UPSTAIRS ON THE third floor, I brace myself for another locked door. But it is open, too, and a moment later we are in. The hospital hallway is utterly still at this hour. Not a soul in sight, not a sound. Just as we had hoped. Though I wish I felt better. Like things were going as planned. Because I feel just the opposite and I’m not sure why.
I try to focus instead on the task at hand: warning the girls. Each of us is in charge of waking half of them, then we will all run down and out the fire stairs. Not everyone will get away. But all we need is enough of us to prove what has happened. After that, they will have to let everyone go. This is not the best plan. But there are no better options. There are no other options at all.
I nod at Jasper and mouth the words “good luck” before we peel off in opposite directions, toward the sleeping girls at either end of the hall. As I walk on, the quiet feels so very heavy, my dread so high in my throat that it’s hard to swallow. I am worried about not getting the girls out, definitely. Worried about the possibility of running into “fake Kelsey,” too. I don’t want to find out what she’s really up to. Definitely don’t want her to know what I know, and I don’t trust myself to be able to block her well enough to hide it. I hope that she got out. For my sake now, not hers.
I stop just short of the rooms and try to think strategically. Teresa will need the most help. Woken in the middle of the night, she’ll definitely panic. Ramona will stay the calmest. If I can get Ramona up, she can help with the others.
When I reach Ramona’s room, I slip inside the darkness and quickly pull the door shut behind me. I feel my way over to the bureau to switch on the small light beside the mirror. If I startle Ramona awake with the big overhead, she might scream. It’s a relief when the room finally lights up, but only until I turn to look at the bed.
Empty. Stripped. No Ramona. No nothing.
Am I in the wrong room? I must be. Half the rooms had been empty the whole time. Maybe Ramona’s room wasn’t the closest to the common room like I thought. I am turning to leave when I spot something on the floor, under the edge of the bed. Small and balled up and black. I duck down to investigate. It isn’t until I pick it up that I can see it’s the bracelet Ramona was always snapping, twisted up into a tight knot.
Wait. Maybe they moved everyone to the other side of the hospital after the fire? I overheard that when I was running out. To the side where they brought me in the beginning. That would make total sense. Of course, it would be much better if I even remotely believed that’s where everybody was. I’m still crouched down staring at the bracelet when Ramona’s door starts to open.
Shit. I drop to my stomach. And scramble to hide in the only available place: under the bed. I want it to be Jasper. But I don’t think it is. He’s way at the other end of the hall.
My heart pounds once I’m under the bed frame, pressed against the cold linoleum. I watch as feet appear in the doorway. Women’s shoes—lizard, high-heeled. I feel like I know this person. At least, she knows me. Or thinks she does.
My heart is thumping so hard that I’m starting to feel nauseous. But I can’t come out. Those shoes are still in the doorway. And they are taking way too long to leave. Finally, they move, but inside. A second later the door eases closed.
“Wylie.” A woman’s voice, so quiet and calm. “Come out, please.”
The voice, the fancy shoes. Rachel. My mom’s ring. My mom’s photographs. My eyes flood with furious tears. Does Rachel work for these people—the NIH or Dr. Cornelia or the Defense Intelligence Agency? There remain countless options.
“Please, Wylie,” Rachel goes on when still I do not move. “They haven’t given us much time. I need to talk to you.”
They. Us. Still trying to pretend that she’s on my side.
“Whatever you thought you guys were doing, Wylie—whatever you were trying to do . . .” And she is sad, too, completely and totally heartbroken. Which I don’t like because it doesn’t fit with anything else I’m thinking. “It was—it’s not going to happen now. I’m sorry. Please come out. Otherwise, I won’t get a chance to explain anything before they come.”
Hiding is pointless if she knows where I am. And I have never in my life wanted an explanation for something more than I do at this moment. Even one that I will not believe. Finally, I slide out from under the bed.
“Wylie, honey,” Rachel says, rushing toward me with her arms outstretched.
I lean clear of her reach. “What are you doing here?” I snap. “Where is Ramona?”
“It’s okay, Wylie,” Rachel says, but she does not think anything is okay. Not in the least. “I am going to keep on being here. We’ll get through this together.”
Through what? My stomach tightens. As much as I want it to be rage that I am feeling—for my mom and whatever Rachel’s lies might be—all I feel is afraid.
“Where is Ramona?” My voice is quaking now. I am quaking.
“Home. They are all back home. They let them go,” she says, trying to sound hopeful now. “All of them.”
“Let them go home?” I know better than to believe her. She does not believe it herself. I’m just not sure which part is the lie. “Why would they let them go?”
“I ended up calling that friend of your mom’s from the New York Times. And she called that friend of mine at the Justice Department after he started dodging me. And he, in turn, finally agreed to do his job and follow up with the NIH. Apparently what they were doing here didn’t exactly go through the proper channels. If you ask me, the NIH isn’t even involved, and what about the CDC? If this was official, they would be here, too. Anyway, my Justice Department contact got real vague, real fast. And then poof, two hours later they are letting everybody go.”
“That’s it? They haven’t explained anything? What about the girls’ parents?”
“From what I can tell, they are not the demanding types. Seems like they chose the right girls to pick on.”
“Have you found my dad?” I ask.
“No, honey, not yet,” she says, trying to keep her face so calm and still. But I can feel the tears she is holding back like they are coming out of my own eyes.
“He wouldn’t leave the airport, not when he knew I needed him to come back.”
She holds up her hands. “I know,” she says. “Believe me. And I told them that. We’ll find him, Wylie. He is going to be okay.”
“He has to be,” I say, my voice catching.
But do I actually think he is? Do I feel that right now? The truth is: I have absolutely no idea.
Outlier Rule #6: When your own heart is breaking, you can’t read anything anymore. Least of all yourself.
“I want to go home,” I say, and not even to Rachel.
“That’s why I came here, Wylie. To help you,” she goes on, talking to me like I am some messed-up kid she is swooping in to save. Like she is the good guy.
“Fuck you.” I glare at her.
“Fuck me?” Rachel asks, startled—and hurt, I can feel that, too. But it just makes me want to see her bleed.
“Yeah, fuck you,” I say. My anger has lit my mouth on fire. “For trying to pretend that you are some kind of hero. You are a liar. You have been lying to my family this entire time.”
“What?” Rachel blinks at me. So wounded now. Most of all I don’t like how convincing it is.
“How did you get this?” I ask, lifting my mom’s ring on the chain around my neck. “And what about her photographs? They were recent.”
Rachel stares at the ring for a minute and then blinks some more as tears rush into her eyes. She hangs her head, crosses her arms. Guilt, so much of it. It isn’t until that moment that I realize how badly I was hoping there would be some simple explanation.
But Rachel does not offer one. She does not offer anything.
“You need to give that ring to me, Wylie,” she says instead. And she is desperate. “I can’t explain why right now. And I get that you think I lied to you—I did lie to you. But not for the reasons you think. It
’s not safe for you to have that ring.”
“Safe for who? You?” Once again, I am missing the most important thing. I can feel it, just out of reach. “Did you help them kill her?”
“You can’t be serious, Wylie?” Rachel shouts right back. “Listen, I understand that finding the ring must have been confusing and upsetting, and I know that you need me to explain, but—” She motions to the hospital. “This? I didn’t have anything to do with this. I’m here because the police contacted me and told me they were looking for you. That they knew we had been in contact. They said they were going to go out looking for you if you didn’t come in for questioning, and I told them that would be unnecessary because I thought you would be coming here sooner or later. If they’d wait that I could meet you here and arrange for—”
“You told them I’d be coming here!”
“Because otherwise they were going to find you, Wylie. I was afraid when they did you would run, which—given everything—would be understandable, and that you would end up getting hurt. That happens when people run. I wanted to help you. To keep you safe.”
“Help me?” I spit out. “You are such a liar.”
Rachel closes her eyes, shakes her head. Regret, sadness. And she is still hiding something, definitely.
“Listen, Wylie, we will deal with everything you’re talking about. I promise,” Rachel goes on. “But we need to focus on right now. We need to talk while there’s still time.”
Time—and I feel it then: her fear. And that sadness hanging so heavy on top of it. Still time for what?
The door to the room opens then. When I startle and step forward, Rachel puts a protective hand on my wrist like she’s ready to stop someone from dragging me away. Her fingers feel like sandpaper.
“Don’t touch me.” I pull out of her grasp.
“You’ve got another sixty seconds,” says a man through the open door, his voice gruff and deep. “And then she’s got to come with us.”
The door drops closed again.
“Come with who?” My panic is beginning to kick into high gear. Agent Klute is who I’m thinking. “Who was that?”
“Wylie!” It’s Jasper shouting out in the hall.
I lurch past Rachel, my legs awkward and numb. The world is far away, fractured, as I jerk open the door and lunge out. Two steps and I crash into a police officer—not Agent Klute. The regular, uniformed kind.
“Whoa!” he shouts as I stumble. He grabs me by the arm and pulls me back to my feet. Beyond him, I can see another officer on Jasper, dragging him away.
“Get your hands off him!” I scream. “He didn’t do anything!!”
“Whoa!” the officer holding me says again, amused by all my silly, silly noisemaking. “Why don’t we just take a breath and calm down?”
“Let him go!” I shout again, then whip around to Rachel, who is still standing in the door. “You said you’re trying to help! Do something!”
“Hey, calm down now,” the officer says, more sharply now. He’s just a regular old Boston cop, doesn’t seem wound up or to be hiding anything—just a guy doing his job. “They are escorting your friend out. That’s it. Take it down a notch, or we are going to have a whole new problem.”
“Jasper!” I try one last time.
Finally, he turns. And though we are far away, I can still feel something. Can’t I? How much he cares about me. Or no, that’s not it. I can’t be sure of that. But I can feel how much I care. Jasper raises a hand in return, still looking in my direction, as the police officer pushes him ahead and out the door.
“I’m leaving,” I say to Rachel, taking a step forward.
“Nope.” The officer has taken his hands off me but now he steps in my path. “Afraid not.”
“Nope?” I snap at him. “We’re free to go. This was all a mistake. Didn’t you hear?”
It’s a test. I’m not even sure of whom.
“Not you,” he says.
I turn to Rachel, who is hovering closer now. “What is he talking about?”
“I am going to get you home as soon as I can, Wylie. That’s why I’m here. We will work this out.” Rachel takes a deep breath. “They haven’t gotten into details. But apparently they want to question you further. About the fire here. The best way to get you out of here is to cooperate.”
“All of this because of that fire?” I snap. “That was only a distraction, so we could get out. Like a trash can or something. Anyway, it wasn’t even me. That was Kelsey.”
Though I do have a bad feeling mentioning her name. I already know it isn’t Kelsey. Kind of hard to point your finger at somebody when you don’t know who they are.
“I know and I believe you.” Rachel frowns. “We just need to take a minute and be sure that they do, too.”
25
ON RACHEL’S INSTRUCTIONS, I DON’T ASK ANY MORE QUESTIONS. BECAUSE THAT might give up information I don’t intend to reveal. Actually, she suggests I don’t say another word to anyone until they’ve transported us down to the police station where they plan to interview me. Something she says again that I could refuse to do, but she suspects that could make things worse for me.
I ride once again in the back of a police car. I tell Rachel that she can leave, that I want her to. But she insists on coming down to the police station, driving in her own car close behind the police car. I should have a lawyer, she says, whether or not I want that person to be her.
When we get to a nearby Boston precinct—which is a lot grittier than the police station in Newton or Seneca—Rachel and I wait alone in a cold little room with a small table and four cramped chairs. It feels dirty and smells like sweat.
“We should assume they’re listening even now when we’re alone,” Rachel says, pointing to imaginary microphones in the sky. “They aren’t supposed to because I’m your lawyer and this conversation is confidential. But that doesn’t always stop them. They can use what they hear, even if it isn’t admissible in court. And once the questioning starts, be extremely careful. Keep your answers to the bare minimum. You’d be shocked how the littlest thing can be held against you.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with that fire,” I say, and I’m not even sure for whose benefit. I couldn’t care less what Rachel believes. Part of me still very much wants her to leave, but I lack the energy to make her get out.
“I know.” Rachel reaches forward and puts her hand over mine, smiles at me sympathetically.
“Will you just stop?” I pull my hand away. “Do you think I would ever be stupid enough to trust you again? Why are you even here?”
Rachel winces and then nods. “Every way you feel about me, everything you are thinking—it’s wrong. I mean incorrect, inaccurate. But I understand why you would feel that way. I wish I could explain everything right now,” she says. “But I can’t. It wouldn’t be—I can’t.”
“How fucking convenient,” I say, staring straight ahead.
“We can still get you another lawyer, Wylie. But I want to get you someone good, and that could take time. For this interview, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”
Finally, there’s a knock. The door opens without waiting for us to say come in and a woman steps inside. She is sturdy-looking, in her fifties maybe—older than my mom, but not old enough to be my grandmother. Her blond hair is cut into a chin-length bob, which makes her wide-jawed face look even more like a square. There is a huge guy with her, younger and much less capable-seeming in his wrinkled khakis and too-tight white button-down.
“Wylie Lang?” she asks.
Polite, but cold. Focused, though, not exactly suspicious. Or trying not to be. Like she’s determined not to make her mind up about anything until she has all the facts. After that she’ll bring the hammer down without hesitation.
“Yeah,” I say, once it’s obvious that she’s actually waiting for some kind of confirmation. “That’s me.”
“I’m Detective Nicole Unger.” She holds out a strong hand, which I shake reluctantly. “And this
is my colleague, Danny Martin.” He nods but does not lift his eyes. “Do you know why you’re here, Wylie?”
Already it feels like a trick question. Rachel nods when I glance her way.
“You can answer that, Wylie.” Rachel is right—she is better than nothing. I can already feel her calculating how and when to push the detective for an explanation.
“Because you want to ask me about the fire?” I say.
“Yes,” the detective says. “We need to know about the fire. You were the last person there before it started.”
“You mean back by the rooms?” I ask. “Is that where it started? Because Teresa was there, too.”
“Wylie,” Rachel jumps in. “Make sure there’s an actual question for you to answer. Don’t volunteer information.”
But that’s because Rachel is used to dealing with guilty people. I don’t have anything to hide. I want to get it all out in the open.
“Seriously, you should ask Teresa about all this,” I go on. And I am trying to decide how and when to mention Kelsey, or whatever her real name is. Despite all her lies, I do feel a weird kind of loyalty to her. She is one of the original Outliers. Throwing her under the bus when I don’t know for sure that she did anything feels wrong. “Anyway, I was back in the common room when the alarm went off.”
The detective is quiet for a moment, staring past me at a blank spot on the wall, a flat expression on her face. She’s pretending to consider what I’ve said, though she isn’t really. She is waiting to ask her next question. I don’t think this is going well.
“Well, we would ask Teresa, but we can’t,” she says. And then she waits, staring at me. This is supposed to mean something. But it doesn’t. Not to me.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” Rachel snaps. “Why can’t you ask her, detective? Because we’re getting a little tired of the ‘hide the accusation’ game you’re playing. We’d like to be cooperative, but if you don’t get to the point soon, we’re leaving. I remind you that we are still here voluntarily.”
“We can’t ask Teresa because she’s dead, Wylie. She died in the fire.”
The Scattering Page 22