The Delphi Effect (The Delphi Trilogy Book 1)

by Rysa Walker

  “And did she?”

  “She got him to believe me. That she’s in here.” I tap my head. “That was the important part. Molly seems to think I can take it from there. I give him the information she knew, and hopefully he finds her killer.”

  We’re silent for a minute, and I tip back the last of my coffee. “So, this guy you were watching. Lucas. You think he’s responsible for shooting Porter today?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “Why?”

  “Mostly because I don’t believe in coincidence.” He looks away as he says it, though, and something about his expression bothers me. He’s hiding something. “Also, they’ll probably assume you told Porter everything you know, which is why you’re both on their radar now. The good thing is, someone will be watching out for him, at least for the next forty-eight hours or so, while he’s hospitalized.”

  The word hours reminds me to check the clock. “Crap! It’s after five and I forgot to call Deo.” I get up and head toward the living room but turn back toward Aaron to ask, “So, if Lucas hired the van and was behind the shooting, where does this other guy, Craig, fit in?”

  He’s about to say something, but when I reach the end of the question, his jaw literally drops. “Graham Craig? How do you know about him?”

  “I don’t know if it’s Graham Craig, but someone named Craig killed Molly.”

  He shakes his head, unbelieving. “And you’re sure about that?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah? I think Molly would have a pretty good idea who killed her. Who is he, anyway? And how is he connected to this Lucas guy?”

  “I believe Graham Craig is a business associate of his. But I don’t have proof yet. And believe me, it’s going to have to be rock-solid proof before I talk to anyone outside the family about my suspicions. The guy’s father is Ron Craig.”

  I shake my head. The name isn’t ringing any bells.

  “Ronald T. Cregg? C-r-e-g-g? Multimillionaire? Senator from Pennsylvania? Running for president?”

  Oh.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Deo answers immediately. “You are so grounded, young lady. I hope the party was worth it.”

  He keeps his tone light, but I can tell from the slight edge to his voice that he was worried.

  “Sorry, Deo. We’ve had a lot to discuss, and the time sort of slipped away. Aaron is—”

  I can hear Aaron talking on his own cell in the kitchen, and I hesitate for a moment. I rarely keep secrets from Deo, but I feel awkward telling him about Aaron’s premonitions when it’s not something Aaron tends to advertise. So even though I know I’ll end up telling him later, when it’s just the two of us, I decide to stick to Aaron’s cover story for now.

  “Aaron’s a private detective. He’s been working Molly’s case, and he thinks whoever hired the guy who shot Porter is . . . well, shall we say he’s not too happy that Porter and I have spoken. Aaron’s worried they could be targeting me, too.”

  There’s a long silence on the other end. “So . . . he’s calling in the real police, right?”

  His voice is steady, but those words speak volumes.

  Neither of us have warm and cozy feelings about the local police. We’ve both been in situations where out on the street was safer than back in the house. Most of the time, at least in my experience, when a kid runs away from a foster home, there’s a damn good reason. That’s always been the case for me and Deo, at least. But each time, we’ve been rounded up by the cops and taken back to the place we escaped until some other arrangement could be made.

  I know they’re doing their jobs. In many cases, they even go above and beyond. But a lot of them don’t seem to understand that the system they’re enforcing isn’t always fair and what looks safe may be just a convenient illusion.

  So for Deo to even suggest calling in the police? He’s worried.

  “Um . . . that’s kind of the tricky part, D. We don’t know how they found out I was in touch with Porter. Aaron says Porter contacted the detective firm that his granddad runs, which is a two-person operation. But he also called friends on the DC force. Maybe elsewhere, too. There’s probably a leak, but we don’t know exactly where.”

  “They’ve already started sniffing around at Kelsey’s. She called me about twenty minutes ago. Said she left a message on your cell, too. I don’t know if it was DC police or Montgomery County, but they asked if she knew anything about a girl who might be stalking Porter. Didn’t ask for you by name, but . . .”

  “Oh, that’s . . . wonderful. Do you know what she told them?”

  “She didn’t go into detail. Just asked if I knew who you were with. What do I say if she calls back?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll call her.”

  “And what about curfew? Pauline might cut us some slack, but Marietta’s also on duty tonight, and you know how she is.”

  Deo and I have both toed the line carefully for the past few months, avoiding anything that might result in getting us bounced out of Bartholomew. Missing curfew is one of the cardinal sins, although, admittedly, Marietta has a long list of those. The primary reason she works in group homes is that it gives her the opportunity to save the souls of wayward teens. She marked Deo and me for special attention when we arrived at Bartholomew House, maybe hoping her congregation could pray away his possibly-gay. I’m not sure what she thought they could do for me. It’s not the first time we’ve been in this situation—the group home where we met was even worse in that regard—but we’ve learned it’s better to stand our ground. Neither of us has yielded to Marietta’s weekly invitations to join her for Sunday services. Her smile becomes a little more wooden each time she asks and gets another set of excuses from the two of us. I’m seriously considering telling her I’ve converted to Judaism, Shinto, Pastafarianism—anything to get her off my back.

  But my stubbornness on that front means the chance of Marietta cutting me even an inch of slack if I show up after curfew is less than zero.

  Aaron is back in the living room. He sits on the edge of the chair across from me, still holding his phone to one ear. “Can Deo leave the group home? Go for a walk or whatever?”

  I frown, not sure why he’s asking me that.

  “I mean, does he have to get permission, or . . .”

  “No. He just signs out, but he has to be back by curfew.”

  He turns away and starts talking into his phone again. “Okay, Taylor. Just get him to the phone. You can do that. When has Daniel ever told you no?”

  I hear a girl’s voice, but it’s competing with Deo’s voice on my phone. He’s still going on about Marietta, so I don’t catch what the girl is saying.

  “Thanks, Tay.” Aaron holds his hand over the phone. “I’m going to try and get my brother to bring Deo here.”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  But Deo heard Aaron, too. Even through the cell phone, his yes is nearly as loud as my no.

  I glare at Aaron. “Deo, you’re safe there. Someone shot at me today. For all I know they could have followed us here. They could be in the parking lot waiting to—”

  Aaron is shaking his head. “We weren’t followed. And he may be safer here than at the group home.”

  “You think they’re watching Bart House?”

  “I think it’s possible. Lucas clearly knows who you are, so it’s not unreasonable to think he might have someone waiting for you to show up. And Deo was there when the van nearly hit you, right?”

  “Yes. But he’ll make sure to stay in tonight. Right, Deo?”

  “I was going to meet Asher at the game . . .”

  “You can miss the game.”

  Compared to me, Deo is a social butterfly. He actually goes out on weekends when he gets the chance. He cares nothing about sports or school spirit, but he’s made friends with a few kids in the marching band.

  Aaron shakes his head. “I don’t think staying in is enough. Lucas’s people are armed. What’s this Marietta person going to do if they . . .”


  There’s no need for him to complete the thought. Aside from Kelsey, Deo is the only person I’m close to. It would be perfectly reasonable for Lucas to assume that the best way to get to me is to grab him.

  “And how is Deo any better off if Lucas’s people show up here?”

  He unzips his windbreaker. A brown leather holster, complete with pistol, is strapped to his shoulder.

  Okay. Aaron said he was a detective, so I guess I should have assumed he carries a weapon. But if I’d known he was armed when I was in the car, I’d probably have risked jumping out on the freeway.

  “It’s not much,” Aaron says, “but I’m guessing it’s more than they have at your group home.”

  I steal another look at the gun, or rather at his side, since the windbreaker is once again hiding it from view. And as much as the sight of Aaron’s pistol scares me, the sound of the bullet pinging off the dumpster earlier scared me even more. The idea that we have some means of self-protection is a good deal more comforting than I’d have imagined.

  Aaron holds out his hand for my phone. I give it to him, even though it pisses me off to be cornered like this with no decent options.

  Molly’s been pretty quiet for the past hour, but as Aaron starts asking Deo for the address, she surges to the front.

  Sorry, Anna. I didn’t know that you and Deo—

  The hell you didn’t! What did you think would happen if Lucas discovered that I had information that could be used to nail him for murder? Not to mention human trafficking. Did you really think he’d stick up his hands and go peacefully?

  Hey, I said I’m sorry! But none of this makes sense, Anna. Why is Lucas worried about you? Why wouldn’t he just think what Pa did? That you’re scamming him . . . that you’re out to make money?

  I’m all set to complain further, but I stop because she’s just made an excellent point. And I’m going to ask Aaron to explain that as soon as he gets off the phone—or I guess I should say phones, since he’s talking to Deo on mine and still has the other person on hold.

  “. . . about twenty minutes away. Daniel Quinn, he’ll be in a blue Camry. Tall, midtwenties, short hair, pissed-off expression. Make him show ID. And if you see any unusual vehicles circling around the neighborhood before he arrives, get the hell out of there and call this number, okay?”

  He tosses my phone back. I ask Deo to grab my sleep meds and tell him again to be careful.

  When I hang up, Aaron says, “Just a heads-up that you’re about to be knee-deep in family soap opera. I hate asking Daniel for help. But Sam’s at the hospital, Mom’s on a buying trip in Europe until next week, and . . . on the off chance that someone actually is watching Deo, I’m not putting Taylor in the crosshairs.”

  “But it’s okay to put your brother in danger?” I don’t mention Deo, but I’m definitely thinking it.

  “Daniel can take care of himself. It’s just that . . . we had a bit of a disagreement last year. I haven’t really spoken to him much since. We play nice when Mom is around, but—” Aaron cuts off abruptly. The voice on the other end of his phone is deep. I only catch a few scattered words, but it’s abundantly clear that the man is angry.

  Aaron’s jaw clenches and unclenches a few times as he waits for a moment to jump in. “I don’t need you to do anything in an official capacity. Just listen. Two minutes, that’s all I’m asking.”

  “. . . reason why I . . . ?”

  “Because Mom would want you to! Because it has to do with Molly. I’d ask Sam to help, but his best friend got shot today, so he’s kind of preoccupied. And, listen . . . I didn’t tell Tay this, because I don’t want to get her hopes up or for her to go talking to Mom about it. But this isn’t only about Molly. I think it’s tied to Dad, too.”

  There’s a small explosion on the other end, and the few words I pick up are NSFW. Aaron’s expression hardens and his voice is flat when he responds. “If you actually think I’d stoop low enough to bring Dad into this if I didn’t believe it was true, then go ahead and hang up the phone. Because I’ve got nothing more to say to you, man.”

  For about five seconds, we simply sit there. I can’t hear anyone speaking on the other end, but Daniel must say something, because Aaron’s shoulders relax. “Thank you. He’ll meet you in front of the school near the group house . . . Weller Road Elementary.”

  “This isn’t a solution,” I tell Aaron after he hangs up. “We miss curfew and we’re screwed. They’ll probably split us up again. Not a big deal for me. I’ll be eighteen in two months. But Deo’s got three whole years left in the system.”

  “Sam has friends who can fix things with the people at your group home. They’ll say you and Deo were witnesses to a crime. He may not have been at Dr. Kelsey’s office today, but attempting to sideswipe pedestrians with a van is a crime and he witnessed that, right?”

  The best-case scenario is that Marietta will hear witness to a crime as hanging out with criminals. More likely, she’ll interpret it as committed a crime. But there’s probably little point going into that, when there are plenty of other things I need to ask Aaron.

  “While you were on the phone, it occurred to me—well, actually, it occurred to Molly—that we’re missing a big piece of the puzzle here. We get why Lucas might not want the murder case reopened, and why he might target Porter to prevent that. But why would Lucas—or this Graham Cregg guy—believe I have information that might help Porter?”

  Aaron looks a bit uncomfortable. “Porter told pretty much every cop in the DC area that a teenage con artist was claiming to be in contact with his granddaughter’s spirit.”

  “So what? Even people who’ve seen proof have a tough time accepting that I actually communicate with dead people. Why wouldn’t they just assume I’m crazy?”

  “But what if Porter’s request landed in front of someone who was already watching you? Or, maybe not you specifically, but watching for people like you. Like me. People with psychic gifts.”

  For a moment, I just stare at him. “Oh . . . I see. Professor Xavier has spies on the police force who are planning to round up all of us mutants for his institute?”

  Aaron rolls his eyes. “Hear me out, okay? What do you know about your parents?”

  Asking me more questions isn’t exactly the same as hearing him out. I don’t know if it’s the question itself or the prospect of having to rehash all of that for the second time in a matter of hours. Maybe it’s just the fact that this has been one bitch of a day. Either way, his question annoys me. I kind of want to reach across the coffee table and smack him.

  “Wasn’t all that in my file?”

  “I haven’t seen your file. All I know is what Porter told Sam. That you’d been in a bunch of different foster homes. That you were stalking him, claiming you could channel Molly. Porter didn’t believe you, obviously, but Sam and I warned him he shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

  “Why? Because your grandfather gets hunches and you have some sort of psychic abilities, do you automatically believe everything? Someone walks in your door saying she can torch the place using her mind, do you accept it as fact? Demons, vampires, werewolves? Sounds like a good idea for a TV show. Your partner is named Sam—are you sure your name isn’t Dean?”

  “Funny,” he says, although he doesn’t really look amused. “For the record, I’ve never seen any of those creatures. I doubt they exist. There are, however, plenty of psychopaths capable of mimicking any monster you can dream up. I’ve also never met anyone with pyrokinetic powers, or any sort of telekinesis, but I’m pretty sure my dad knew some when he was in the military.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. The government has been researching psionic abilities for decades, Anna. Did you ever hear of something called MK-ULTRA, run by the CIA?”

  “The name rings a bell.” I do a quick scan through my files from Bruno, the homeless guy who was a patient of Kelsey’s. He never met a conspiracy theory that he didn’t embrace with his entire heart and soul. Aliens, mind control, the Ill
uminati, you name it. Bruno spent a lot of time on the computers at the public library, combing through conspiracy theory sites and posting his own strange combo versions. I keep most of his memories in their own separate compartment, because I don’t trust anything that Bruno “knew” until I fact-check it. “LSD, right? Government experiments with drugs to see what other powers the mind might have?”

  “Yeah,” Aaron says. “It continued through the midseventies, when a Senate committee closed it down. Or rather, they made it look that way. The efforts shifted over to a military program, called the Stargate Project.”

  “Why did they call it Stargate?”

  “No clue. This was way before the TV series or even the movie. Anyway, the people involved lay low over at Fort Meade for fifteen, twenty years. Then in 1995, the CIA gets involved again. They conduct an investigation and close down the entire program, claiming it never yielded practical results. Except . . . I don’t buy it.”

  “Why not?”

  “A lot of reasons. For one thing, if you were the CIA and you wanted to cover up the fact that some program was getting results, what would be the best way to do it?”

  I give him an I’ve-got-nothing look.

  “You’d shut down the program. Say it was a waste of taxpayer money.”

  “Maybe . . .” He’s actually starting to sound a little like Bruno.

  Aaron stares out the window for a few moments. “I think my dad was in it.”

  He spends the next few minutes giving me an abbreviated version of his family history. How his dad, Cole Quinn, joined the Army fresh out of high school, then decided to take this civilian job over at Fort Meade. Sam wasn’t too keen about his son taking the job. Part of it was a hunch, but the program also had some odd rules. Participants were under very restrictive security—they spent most of their time on post and couldn’t get married or start a family.