Jack makes a noncommittal grunt. I glare at the spluttering coffee. I can already feel a headache coming from our morning errands, and I’m counting on a pre-dose of caffeine to stave off the worst effects of more freezes this afternoon.
“It’s just so far away,” Jack says.
I switch my glare from the coffee maker to him.
“It’s not like you have other plans.”
“Sleeping would be nice. You woke me up at freaking dawn this morning.”
A second yawn swallows half his sentence. Jack was out watching his precious bands until who knows how late last night, and he was not happy when I woke him up and told him Shannon had created yet another list of things we needed to get for KJ. Fresh pajamas. Coconut water. Some kind of special sponge thing to wipe out his mouth. Jack whined the entire time, claiming nothing on Shannon’s list would make any difference to KJ’s recovery. The fact that he’s probably right did not lessen my annoyance at his lack of enthusiasm. Like searching Barnard’s house, getting supplies is at least doing something.
I snatch the carafe and dump the pathetic dribs of coffee into my mug.
“Fine.” A fresh drop hisses as it hits the now-empty heating pad. I shove the carafe back and gulp the meager drink in a single swallow. “I’ll go by myself. What’s Barnard’s address again?”
Jack must feel a little guilty, because he helps me decipher the TriMet map we picked up to figure out which bus will get me to Dr. Barnard’s house.
“If you take the seventy-seven, you won’t have to transfer.” He traces the route with his finger. “Take the map with you, so you know when to get off.”
I study the minimalist graphics, already regretting letting Jack off the hook. Unlike him, I haven’t been out there alone, and the idea of heading into the city by myself makes me want to hide under my sleeping bag.
Jack rubs his eyes and turns toward his room.
“Have fun,” he says. “Find good stuff.”
Fun. Yeah, right.
I dish out a serving of applesauce and tiptoe over to KJ’s corner. When I went by earlier, Shannon said he was too agitated to have visitors. I like to hold his hand, maybe feed him a little, and whisper my plans before I leave the squat. It makes me feel connected to him, even if I know he can’t hear me. He’s my touchstone. My lucky charm. A charm that feels particularly important given my day’s plans.
Early afternoon sunbeams showcase the colonies of dust motes fogging KJ’s sleeping space. I hold the applesauce in front of me like an offering. Shannon rises before I’ve crossed the threshold.
“He’s sleeping,” she whispers, hurrying forward to bar me from stepping inside. “Finally. He had a really rough morning. It’s probably better not to disturb him.”
“I won’t wake him up.” I crane my head to see over her shoulder. KJ lies in his usual stupor, eyes closed, his face weirdly expressionless. My heart clenches. “I just want to say goodbye before I leave.”
“Better not,” Shannon repeats. She eases the bowl of applesauce from the iron clasp of my fingers. “I’ll feed him this later. Right now, sleep really is his best medicine.”
“Right,” I say.
Shannon pushes me out the door. “Can you remember to bring back more ice this afternoon?”
* * *
The bus ride takes forty-five minutes and is uneventful, if you call sitting on an uncomfortable seat and flinching every time someone looks at you uneventful. The bus has this narrow poster wedged in the space above the windows, advertising a TV show called The Secret Life of Spinners. According to the overly loud conversation between the two girls sitting in front of me, the show portrays life inside a Center as a seething nest of miscreants whose sole desire is to spy on each other and then humiliate their peers by exposing their secrets.
“Did you watch the episode where Annabelle slices Melissa up with a razor blade while they’re both in a freeze?” one of them asks.
“Oh, my god!” the other one squeals. “That one was so gross. And then no one believed Melissa, but she kept, like, having all those flashbacks and stuff.”
Over my head, the actor playing one of the main characters watches me, wearing the evil grin of a psychopath. By the time we reach my stop, I’ve chewed two more fingernails down to the quick.
Dr. Jeffrey Barnard lives in Northwest Portland, a couple of miles west of the Center. The bus drops me off four blocks away, in front of a large commercial building that, on this quiet Friday afternoon, includes a conveniently empty loading dock. I tuck myself into an unobtrusive corner and freeze time, emerging into the silence feeling only slightly less jittery.
“Twenty-seven twenty-three.” I mutter the address under my breath as I jog toward my destination. “Twenty-seven twenty-three.”
Dr. Barnard’s home is one of six identical three-story townhouses, each painted gray with darker gray trim. Tall trees arch over the street, dappling the units with green and gold light. The townhouses have garages on the ground floor, with outdoor staircases leading up to their second-story entrances. Barnard’s unit has a small Japanese maple planted at the foot of the stairs, the leaves of which are already deepening into fall red.
I stand at the bottom step and stare up at the door. It’s painted an innocuous shade of plum, but something about it creeps me out. Threat radiates from the wood paneling, like there’s an ax murderer waiting on the other side. I give myself a mental shake. What’s the worst-case scenario? That the door conceals Barnard himself? It’s possible. Barnard doesn’t always work out of his office, and I know he was more banged up than I was by our car wreck, but Barnard can’t do anything to me during a freeze.
The metal handrail slides under the sweat coating my palm as I force myself to mount the stairs. Logic has done nothing to ease my terror; the idea of walking inside still makes me feel like I’m about to break out into hives.
The front door’s lock is a simple one. I pull on gloves and take out the set of lock picks Jack and I stole a couple days ago. Ross taught me how to use them only—what—a week ago? I kneel on the concrete landing and slip the pick into the lock. The memory of Ross guiding my fingers makes the muscles in my hand cramp so badly I have to massage them before continuing. How blind I was to not realize that a cop teaching you to pick locks doesn’t say much about his moral integrity, even if he was right that the skill is useful. The first pin falls into place with a barely noticeable click, and I wiggle the pick to find the second one. It’s hard to concentrate. My whole back is prickling like it’s got a target on it.
The lock releases, the handle turning beneath my fingers. I stand, brushing hair off my damp forehead. The door continues to exude menace. I rest my hand against it and push very gingerly. I’m almost expecting the wood to react—to burn me or jump back at my touch—but nothing happens except that it glides open. I shake my head. Maybe it is better Jack isn’t here. If he was, he’d make some smart-aleck comment about what a wuss I’m being.
It takes a massive act of will to step into Barnard’s house. Being inside is worse. The place is decorated in graveyard colors—black, chrome, gray—all of it eerily spotless. The edges of the furniture look sharp. The walls are bare, making it feel like I’m being watched by featureless faces. When the front door closes, it clicks ominously. I lean my back against it, pretending the hesitation is only so my eyes can adjust to the dimmer light.
The main floor of Barnard’s home is a square that’s split into three rooms. A combined living/dining room takes up one whole half, stretching from the front door to the window-filled wall at the back of the house. To the right is a kitchen, and behind it, according to Jack, is Barnard’s ground-floor study. On my left, more stairs lead to the upper floor. The study seems the most promising place to search, but the downstairs makes me so anxious I decide to start upstairs. Something could be hidden there, too. Right?
The guest room, as tidy
and monochromatic as the living room, is unused, as is what must be a guest bath. It has nothing in it except a pristine towel and an untouched bar of soap. Barnard’s master bedroom smells like him, a clinical scent like alcohol, only less antiseptic.
The drawer to his bedside table rattles when I yank it open. A quick search reveals nothing more incriminating than Barnard’s chosen brand of cold medicine and the fact that he apparently likes to floss his teeth in bed. I slam the drawer shut and dig around in his dresser. It’s full of clothes. This is dumb. Searching up here is a waste of time. I should be focusing on his study. I lift both pillows and find nothing underneath but smooth cotton sheets. Of course. Who hides business documents in their bedroom?
Walking back down to the main floor feels like forcing myself to enter a room full of noxious gas; my throat feels tight and it’s hard to breathe. Giving the kitchen a wide berth, I cross through the living room toward the study. The door is shut, and the painted wood practically screams: Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
“Come on,” I mutter, rubbing the growing ache in my temple. “What are you waiting for?”
I pull the door to Barnard’s office open and stare across the threshold. The room is square, with corner cabinets filled with books. There’s a desk in front of me, its surface littered with papers and bulky medical texts. To my left, floor-to-ceiling windows let in streams of light that showcase the one thing I feared the most: the room is occupied.
Dr. Barnard sits stiffly behind his desk, one arm wrapped in a cast, frowning as he talks to a visitor in the chair across from him. Barnard’s visitor sits with his back to me, but I still recognize him instantly. My heart starts beating extra hard.
Barnard’s guest is Carson Ross.
Terror hangs like a curtain across the doorway. The empty air vibrates with warning: stay away. I grit my teeth. It’s absurd to come all this way and not search Barnard’s office. Narrowing my eyes as if against a strong wind, I step through the open doorway.
Pain, sharp as knives, slices my brain. I stagger. Buzzing. Like the hum that comes with wearing a leash, only ten times stronger. The office blurs. Time rips from my grasp.
“…appreciate your concern…” Barnard’s voice crashes against my ears.
I snatch at time. The strands pass through me like falling water. Panic closes my throat.
Dr. Barnard’s gaze shifts in my direction. “What…?”
I stagger against the doorframe. My hands cling to the solid wood, desperate for something to ground me. I reach for time, grasping with every bit of strength I possess. The pressure in my head increases. Time moves relentlessly forward.
Ross spins around in his chair. I stare at him.
Barnard leaps to his feet.
I have to run. I know this, but I can’t move. The world has started again, and I stand completely frozen.
Ross’s face opens into a familiar smile.
“Alex,” he says.
His voice releases me. Barnard shouts at Ross to grab me. I turn and run. The living room seems impossibly large. Behind me, footsteps thud, leather soles pounding against carpet.
“Alex,” Ross repeats. He’s close enough that I can hear his shirt rustling. I speed up. The door to the house is in front of me, the knob beneath my hand. As I fling it open, I reach out again with my mind, clutching at the invisible time strands, and miraculously, my grab holds.
But not before Ross’s hand closes around my bare wrist.
Everything around us stops. In the frozen silence, the only sound I hear is my hammering heart. The living room sways around me, threat still leaching from every surface. I tilt my head so I can see around Ross’s bulk. Barnard hovers, just inside his office door, mouth hanging open, midway through some shouted instruction.
Ross gazes down at me.
“Please,” he says. “I just want to talk.”
I try to wrench my arm free. Ross hangs on. The street through the open door mocks me, the chance of escape so close, yet so unreachable.
“I’ve been worried about you,” he says.
“Like you care,” I spit at him.
“I do care.” Ross manages to sound hurt. “You know I’ve always valued our friendship.”
“You just value what I can do for you. You value my time skills.”
“That’s not true.” Ross’s eyes are blue as the ocean and just as dangerous. “We’re a team, remember? Partners.”
I stand limp in his grasp. Everything about me hurts. My head. My heart.
“Living out there can’t be easy,” Ross croons.
“We’re doing fine.”
“Are you sure?” Ross watches me with an expression so caring I have to turn away—not quite fatherly, but something close. Like an uncle, maybe. It feels like he can see all the way into my soul, that he knows about everything: Shannon’s crying, Victor’s angry threats, Jack’s recklessness, and KJ, drowning in Aclisote and lying so still in the gloomy squat. I lower my head.
“Let me help you,” Ross says. “I’ll rent you a house outside of town where no one will find you, just like we talked about. We can change your appearance, enroll you in school if you want. You’ll be free and protected.”
Ross’s words float through my head like the whispers of a dream. A terrible longing fills me—to be safe, to not have to run anymore. To live without leashes or drugs and have someone take care of me. All mine if I just say yes. If I just trust Ross.
“What about my friends?”
“I can rent a place big enough for all four of you.”
I study the shined surface of Ross’s leather shoes.
“Why would you do that?” I say. “If anyone found out, you’d go to jail.”
“So we can work together again.”
“Without the Center?”
“Alex, I would never send you back to the Center. Everything I did was to get you away from them.”
Tears fill my eyes, traitorous harbingers of hope. I blink them back and look up.
“Everything?” I ask. “Even killing Austin Shea?”
Ross sighs, a deep sound that fills the frozen air with invisible regret. “That night will haunt me for the rest of my life,” he says. “I should have explained it all to you before we went there, but I was trying to shield you. I should have made more of an effort to help you understand.” Ross shakes his head. “I know Shea’s death was a hard thing for you to watch, but if it prevented even one more murder—one more killing like Sal’s—wasn’t it also a kind of justice?”
A headache throbs in my skull. Ross and justice. It was the reason I worked so hard for him. The one thing KJ never understood. The strain of holding time turns my vision fuzzy. Instead of one Ross standing next to me, there are two: the murderer who deceived me and the agent who always claimed he cared about me.
“I’ve been watching the news,” I tell him. “Why hasn’t Sikes been arrested yet?”
“I don’t have enough evidence. Without your skills…” Ross shakes his head. “He’s killing again, Alex. Just yesterday I rewound one of his crimes. A woman. He bashed her head against a rock and shoved her through a basement window.”
A horrible feeling creeps its way across my skin, the hot flush of shame for another death I could have stopped. I study Ross’s fingers where they loop my wrist. His grip has turned gentle, less of a snare and more of a handclasp.
“Forget Sikes,” Ross says. “You need to worry about yourself. Barnard is under immense pressure to capture you. The regional director is screaming about consequences and lax security measures. They’ve even called in a team of wipers.”
The prickles shift to a different kind of discomfort. I shiver.
“A team of what?”
Ross hesitates, as if he’s reluctant to answer the question. He’s standing so close to me I can see a vein pulsing in his right temple
. I watch the beats. One. Two.
“Wipers. They’re the Central Office’s security force that catches spinners who’ve gone AWOL. They have only one mission: to stop the world from knowing what unmedicated spinners can do.”
The vein on his temple wriggles, like a snake running beneath his skin. I lean away from him.
“I don’t believe you.”
Ross’s blue gaze doesn’t waver. “You think you’re the only spinners who’ve escaped? The reason you never hear about anyone free out there is that no spinner ever lasts long. If they did, people would know the truth by now.”
The logic of his statement is undeniable. Time pulls against me, and I struggle to keep from losing control.
“Come with me, Alex,” Ross says. “Now. Let me take you somewhere safe. It will be just like the old days.”
The old days. Something stirs in the pit of my stomach, a reptilian slither that matches the vein snaking under Ross’s skin. “What, exactly, would we do together if I went with you?”
“The same work we always did,” Ross says. “Find the bad guys and make them pay. You and I—between us, we have the power to make the whole world better.”
The slithery feeling in my stomach spreads through the rest of my body.
“So, we’ll be superheroes?” The cover of one of the comic books KJ used to read swims into my head: an absurdly muscled man standing, arms akimbo, blue cape flapping in the wind. “Simple schoolgirl by day and avenging hero by night?”
“Exactly.” Ross’s whole face lights up with some inner vision. “I’ve thought about it ever since I suspected your potential.”
“What do you mean?”
Ross’s teeth gleam in the room’s stark light. “Justice isn’t only about solving crimes; it’s about laws and programs and how money gets spent.”
I wriggle my arm, but Ross’s grip, while seemingly benign, is quite firm.
“That’s why you want to be the police chief.”
“Yes, to start with, but who knows how far we could go?”
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