to stay back far enough that Sophie or Miller or whoever is blocking shouldn’t keep us from communicating with Maria. I know Sophie’s range, but not knowing for sure who’s the blocker has me worried. You’d think the temporary serum Miller and maybe this other guy were given would be weaker. But I suppose it could also be one of those things where you burn bright until your flame dies.

As we move toward the beach, Deo asks again what I saw in the vision. I debate for a moment, then decide it might help him, too.

“It was blurry and short. Maybe because of Maggie. The vision kept cutting in and out, but the whole thing was you and Aaron. Walking toward me. When you get closer, I saw that you were sprinkling Kelsey’s ashes. So the three of us, at least, are safe. I don’t know about Taylor or Daniel or anyone else. I wish I did. But you, me, and Aaron will be on this beach together soon.”

“Why weren’t you sprinkling Kelsey’s ashes, too?”

“I was. I mean, I was there. Maybe it was your turn?”

He nods and gives me a shaky smile. “Okay, Short Stuff. Let’s do this.”

As we approach the shore, I hear the other engines idling on the beach. And I hear Dacia. Her voice is higher, carrying over the roar of the surf. Plus, I’m pretty sure she’s yelling.

One of the men standing near the jeeps yanks his gun toward us as soon as we round the corner of the fence that surrounds Bell Isle. Deo curses softly. I echo the sentiment in my head, and we both raise our hands.

“No weapons,” Deo says. “We’re here to talk.”

Another of the Senator’s guards keeps his gun trained on Dacia. Ugly Bear has his gun pointed at the Senator. What a fun little standoff we’ve strolled into. It occurs to me that all of this could be solved if Daniel could just get a suggestion through to the two bodyguards. Are they really worth it? Let’s both shoot on the count of three, and go grab a beer.

Dacia stands a step away from the van door, clearly trying to stay within Sophie’s range. She holds Caleb clumsily in front of her. His head lolls against her chest, but he’s moving fitfully and rubbing at his eyes. Maybe she intends him as a shield, but her head seems the more likely target for the Senator’s guard.

Sophie sits in the van a few feet away from Dacia, holding Lily. Another girl is in the row of seats behind them. I don’t recognize her face, but she’s about the same height as the little bear who manipulated the guards at Oak Ridge.

“Oh, man,” Deo whispers. “Get a load of Miller.”

Miller stands on the other side of the vehicle, although stands is far too generous a word, given how heavily he’s leaning against the frame. The glow of the headlights makes everyone look sickly, but Miller looks like death on toast.

Once again, I have the odd sense of being only mostly in control of my body as I walk a few steps forward. “The boy is right. We’re unarmed and we’re not looking for a fight, Ronald. Just the little talk we didn’t get around to before I shuffled off this mortal coil.”

Senator Cregg, who is standing behind the open door of one of the jeeps, bristles at the sneering use of his first name, and bristles again at the quote. But when he notices Colonel Smith watching him, his smooth politician’s face slides back into place.

“Anna. I’ve been looking forward to—”

“Oh, shut up, you fat fraud.” Dacia gives me a death stare over her shoulder before looking back at Cregg. “Give me the money you stole so I can go. Then you can do family reunioning with your psycho son and go back to your politics.”

“What a terrible era in which idiots govern the blind.” I speak the quote so softly that I doubt anyone hears it aside from Deo. But Dacia and the Senator would probably have ignored the comment anyway. They’re totally locked on to their dispute.

“The money is here,” Senator Cregg says. “But the terms we agreed upon are that you leave all of the adepts here, including that blocker in your van.”

“This man can block, too,” Dacia says, pointing at Miller. “I did not say which blocker I was leaving.”

“Him? He’s half dead!”

Miller looks up but apparently lacks the energy to contradict the point.

“Blame your stupid drug. And if he dies, you have other blocker anyway—the girl at the big house. Sophie goes with me. Send with me one of your men, and I will leave them Caleb, but he is with me until we are safe away from here. My insurance. This boy blew the windows from that house today when someone threatened me.”

“What a liar,” Deo says under his breath.

I don’t think she could have heard his words, but she nods toward Deo. “And there is your amp. So you collect all the toys you want for your army. You can give the others your cure, and everybody has happy ending. Well, unless they have reaction like this one.” She nods her head toward Miller.

The Senator is watching me now, instead of Dacia. I’m not sure why until he yells for me to start walking. “That one needs to be moving at all times,” he tells the guard who is covering us. “If she stops, shoot.”

The other jeep opens and Smith gets out. “Belay that order. The adepts are to be placed in my custody. So is Pfeifer. That’s the agreement. And I think we’re going to have to track most of them down. I’ve just gotten a report that two of your security vans are headed south toward Corolla. I have a car in pursuit, but you need to resolve this standoff. Give her half now and wire the rest when we get the kid back.”

“Not half,” Dacia says. “Three-quarters now.”

Cregg considers the offer and huffs. “Give it to me,” he says to someone still inside the jeep. He unzips a small duffel and shows Dacia the contents. Then he removes about a dozen stacks of bills from the case and tosses them into the jeep while Dacia keeps a careful eye on the process. Caleb squirms again, and she huffs, tightening her grip on the boy.

Miller has been in my line of sight each time I looked toward Dacia, but he’s no longer slouching against the van. He must have gotten back into the vehicle. Either that or he’s passed out on the ground.

“Happy?” Cregg asks Dacia. “It might even be eighty percent.” He hands the case to one of the guards. “Go with her. Call to let us know where to pick you up.”

“No weapons. And turn out your pockets.” This comment is from Ugly Bear, the first time he’s spoken. The guard with the duffel reluctantly removes his gun belt and empties his pockets.

“She’ll kill both of them,” I say, not looking at Dacia or the Senator but directly at Smith. “Or sell the kid to the highest bidder.” I hate saying the words when Caleb is half awake, but I can’t let her get him into that van.

Dacia spins toward me, yelling something in Romanian.

I don’t see the pistol she’s pointing at me until she fires.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Carova Beach, North Carolina

April 28, 2020, 9:31 p.m.

The bullet goes wide, missing me. Missing Deo. It was aimed right at me, so I don’t know why the shot was so off. Then Caleb slips from Dacia’s grasp, and she crumples face-first into the sand, revealing Sophie holding the small silver pistol Taylor gave her earlier tonight. Dacia’s guards would have checked her for weapons, so Sophie must have hidden it in the diaper bag.

Ugly Bear has vanished, too, so I rush forward to Caleb, veering away from Dacia out of instinct. One look at the back of her head, though, and I know she’s dead. As I bend down to grab Caleb, I see two dark lumps on the other side of the van. Miller and Ugly Bear. I’m not sure if it was Taylor or the other sniper wabbit, but someone is damn good with a rifle.

I give Sophie a silent look of thanks and lay Caleb on the floorboard next to Lily, who is wailing. A gun blast in that close space had to have been terrifyingly loud.

Deo hasn’t moved. He looks a little stunned, and I walk toward him.

“Well,” the Senator says. “That was . . . intense, wasn’t it? Mrs. Bell has some excellent snipers on her security team. Colonel Smith, perhaps your men can handle this now?”

“No,” I say. “This isn’t over. That guy you called half dead a minute ago was having a reaction to the blocker serum. My brother had a similar reaction to the amp serum. This flu that has been spreading around the country—coincidentally in states where you won the Unify America primary—is also due to the drug. The primary researcher for the program is convinced that it could cause permanent damage to second-generation adepts like me. Some of the adepts would love a cure, but not one that could kill them. And we won’t let you force it on the ones who don’t want it. The ones who just want to be left alone.”

Smith glances over my shoulder, a look of grim recognition on his face. Probably Daniel. I’m about to turn and confirm this, but then movement along the dunes beyond the jeeps catches my attention. Now that the standoff has ended, all eyes, all guns, are pointed this way.

And one by one, the wabbits are creeping out of the woods.

“We’re not planning to force anyone,” Smith says. “I’ll be taking all of you to a secure facility where we will administer the cure, but only once it has passed all safety protocols. Surely you know that the adepts can’t remain here. This was always a temporary solution. Magda Bell wants her daughters to be given the treatment. Other parents have . . . also . . .”

He sniffs. I smell it too. Burning rubber. One of the guards moves away from the jeep and drops into the sand, patting his pants leg, which isn’t quite on fire but is definitely smoking. And then all eight jeep tires burst into flames.

A wet plank, no doubt a remnant from the hated fence around the Sandalford warren, whirls across the sand like a propeller blade, clipping the Senator in the ankle. Shells, sand, and assorted debris rise up from the beach, hover, and then dart like a swarm of bees toward Smith and the guards, who raise their arms to cover their faces.

Two shots ring out, and then a command booms through the night so loud that I cover my ears. It’s an automatic reaction, and pointless, since the sound is in my mind.

DROP YOUR GUNS! HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEADS AND FREEZE.

The voice is high, reedy, and frightened. Familiar but definitely not Daniel Quinn.

My hands, already raised to cover my ears, quickly slide into place and clasp behind my head. So do Colonel Smith’s. The guard who was ordered to go with Dacia now has not just his hands, but also the duffel bag, behind his head. Every guard but one complies.

Every wabbit on the beach is also standing stock-still, hands behind their heads. Senator Cregg must be unarmed, because like me and the duffel guard, he only follows the last half of the order.

The guard standing next to the Senator seems unaffected, however. He’s still pointing his gun at me, or maybe behind me, as he speaks into a cell phone.

Someone behind me sighs. Then she sends a second mind blast.

EXCEPT WABBITS. YOU CAN . . . MOVE. AND PICK UP YOUR GUNS IF YOU HAVE THEM.

Oddly, it’s the girl’s sigh that I recognize more than the voice, the same little huff she gave in Dacia’s video when she mispronounced a word in the note to the guards. I didn’t even hear her moving toward us. Maria was right. The girl is more wabbit than bear, and she moved next to Deo to be sure her words were properly amplified.

“These are parlor tricks, Anna.” The Senator flashes me a malicious smile. “And we can play, too. You’re outgunned, outmanned, and definitely outmaneuvered. Do you think this is all the force that we can bring to bear against you? If you’ve been listening to my son, remember that he’s been insane since birth. I let him keep his pets and run his little science experiments to humor him, hoping we’d find something the military could use. And we did. I think they’ll find you and a few of your friends very useful. Those who can’t be employed will take the cure we’re offering and have a chance at normal lives. The only alternative you offer them is a life cut tragically short.”

Maria’s voice fills my head, at a volume much lower than Little Bear. The volume is even low for Maria, and there’s an underlying note of panic.

More weapons. Five more jeeps coming. Go back to home base!

Many of the kids obey instantly, clambering back into the woods or across the dunes toward Sandalford. Others, mostly the older adepts, hold their position at both edges of the fence. Colonel Smith’s eyes keep moving in that direction. When I glance back, I see his son, Dalton, standing with the others.

And then, just as Maria said, headlights appear down the shore. I’m angry at myself for standing here, listening to the Senator ramble on when we were facing just the one guard who was resistant to Little Bear’s nudge. Maybe Daniel could have stepped in, pushed him harder.

But I know that would only have delayed the inevitable. It’s five jeeps now, but it could be fifty within a few hours. At some point, we have to show them we will not be bullied.

The only person on this beach I have any desire to hurt is the Senator. And maybe that resistant guard just a little bit, because his smirk is pissing me off. I don’t want to hurt the people in those approaching vehicles. But I can’t let them hurt these kids. If they will not deal fairly with us out of compassion, then I will make them deal fairly with us out of respect.

“Why didn’t that one drop his gun?” Little Bear asks. “Is Maria okay?”

That second question alarms me, because I’m unsure why she’s asking. My answer is the same for both, however.

“I don’t know. But he’s going to drop it in just a minute. And when he does, I want you to run back to the van, okay? Deo, stay close.”

“Right behind you.”

The guard may be resistant to psychic force, but he is not immune to physics. I send a chunk of wood toward his temple, but before it connects, a second object—a shell, maybe?—knocks the gun from his hands with such force that it flies out over the ocean. I don’t know what the second object is because I didn’t throw it. The gun splashes into the water at almost the same instant that the man topples over onto the sand.

That gets the Senator’s attention. Smith is looking beyond me, however, toward the line of adepts standing with his son.

I’m not done. Let’s see how they like these parlor tricks.

One small shove, and the jeep closest to the shoreline flips twice, landing upside down. The money the Senator tossed onto the seat drops to the sand, and waves begin lapping at the stacks of bills. A second flick of my hand, and the other jeep rolls backward like some invisible driver has shifted into reverse and floored the pedal. The back end lodges into a sand dune about fifty yards away, and the vehicle pops an extreme wheelie and lands on its back, the still-smoking tires spinning in the air.

A waterspout is now approaching the shore. Caleb is sitting up, his legs hanging over the edge of the van. His funnel rises out of the ocean and spins lazily for a few seconds before traveling toward the toppled jeep. The wind picks up, sending drops of seawater toward us like horizontal rain, as the water churns and spins, taking the jeep and the money out to sea.

But the headlights are still rolling this way, close enough now that I can tell there are indeed five sets. I focus on the sand in front of the jeeps’ lights and shove downward. The sand buckles and rises into a sand berm high enough that I can no longer see the headlights, and seawater rushes in to fill the gully. If they come at us now, it will be on foot and through water.

Colonel Smith surveys the damage and says, “Anna, you’re only making this more difficult. I don’t like the situation either. But I have orders, and if I don’t follow them, they’ll just send someone else. Someone who might not be averse to mistreating these kids. This is not a battle you can win.”

From behind me, Dalton Smith screams, “You’re talking about putting us in a cage! Locking us up. How is that not mistreating us?”

He says us each time, even though I’m sure he knows that his father can find a way to remove this cup from his own son. Dalton was sent here for his protection, after all, and rank has its privileges. But the fact that Dalton has chosen to cast his lot with his fellow adepts is not lost on the Colonel. I can’t tell if he’s angry or proud. Maybe both.

“You are being dangerously naive,” Senator Cregg says. “Those men you just blockaded have already called for support. Helicopters will arrive within the hour. Even if you’re willing to risk your own life, do you want these other lives on your conscience? Because if you fight us, many of these children will die, Anna. And it will be your fault.”

Those last two words are a tripwire.

“NOT MY FAULT!” My mouth screams the words, but they’re not mine. “I didn’t make her do anything. You shoved her out that window. You!”

In the part of my brain occupied by Graham Cregg, a young boy who once stood on a patio with his mother’s broken body at his feet panics as his collar tightens around his throat and he’s lifted off the ground. And the part of my brain occupied by Penelope Cregg, whose spirit could only watch helplessly while her son was manipulated and abused, dissolves into a wall of white-hot rage.

Her anger combines with the rest of my hitchers—all Furies now—and launches like an arrow with pinpoint accuracy toward Ronald Cregg, who seems to realize he’s made a grave miscalculation. Perhaps he notices a slightly different light in my eyes, a light that reminds him of his late wife. Whatever the reason, Cregg starts screaming several seconds before the others. Several seconds before almost everyone on that beach, including me, receives an up-close-and-personal visit of their own worst nightmare.

I don’t know what Ronald Cregg’s imagination conjured up in that moment. His heart was sixty-eight years old and not in the best of shape, so he will never tell us. I like to think, however, that he saw the same thing I did the first time Penelope Cregg took me on a bad trip. I like to think he saw a giant spider-rat with human hands. And I like to think that’s what he still sees in his nightmares, wherever in hell he may be.

Carova Beach, North Carolina

April 29, 2020, 11:16 a.m.

Two emotions are at war in my head today. One is an emptiness that extends to my very core. The part of my heart that connected me to Kelsey is a raw, gaping wound utterly at odds with another emotion—an almost overwhelming sense of relief.

Aaron lies beside me, still sleeping. Deo and Taylor are somewhere in this vast house, unharmed, probably with Ein stretched out between them, happy that his mom and dad are home. Not a single wabbit was killed on the shore last night, and none are in cages. No fence surrounds Sandalford now. We’re even down a few glass walls.

The relief is also because I have only one hitcher inside my head this morning. The Furies are gone. If any remained on that beach last night, I could not sense them. Their desire for justice or maybe even vengeance must have been the one thread that tethered them here. I don’t know what that says about their final destination, but I will not judge them.

A part of me continues to judge Graham Cregg, however. If hell exists, I suspect he’s there. But perhaps it’s only a minor hell, because I don’t think he’s there alone. Whether or not Penelope Cregg earned that fireside seat, I believe she’s there with him, gladly enduring fire and brimstone to be with her child, as many parents do.

The one hitcher who remains already feels faint. I know Ashley is mostly here to help ease the transition for Caleb, but I think there’s a little something else holding her back, too. Something she needs before she can move on.

My mom is right back where she wants to be—with my dad, enduring the shared pain of a shattered leg and probably making plans for a trip to Colorado to visit my aunt when all of this is over and my father is, hopefully, free to travel. When I asked her what she needed in order to move on, she said she has everything she needs and she’ll move on when my father does. ’Til death do us part. Or not, I guess. It isn’t exactly a traditional marriage, but hey, it’s lasted fifteen years.

I’m a little nervous about the four new file cabinets inside my mind office, though. Graham. Penelope. One marked simply The Furies. They shared a name, and apparently, they’re willing to share a filing system. But the one that looms largest is marked Myron. None of the cabinets are behind a wall, or under lock and key, but Myron’s is still wrapped in several layers of duct tape. Baby steps.

I don’t know if I’ll inherit all of my former hitchers’ abilities. Part of me hopes I don’t, and it’s not something I’m going to test today. But I’ll handle all of their exit dreams gladly. They’re not real. And none of them will hurt as much as the nightmare I faced on the beach last night.

If I’d known what was happening, I might have tried to rein it in. Not to spare Senator Cregg. Not even to spare Colonel Smith or the guards, because they needed a wake-up call. But there were still dozens of kids on the beach. Deo, too. Taylor says there was a moment of sheer, unbridled panic at Bell Isle, where she and the rest of Team Beta had secured Magda and her few remaining guards.

Even at Sandalford, Aaron said he was convinced for a split second that the entire beach was engulfed in flames and he couldn’t get there to save us. It’s not the same nightmare he faced last time, but your worst fears can change. I know, because mine changed, too.

There was no spider-rat this time. Instead, I’m holding Kelsey’s body in the doorway of the house on Crane Road. Her spirit is somewhere. I can hear her, sobbing. But I can’t find her. I can’t help.

Only four people escaped Penelope Cregg’s Magical Misery Tour—Sophie, Lily, Caleb, and Little Bear, whose actual name is Abby. Maria and Daniel escaped the worst of it, since they were in the back of Bell Isle with Dr. Batra and one of the nurses. Daniel says Maria wouldn’t have been alive if the medical team hadn’t been there to stabilize her.

And Maria is the only reason that Abby left the van. Maria couldn’t get a message through the block, so she crept around the fence, over the bodies of Miller and Ugly Bear, and told Abby that no one blamed her. That the wabbits all knew someone who wound up with the Senator and Dacia through no choice of their own. Most of all, Maria convinced Abby that she was needed, and like Dalton Smith, she chose to lend us her voice.

The bullet caught Maria in the side on her way back to the van, seconds before Abby disarmed all but that one stubborn guard.

Senator Cregg spoke one true thing just before his final words. Helicopters arrived within the hour—one of them to medevac Maria, my father, and three wounded guards to the nearest military hospital and one to carry away the bodies.

Not Kelsey’s, though. I strongly suspect most of the people who died last night in front of Bell Isle will be disposed of without ceremony. But Kelsey has a family who loved her. In fact, she has two families. One by blood, and one by choice.

Aaron’s mom called this morning to say she’ll contact Kelsey’s family. I protested that it wasn’t fair for her to take on such a sad task, but she wanted to help. She said it was one thing that she could do, one thing that her overprotective children would let her do, and so I agreed. Deo and I have never spoken to Kelsey’s family, and I don’t know how much Kelsey told them about us. But she must have told them something, because Deo will eventually be holding the blue velvet pouch of ashes that I saw in my vision.

When Aaron wakes, we pull on semi-clean clothes and go to the rec room. Taylor is already there. We’re supposed to have a video conference with Colonel Smith at noon to iron out the details of the tentative agreement we reached last night on the beach, after everyone recovered from their waking nightmare.

“Is Deo still asleep?” I ask.

“No. He said he needed some time alone. And maybe he does, but . . . I think it’s more he just didn’t want to deal with this meeting. I would have put it off, but there’s a lot that has to be decided.”

I’m of a similar mind to Deo, so I tell her I’ll go look for him. Not that I actually have to look. I know where he’ll be.

When I get to Kelsey’s office, I tap on the door and then push it open.

Deo is sitting on the carpet, with Ein next to him. His eyes are dry, but yesterday’s purple eyeliner is even more streaked than it was last night.

“Can I come in?”

He gives me a duh look, and I join him on the floor. Ein gives me a feeble tail thump in greeting. Does he sense what happened? Or is he miserable only because we are?

“I didn’t want to be around anyone else yet,” Deo says. “So I thought I’d come in here and sit where I usually sit and it would be like talking to her, you know? And then when I got here, I couldn’t sit in my chair. It just felt wrong without her here.”

“I know.”

“Taylor wanted me to go to the meeting. Thought it might help . . . distract me. But I’ve heard all about it from her anyway. She gets into this stuff, all of the politics and the strategies, but I don’t really want to look at how the sausage is made. At least not right now. Does that make sense? I want someone to fix it. To make things right, but . . . this part? Kelsey? That can’t be fixed.”

We sit there silently, each scratching behind one of Ein’s long brown ears.

“Kelsey wasn’t still . . . there . . . when you found her body. Did your dad pick her up?”

“No. I asked. And I couldn’t find her. So . . . I guess she moved on. At least, I hope she did.”

“She was murdered and she didn’t know we were okay. Didn’t know her other patients were okay. Does that sound like someone who could instantly move on? I mean, I hope she did, but it doesn’t fit to me.”

It doesn’t fit to me, either. All I can think of is my nightmare on the beach, but sharing that won’t help Deo right now.

“I checked the house on Crane Road, D. Before I went to bed last night, I also checked in here and in her room. I’ll keep checking, but maybe she was able to let go without answers.”

We sit there for few minutes longer, and then he gets up. “Taylor was right. I need a distraction.”

So we join the meeting, already in progress.

“It’s not like we’re asking for the West Coast,” Daniel says. “We’re not even asking for a state or a city. And don’t pretend the government is giving us anything out of generosity, because you’re getting a lot out of this bargain. There may be minor stuff we haven’t thought of, so don’t hold me to this until it’s in writing, but we have three major requirements. First, no adept will be forced to work without his or her consent. If it’s physically dangerous or violates their moral code or they just don’t want to do it, they can opt out. Second, no adept will be forcibly medicated, unless it’s for his or her own safety. That includes this so-called cure. Third, we need a safe space that isn’t a damned prison. The adepts aren’t criminals, and we’re not going to allow them to be treated that way. Those who want to live in the larger society will be allowed to do so as long as they do not draw attention or use their abilities in an illegal or unethical way.”

“That last bit will be hard as hell to enforce.” Smith’s face is tired and drawn. “One option for the safe space would be the Brushy Mountain facili—”

Taylor says, “Which is a prison. We tell you no prison, and the first option you mention is a prison.”

“My point,” Smith says, “was that we could renovate it. It’s isolated and secure.”

“It’s the secure part that’s troubling,” Daniel says. “Secure for whom? But here’s one option. There’s a huge expanse of public land to the north of us, just across the Virginia line. It’s definitely isolated. It gets a handful of hikers, but that’s it, because there are no roads.”

“And it would require more paperwork than you can imagine.”

Taylor smiles sweetly. “So . . . how much public land has been sold to private buyers by this administration? They’ll find a way.”

I’m not sure whether the sound that Smith makes is a huff or a laugh. “Listen, we don’t have to work everything out today. As long as Daniel and Pfeifer are both willing to testify on the agreed points, the administration seems to think they can make this fly. Their key concern is whether all the formulas that were distributed illegally really were the temporary variety. Because if they weren’t, and if we have a whole new crop of adepts out there, no agreement is going to last.”

“They were all either temporary formulas or the blocker,” I say. “My guess is that Dacia and Lucas were planning to wait and sell the permanent variety to governments. But that takes longer to set up, and they’d have been much more credible once they’d stirred up a solid panic.”

Colonel Smith seems a little unnerved by my presence, which is both totally understandable after what he saw me do on the beach last night and also amusing, since we’re on Skype. Although I guess the fact that his son is under the same roof as me, at Dalton’s insistence, might make him a bit nervous, too.

My mind keeps straying back into my grief each time something reminds me of Kelsey. When Smith mentions sending in new staff, including a counselor. When he mentions that Magda Bell is returning to London today, with her girls and a very questionable “cure.” There’s nothing Smith could do aside from warning her that it could harm the girls. They’re her daughters, and not even US citizens. Even though I know Smith is right, it still makes me uneasy. It would make Kelsey uneasy, too.

The topic has changed when I tune back in, and I realize with something close to amazement that the administration is seriously planning to spin the past few months as a massive hoax perpetrated by Senator Cregg. And yes, it was, in one sense, but . . .

“They think they can sell it,” Smith says. “With some cut-and-paste work, and your testimony. They’ve fed three major news outlets pieces of information from the documents you sent over last night, so we’ve already got evidence of a conspiracy. All they have to do now is piece together a confession to match the evidence. The Senator was a publicity whore, we all know that. There are hundreds of hours of that man talking into a camera. And they’ll have a body—”

“Which died of natural causes,” Deo says. “Okay, not natural natural, but not suicide.”

“Pfft.” Taylor waves her hand dismissively. “That part will be a piece of cake. I think the bigger issue is going to be convincing people they didn’t see what they think they saw. Not the taped stuff, but the ones who actually saw their neighbor set something on fire without striking a match.”

“There weren’t that many, though,” Smith says. “The serum only worked on those who had underlying abilities. It made more people angry than psychic, and more people sick than angry. We don’t have to convince them all, anyway. Just most. And . . . we’ve got people pushing the LSD-in-the-water-supply angle on social media.”

“Could that really work?” Aaron asks.

“They’re saying it’s a new variety of LSD, several thousand times as potent, and that the government is trying to cover it up because . . . some reason.” Smith gives him a grim smile. “Depends on how many idiots out there retweet it or send it to their cousin on Facebook. So . . . yeah, I think it will work.”

“PSYOP,” Daniel says. “Persuade, Change, Influence.”

“And retweet,” Taylor says. “Don’t forget that one.”

NEWS ITEM FROM THE WASHINGTON EXAMINER

May 2, 2020

A source close to the investigation reports that the death of Senator Ronald Cregg last week was due to an intentional overdose of fentanyl. This follows the release yesterday of a videotaped confession by Senator Cregg in which he confirmed leaked documents showing that the Delphi Project and the WOCAN terrorist threat was a hoax designed to help win his party’s nomination and, ultimately, the presidency.

Cregg’s family and sources within the campaign initially disputed the video, claiming it was faked. Jerrianne Cregg held a press conference earlier today, however, to confirm that her husband was under considerable stress and may have exaggerated some aspects of the program. She does not, however, believe allegations that Cregg or anyone connected to him was involved in drugging the water supply in cities visited during the campaign.

Federal authorities stress that there is no evidence to support the claim that any terrorist group has contaminated water supplies within the United States.

EPILOGUE

Carova Beach, North Carolina

July 13, 2020, 2:21 p.m.

Aaron slows the truck as we pass the two beach houses, both with large For Sale signs out front. The sign at Sandalford is in almost the same spot as when I first saw the place last November. The windows have been repaired, along with the assorted scorch marks on the walls. Magda is, of course, determined to make a profit on the place, so the price is several hundred thousand dollars above what she paid.

I don’t walk, or even run, along this stretch of beach. There are ghosts here, just not the one I’m seeking. And so we’ve picked a spot a bit farther up to do this, a spot where Kelsey used to walk with some of the younger adepts to collect shells.

We’re not expecting to find her there. I checked the location long ago. But Deo decided earlier this week that it’s time. He needs the closure. Maybe we both do. I still have the dream where I’m searching for her spirit. It’s my one recurring actual dream mixed in with a regular rotation of exit dreams from my recently departed hitchers.

It’s now been over two months since Kelsey’s daughter placed the dark-blue pouch in my hand at the memorial service and asked if we would sprinkle the ashes near the pier at North Beach where Kelsey and her sister used to go fishing. She asked us in part because they were flying back to Indianapolis that night, but also because Deo and I now own Kelsey’s house at North Beach.

When we learned Kelsey had left the place to us in her will, we felt like thieves. It should go to her family. But her children and grandchildren all assured us that Kelsey had told them she was changing her will when she petitioned the state for legal guardianship of Deo. It was only a small part of her estate, and they supported her decision. Other people might have been suspicious, but Kelsey’s children seem to have inherited her generous nature. If they resented her bequest to us in any way, they hid it remarkably well.

And so Kelsey’s last gift to us was the one thing I’ve never really had—a place to call home. Deo and I both thought perhaps we’d find her spirit there on that fishing pier. I ran my hand over the boards at the end of that pier over and over, but the only thing I picked up was splinters. Kelsey wasn’t on the fishing pier. Not at the beach house either. Those are places she was happy, but none of them was her last happy place.

We saved the last of her ashes to sprinkle here. Sandalford wasn’t Kelsey’s last happy place either, but it was her last helpful place. A place where she felt needed, and that’s a kind of happiness all its own.

There are also some ashes mixed with the sand about eight miles up the coast, where construction has begun on the new Warren. I wanted Kelsey to be part of that. The adepts have been there for the past two months, in temporary buildings. Roughly twenty acres are now classified top secret. Satellite photos of the area will not show the buildings under construction, which are designed to blend into the terrain. We’ve flown into the area on several occasions, and the location is hard to spot.

A narrow strip of beach remains open to anyone who wants to make the trek into North Carolina on foot, but large red-and-white signs are posted along the tree line: Warning No Trespassing Restricted Area. Some who’ve made the hike recently may have noticed that odd things tend to happen along that stretch of beach. Waterspouts have been known to emerge out of nowhere. You might feel a faint brush across your forehead, like a feather or a spiderweb. And in the midst of the quiet sounds of nature, you may hear a giggle and someone saying you have a nice zadek.

Maria held a meeting just before the private groundbreaking ceremony to vote on a new name for the place. There were three finalists, and I don’t even remember which was chosen, because everyone just calls it The Warren. That name will never have warm and fuzzy connotations for me, but to the adepts who lived there, it was never about the building. It was certainly never about the Fudds or Graham Cregg or the endless tests. The Warren was their community, their sense of belonging. And if calling it The Warren will help the wabbits hold on to that, it doesn’t matter what it’s named on paper.

Taylor and Daniel should be here with us today. It only seems right. But Deo didn’t want to put this off any longer, and they’re both really busy. They spent weeks preparing for Daniel’s testimony where he acknowledged leaking the files that he found while working at Python Diagnostic, all of which incriminated Senator Cregg in the Delphi hoax. My father’s testimony was even trickier because he had to admit to lying in his previous appearance before Congress. That’s technically a felony, and there was a lot of legal wrangling prior to his being guaranteed immunity in exchange for his help in exposing the conspiracy. He’s in DC for a few more weeks, but then he’s planning to spend a few months out in Colorado where his sister(-in-law) runs a small art gallery.

Pfeifer has been coming to North Beach on the weekends, and I’m gradually getting to know my parents. It’s hard, though. Like most abandoned kids, I spent the first part of my life wanting to find my family. That was my wish on each falling star and every birthday candle, and I grew a little more disillusioned each time it didn’t come true.

At some point, though, I realized that wish had come true. Deo and Kelsey were my family. And even though it’s not rational, even though I don’t really blame my parents for what’s happened, I can’t help but feel that some evil twist of fate made me trade Kelsey for them.

I’m hoping to join them in Colorado, at least for a short visit. My parents—both of them—are now convinced that Ro couldn’t help what happened. I get the feeling that there’s a lot they aren’t telling me, but the gist is that Rowena was seventeen and the decision was taken out of her hands. When she tried to find me later that year, she was told I was being adopted. A happy ending for me, or so she thought. She set aside the money my parents had left me and resolved to find me when I reached eighteen.

I think—I hope—that I’ll grow close to my new family in time. But they don’t feel like family yet. It’s not comfortable, like being with Deo and Aaron. Or, for that matter, with Daniel and Taylor.

Daniel began his new job with Homeland Security two weeks ago. He has an official title, which is pretty much meaningless, but his real job is liaison between the government and The Warren. I think he’s feeling a bit overwhelmed with the paperwork and the research, and he’s been relying on Taylor to help behind the scenes. Taylor is the detail person. Daniel is the salesman. He’s good at persuading people to see things his way.

The best thing about the job is that it allows him more time with Caleb, who shares one of the larger temporary huts with Sophie and Lily. Daniel isn’t willing to let the doctors at The Warren test the new treatment, Cerecyclo, on Caleb just yet. But they’re having some success with a moderate dose of risperidone. It’s easier for him to be around the other adepts now.

When we visited in early June, the first thing we saw was Caleb and Daniel sitting in one of those little kiddie pools together, laughing as Caleb levitated a big ball of water over Daniel’s head. That sight dissolved the last tether holding Ashley to this realm, and the next day she was gone.

Since then, Aaron and I have been happily, blissfully alone. And we’ve made exceptionally good use of our privacy.

Despite the diligent efforts of the government, I wasn’t sure that the hoax story would work. It was a huge scandal, and there were major holes in the story. Holes big enough to drive a tank through. The press prodded at those holes for a few weeks, and then they moved on to the next scandal. Because there’s always a next scandal.

As usual, the conspiracy sites protested that the public had been fooled. For once, they were right. And the little part of Bruno in me was thrilled to belong to the small select crowd who knows that it was all true.

The one thing that keeps suspicion about the Delphi Project just the tiniest bit alive is the occasional odd story that defies any quick or rational explanation. A carnival psychic who is a little too good. Reports of a five-foot-nothing woman shoving the moving van that is blocking her parking space into a streetlight. An eighteen-year-old stockbroker who’s having way too much success to be legit. That sort of stuff. And since it sometimes takes a psychic to catch a psychic, Taylor thinks it might be time to borrow the RV that Porter bought back from Magda and hit the road. Maybe paint some 1970s-style flowers on the side and call ourselves the New Scooby Gang.

I think she could be right.

But for now, we need to say good-bye. Deo is the last out when Aaron parks the truck. He’s in navy blue from hair to toe, even his eyeliner matching the velvet bag he’s holding. As usual, he makes me feel underdressed, but I’m used to it.

“Are you really ready to do this, D? Because we can wait. We’ll be visiting The Warren again at some point, and we can come back.”

“No. It’s time.”

And looking around, I think he’s correct. The beach looks right, the way I remember it from the vision. We’ve triggered that vision again, four times, and it’s always the same odd, choppy version. I don’t even think it’s sequential. Maybe Jaden’s visions are starting to fritz out. Or maybe Maggie’s blocking interfered with the signal initially and it’s like a recording—all you’ll ever see is what was captured the first go-around.

I hope it’s the latter. It would be nice to keep something of Jaden. I haven’t been willing to test whether I have any gifts from Penelope or Graham Cregg. Those aren’t abilities that I want. Daniel may be able to toe that line, and only nudge for truth, justice, and the American way, but I don’t need that sort of temptation. I do know, however, that the Furies left behind a little something extra. Just a tickle, really. I can’t rip up a coastline or flip a jeep over with a wave of my hand. But I could move the ball and the cup if I were to retake that original test back at The Warren. And if we wanted to toast marshmallows like we did that time with Kel . . . sey—

I stop and stare at the beach up ahead. It’s a good half mile away, and I’m almost certain that’s the spot. But I won’t get Deo’s hopes up. Not until I know for sure.

“Guys, I’ve got too many pent-up nerves. I need to run a bit. Meet you up ahead.” And I take off before they can tell me I’m crazy or that this really isn’t appropriately sober behavior for the occasion.

The three logs are still pushed together in a triangle, right where we left them, and one of the sticks we used to roast marshmallows is wedged beneath the log where Kelsey sat. The rain washed away the remnants of sticky white goo long ago, but the tip of the stick is still charred and black.

Have others built a fire here this summer? Could they tell that this was someone’s last happy place? Because she’s here. Not screaming like in my dream. No longer in pain. But more like the beach after the rain. Quiet. Peaceful. Not quite happy. Not quite where we were when she sat around this pit hamming it up just to make Deo laugh.

When I look back up, Deo has stopped walking and is staring at me. Aaron must recognize the place at the same moment, because the two guys I love most in the world, who both hate to run on principle, are sprinting toward me.

“Is she there?” Deo is smiling, but it’s tinged with worry.

“She’s here. But, D . . . I think she’d find her way on her own soon. Maybe just from us being here. I wanted to see if you’re sure. If both of you are sure.”

Aaron knows what I’m asking. It’s not just the loss of privacy. It’s the loss of peace and serenity as the nightmares, which have gradually faded away in the past few weeks, come roaring back. Reliving Kelsey’s last moments will be brutal, and if it’s brutal for me, it’ll be brutal for Aaron. But he pulls me toward him and says, “You never need to ask me that question. Never. If Kelsey’s here, and she can’t move on yet, you’ll help her. It’s who you are, Anna. It’s what you do. It’s part of you.”

Deo seems torn. “I don’t want to hold her back, but . . . the only thing to do is let Kelsey decide. She knows we love her. If she’s at peace, then I say we’re good.”

So I kneel next to the makeshift fire pit and pick up the pointy stick. The one Kelsey waved through the air, shouting Avada Marshmahllow, while Deo laughed so hard he fell into the sand.

Then I break down the wall that Kelsey taught me to build when I was small and alone. When I needed someone to protect me.

And I let Kelsey decide.

Because Deo’s right. Either way, we’re good.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing the final book in a trilogy is truly bittersweet. If I count the time that Anna and her friends had to wait patiently for me to finish writing the CHRONOS books, I’ve spent the past six years with these characters in my head. I’m going to miss them. Even when real life occasionally mirrored fiction a bit too closely, these characters kept me eager to uncover what came next in their story. I occasionally had to lure them back with a glass of merlot and chunk of extra-dark chocolate, but I owe them a huge debt of gratitude for not running out on me when things got tough.

If you’ve made it to the end of this series, you probably know that I like to add a brief discussion of settings and circumstances that are based on real life.

The Delphi Project is fictional, but predecessor programs like Stargate and Project MK-Ultra are based on actual history. Two of the individuals mentioned, Hella Hammid and Ingo Swann, were participants in the early research on remote viewing that took place at Stanford Research Institute in Menlo Park, California. The Church Committee Reports (1975 to 1976) are a treasure trove of information on this period in American history.

When last I checked, the Tome School and Bainbridge Naval Training Center in Port Deposit, Maryland, remain abandoned and undeveloped. There are a number of locals who continue to believe the area is haunted, but there’s no evidence that psychic “Zippos” started the fire that destroyed Memorial Hall.

If you google Brushy Mountain State Penitentiary, you’ll find that it is an abandoned prison where you can book a tour with paranormal investigators. They also hold concerts and other events on the site. My descriptions of the location were greatly enriched by a number of online photographs by John K. Clark. You can see them on his blog: http://johnkclark.com/blog/2015/5.

Oak Ridge National Laboratory was actually the site of a break-in back in 2012—by an eighty-four-year-old nun and two middle-aged companions. Their goal wasn’t psychic terror or destruction but rather an antinuclear protest.

The Sunsphere was built as part of the 1982 World’s Fair in Knoxville. It was still standing when I drove past this week and does remind me a bit of a giant butterscotch Dum Dum lollipop.

The Outer Banks of North Carolina are obviously real, and gorgeous, and you should go if you get the chance. There is even a long strip just north of the North Carolina line that is accessible only by foot, but to the best of my knowledge, it is a sanctuary for birds and wild horses, not psychic children.

My team at Skyscape is always a joy to work with. This book is dedicated to Courtney Miller, who has been my editor since Timebound. She has moved onward and upward, and I will miss her wise counsel tremendously. Paul Morrissey and Adrienne Procaccini have done an incredible job since Courtney’s departure, and I was delighted to have the opportunity to work with both of them again. Amara Holstein, my developmental editor for the entire Delphi Trilogy, has consistently given me sage advice and helped trim away the deadweight to keep the narrative on track. I’m also grateful to the wonderful crew behind the scenes at Skyscape who copyedit, proofread, and keep things running smoothly.

Special thanks to Mike Corley for creating vibrant, eye-catching artwork for the Delphi series. I’m perfectly happy for people to judge these books by their covers.

Kate Rudd—you are, as always, a rock star. I could not ask for a more gifted storyteller to help bring my characters to life.

If you’re among my friends on Facebook or Twitter, or in one of my online author groups, thanks for keeping me informed and entertained when I needed a brain break . . . and for being an island of sanity in a world where that is increasingly rare. My beta readers deserve a special mention for their detailed feedback: Cale Madewell, Karen Benson, Chris Fried, Karen Stansbury, Hailey Mulconrey Theile, Billy Thomas, Meg Griffin, Kristin Ashenfelter, Shell Bryce, Fred Douglis, Jen Gonzales, Donna Harrison Green, Dori Gray, Susan Helliesen, Stephanie Johns-Bragg, Cody Jones, Christina Kmetz, Jenny MacRunnel, Trisha Davis Perry, John Scafidi, Antigone Trowbridge, Meg Watt, Jen Wesner, Dan Wilson, Jessica Wolfsohn, Tracy Denison Johnson, Becca Porter, and Sarah Kate Fisher. (And, as always, apologies to the person—or more likely, persons—I forgot.)

Thanks to Pete for his patience and support, to Ian for keeping the Griffin-beast entertained in the morning so that I could sleep after writing into the wee hours, and to Ryan for tapping on my door at two a.m. to see if I needed another cup of tea (Earl Grey, hot).

Finally, special thanks go to you, the reader, for coming with me on this journey. It was a pleasure to write, and I hope you enjoyed the mind trip.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © 2014 Jeff Kolbfleisch

Rysa Walker is the bestselling author of The Delphi Trilogy (The Delphi Effect, The Delphi Resistance, and The Delphi Revolution). Timebound, the first book in her CHRONOS Files series, won the Grand Prize in the 2013 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Awards. Her career had its beginnings in a childhood on a cattle ranch, where she read every book she could find, watched Star Trek and The Twilight Zone, and let her imagination soar into the future and to distant worlds. Her diverse path has spanned roles such as lifeguard, waitress, actress, digital developer, and professor—and through it all, she has pursued her passion for writing the sorts of stories she imagined in her youth. She lives in North Carolina with her husband, two youngest sons, and a hyperactive golden retriever. Discover more about Rysa and her work at www.rysa.com.