The air changes, restless and charged. “What about her?” Jamie asks.
“She was one of us,” Mara says. “Gifted.”
Jamie doesn’t seem surprised, but Daniel does. “How do you know?” he asks me. “The archives?”
That was not what I was expecting, and it must show, because he goes on, “There are names in there, files of other kids who were experimented on. Was she one of them?”
In the days since Sam’s death, I hadn’t even considered that possibility. Stupid. It was so obvious, I felt a bloody idiot for missing it.
“That’s not how he knows,” Mara says before I can stop her.
Daniel looks from her to me. “So that’s not what was in the envelope last night?”
Now I’m the one who’s lost. “What envelope?”
Mara’s mouth drops open. “I completely forgot.”
“What?” I ask as she rises from one of the sofas and picks up a plain envelope from a console table in the foyer. “The doorman gave me this to give to you last night, when I was walking everyone out.”
She hands it to me, but Jamie starts talking before I can open it.
“So, let’s recap,” he says, standing not so subtly between Mara and myself. “The girl who jumped in front of the F train—her name was Beth.”
I nod once.
“And she’s like you guys, a Carrier,” Daniel adds. He doesn’t wait for my assent before he asks, “But how did you find out?”
“It’s part of my ability.” I’m still and watchful as I speak, hating the sound of my own voice. “When someone like us is afraid or in pain or whatever, I can see it.”
“See it?”
“From inside them,” Mara says. “He can see what they see from their point of view.”
She’s not quite right—it’s only from their perspective when they’re the ones causing the harm, but I’m not about to correct her. Not here, in front of everyone.
“Wow.” Daniel lets out a breath. Jamie says nothing, looks as though none of this is a surprise. Which means Mara must have told him at some point. I’m sure the sense of betrayal will kick in eventually, but right now, I just want to escape.
Mara turns to me. “Are you going to tell them, or . . .”
“Oh, I’d hate to interrupt,” I say.
Mara turns away from me, to Daniel and Jamie. “She’s not the only one he saw. Someone committed suicide at David Shaw’s funeral—”
“What?” Daniel’s nearly out of his seat.
“I saw it too,” Mara says.
Jamie’s turn to look shocked. “Wait, not like Noah . . .”
Mara shakes her head. “I was there.” A brief glance at me. “We left the service to—”
“Shit on his grave?”
“Actually,” I say, “we left to fuck, but someone decided to hang himself in the bell tower, which rather interrupted the mood.”
Everyone’s gone quiet. I’m usually better at keeping my anger issues to myself, but. Not today, clearly.
After an extraordinarily awkward silence, Mara decides to keep at it. “Someone else committed suicide this morning.”
“Jesus,” Daniel says. “How many have there been?”
“A few,” I say casually. “But not like this.”
“Like what?”
This is why I wanted to talk to Daniel alone—without Mara, certainly without Jamie. To try and explain to him the difference between what Beth and Sam felt like and what the others felt like—the boy this morning, and the others I witnessed before Mara and I even met. I’d have had the chance to unpack that without being forced to discuss my own psychic disaster, which is precisely what’ll happen next unless I change the subject, and quickly.
“The girl’s thoughts, and Sam’s, in England—I knew what they were before they died,” I say, opening the envelope from the doorman. Probably just inheritance paperwork, but it gives me something to do with my hands instead of punching them through glass.
“That’s never happened before?” Daniel asks as I sift out the papers, evading the question. One of them falls to the floor, and I bend to pick it up.
INTERNATIONAL BUSINESS
MAGNATE DAVID SHAW DIES AT 40
David S. Shaw, founder of the Euphrates International Corporation, died on September 5th. His family’s spokesperson confirmed his death from the family estate in Yorkshire, England, offering no cause. Some media outlets in the United Kingdom reported that he died of a genetic condition.
A few short years after his graduation from Trinity College, Cambridge, Mr. Shaw started a small company that grew to become Euphrates International, which injected hundreds of millions of dollars into private and academic research laboratories for the funding of research in genetic modification.
In recent years, its dealings prompted an investigation by the U.S. Department of Justice. Mr. Shaw was born on [REDACTED] in London, England, to his parents, Lord Elliot Shaw and Lady Sylvia Shaw. He attended Eton before graduating from Trinity College at Cambridge University, with a degree in history. He lived with his wife and two children in their family home in England until Euphrates International moved their headquarters to the United States after controversial funding decisions prompted the opening of several ethics enquiries by Parliament.
His survivors include his second wife, Ruth, his son, Noah, and his daughter, Katherine. The family will be holding a private service at their estate in Rievaulx. In lieu of gifts, the family requests that donations be sent to the Shaw Foundation.
I look up at Mara. “What the fuck is this?”
She takes the clipping from me. It’s from the Times.
“Your dad’s obituary? I don’t get it . . . .”
I withdraw the other piece of paper from the envelope. Also a clipping, but this one . . .
COPS POISONED!
New York, NY, 10:05 a.m.
“We are heartbroken to announce the death of Officer John Roland, twenty-eight, who died early this morning at 8:31 a.m.,” Commissioner [REDACTED] of the NYPD announced at a press conference this morning. “Officer Roland was a two-year member of the NYPD and will be remembered for his sense of humor, his generosity of spirit, and his bravery.”
Roland’s death comes at the heels of eight other members of the department who have all died under suspicious circumstances that are being closely guarded by the NYPD. Under conditions of anonymity, an inspector consulted by the Daily News stated, “Their deaths are consistent with some sort of mass poisoning; they all succumbed within a finite period of time, and shared the same symptoms.” The expert wouldn’t elaborate on what those symptoms were, but a source close to the police has said that each of the officers complained of a bloody nose at some point before their deaths. Two sources confirmed to the Daily News that the [REDACTED] Precinct is being temporarily shut down for an inspection into whether an airborne toxin, like anthrax, may have been mailed to the department. Commissioner [REDACTED] refused to answer whether they were considering terrorism as a motive at this point.
“This is an ongoing investigation and we can issue no further comment.”
Officer Roland is survived by his parents, Mary and Robert Roland, of Providence, Rhode Island, and two younger siblings, Paul and Benjamin Roland.
Mara’s eyes settle on the picture of the officer. She barely skims the rest of the piece before thrusting it back into my hands. Jamie snatches it from me directly, stares longer than Mara. Daniel has to urge him to part with it.
“What is this?” I ask no one in particular.
Daniel takes the envelope from me, turns it over. “Who sent these?”
“The doorman didn’t say who left them,” Mara says.
“But he gave them to you?”
“He called her Mrs. Shaw when she was walking us out,” Jamie chimes in. “Passssssword . . .” he singsongs under his breath.
“Why would someone send you this?” Daniel asks. “Who even knows you’re here?”
Solid question. I didn’t
buy the flat under my own name, but anyone working for or with my father would probably have the means to find out where I’m living. So, not exactly a secret.
Mara takes the clippings from her brother. “Add that to the growing list of questions, like, why are we killing ourselves?”
We. The word stings like the bite of a whip. Why are we killing ourselves.
“Noah,” Mara says, “where did you say the address was?”
“I didn’t.”
“What address?” Jamie asks. Three pairs of eyes watch me.
The words stuck in my throat, but it was too late to do anything but confess. “The boy who killed himself this morning—he did it with pills. The address was on one of the bottles. Two-thirteen Myrtle.”
Mara looks at her brother, then at Jamie.
“Oh, I’m definitely coming,” Jamie says.
Daniel looks at me for permission, and I appreciate the gesture. “Join us, won’t you?” I ask.
He cracks a small grin. He takes out his phone and texts someone first, then looks up. “Ready?”
Mara’s already by the front door, pulling her leather jacket from a hook. “How’s Sophie?” she asks Daniel as the rest of us assemble.
“How do you know I was texting Sophie?”
“Because you’re always texting Sophie.” She opens the front door.
Goose is standing behind it, his duffel in hand.
“Hello, darlings. I’m home.”
17
BRUTE NEIGHBOURS
SO, WHERE IS IT WE’RE going?”
“All in good time, mate,” Jamie said, mocking his accent as he gestures for Goose to follow him. Then to me, “It’ll be fine, old chap. I’ll take care of everything.”
I do not love the idea of Jamie mind-fucking my friend for the day, especially not on this ill-conceived excursion, but having Goose along for part of it might present an excuse for me to get on alone for the rest of it. I was the only one who saw what the boy saw. I could use that, perhaps, to pawn Goose off on someone else. And Jamie seems quite happy to oblige.
And so the five of us find ourselves standing on the corner of Myrtle Avenue staring at a brownstone down the street that looks as if it’s been dragged kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century. The front steps are cracked and buckling, and the door, which appears to have once been red, seems rotted through.
Goose looks bored. “What are we doing here, again?”
“Exploring Brooklyn real estate,” Jamie says. “I’m not sure I want to live in the loft after all.”
Mara and I exchange a look. Real or not real?
“And you are obviously a man of great wealth and taste,” Jamie says in his normal voice, “So I invited you along.”
Goose shrugs. He’ll go along with most anything—one of his finer qualities. “What are we waiting for, then?
For the ambulance in front of one of the houses to leave, the house I suspect we’ve come to visit.
“Which house is it?” Goose asks.
Everyone looks at me, but Jamie’s the one who speaks. “Two-thirteen. But we’re waiting till the ambulance leaves.”
Goosey looks rather put out. “That’s absurd,” he says, and starts walking in the direction of the house.
Daniel says to Jamie, “Shouldn’t you . . . do something?”
“Goose. Stop,” Jamie calls out—mind-fuck voice, this time. No response, no reaction. Possibly didn’t hear him? He’s quite a ways off. When I catch up with him, Goose is already at the ambulance, which is closing its doors.
“Good day, fine gentlewoman,” Goose says to the EMT about to get into the ambulance’s passenger seat. “May I ask what happened over here?”
“Nothing I can tell you about,” she says, tightening her straw blond ponytail. “Run along, boys,” she says to us, shooing Goose away from her door.
The driver checks the rearview mirror. “Good to go.”
“Have a lovely day, then,” Goose says. “Excellent work.” The EMT rolls her eyes as the ambulance drives off.
Mara, Daniel, and Jamie, however, are looking anxious, annoyed, frustrated in turn.
“What?” Goose asks.
“Nothing,” I say, warning the others off. “They’re just paranoid.”
“ ’Bout what?” Goose is genuinely innocent—he has no idea what we’re doing here. Which should’ve been fine, as Jamie’s supposed to be handling this, but since he isn’t handling it, and I’m not sure why and can’t very well ask at the moment . . .
“Notice the two police cars parked down the street?” I say to Goose. “Some of us here have had a few run-ins with the law.”
“Oh, who hasn’t, really?” Goose says, clapping my shoulder. “When we were boys . . .”
Before Goose can finish his sentence, Mara ascends the steps and knocks on the door, silencing everyone. Then directs a glare my way.
So we’re doing this.
Instead of an answer, however, the door to the garden apartment opens, and a moon-faced, doughy man pokes his pale, balding head out and examines us.
“Can I help you?” the man asks, his voice a bit scrapey.
The boy’s father, perhaps? I was expecting . . . I suppose I’m not sure what I was expecting. The man looks rather . . . like a paedophile, really. He has this soft, moony, harmless look about him, and yet. His button-down shirt is tight around the middle, and he has the sort of worn-out, drawn, put-upon appearance, as if he’s been a prisoner of war but doesn’t quite remember the experience and would be embarrassed if anyone mentioned it.
The man squints at us. “You’re like them, aren’t you?”
I can feel everyone exchanging very tense glances as Goose asks, “Like whom?”
“Kid who died this morning. And the rest. All gone now.” He breaks into a ridiculous, there’s-something-not-quite-right-with-me smile.
Christ. Everyone’s adrenaline’s in overdrive—I try and quiet my mind enough to dissolve the noise into meaning. I can hear every heartbeat on the block, but ours are the loudest, the most frantic.
“Sir,” I begin without actually knowing what I’m going to say, “I’m not sure what you mean. We came to visit someone—”
The door creaks open. Waiting at the threshold is The Boy Who Watched.
“Rolly, I’ll take it from here,” he says.
And like that, moon-faced Rolly retreats into his apartment like a snail into its shell, and the boy’s blue, unblinking eyes find mine. “Come on in,” he says with a smile. Mara steps past me, through the doorway.
If I could go back to one moment in my life and undo it, that would be the one.
18
NUTSHELL OF CIVILITY
UP CLOSE HE SEEMS OUR age, wearing a slightly too big dark blue T-shirt, with the symbols of each member of the Justice League on it. Though he stands with a slight slouch, he straightens when I walk past.
“Hi,” the boy says to me—only me, I notice—and extends his hand. “I’m Leo.”
“Noah.”
Cloudy light spills through filmed windows in the long parlour of the town house; We face a banister painted a shade just off robin’s-egg blue, and to our right, the parlour. Mint paint peels off the walls, and I’m thrown for a second—it’s the colour of the room the boy killed himself in. He died here, and the address that somehow magically appeared on my skin and disappeared is this address. Every detail of this place matters—and everyone in it.
Though I don’t see anyone else here but Leo. A line of dusty glasses on every flat surface, some rims stained with lipstick, announces that the house has not always been this empty. It’s as though there’s a ghost of a teenager draped on every surface; a tufted amber leather chaise with a slash in it, the ivory sofa and ottoman, the farm chairs at the dining table in the back. There’s a chessboard resting on a faded Oriental rug, which seems to have been abandoned mid-game.
Leo, making his way to the back of the brownstone, asks, “Can I get anyone anything to drink?”
“I’m not sure we’re staying long,” I say, just as Goose says, “I think I do fancy one, thanks.”
My idiot plan to bring him along to pawn off on Jamie is backfiring spectacularly, as Jamie’s made no attempt to corral or even address the Goose Problem.
Like me, Jamie and Daniel have been warily eyeing what looks like the frozen scene of a hastily abandoned party. By contrast, Mara’s stomping around like there’s nothing weird about this at all. She even bends to move a piece on the chessboard, which is interesting, because she doesn’t play chess. I don’t think.
“Checkmate,” she says, and she’s right.
Leo glances at her over his shoulder, smiles. “I’m Leo. I didn’t catch your name?”
“Mara,” she says casually, and I hear Leo’s heart stutter. He’s stopped midway between the parlour and the kitchen, looking at Mara for a beat too long. Then the rest of us.
“I wasn’t expecting all of you.”
“You were expecting some of us though.” Count on Daniel to say what I was thinking.
Leo’s gaze flicks to Daniel, then back to me. In a slightly nasal, abrasive voice, “The Non can’t stay.”
The word clicks in place, like the safety off a gun. I knew Leo had to be a Carrier, but now I know.
“He’s my brother,” Mara says. “He stays, or none of us do.”
“Then none of you do.” He says it without pause or inflection, his face expressionless.
Mara walks over to him, and there’s a responding chorus of quickening hearts because it’s Mara, and who knows what she’s going to do.
“It’s fine,” Daniel says. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Does, though,” I say. To Leo: “You’re the one who asked us here, I recall?”
“Did we?” We? He fixes me with that dark blue stare. “Do you recall?”
I grin at the challenge, say nothing, betray nothing, wait for my silence to unsettle him. It doesn’t.
Things are spiralling—Jamie may not know the details, but he’s got things sorted well enough. And knows he’s the only one who can even begin to try and fix it.
The Becoming of Noah Shaw Page 8