I don’t know what to say.
“You said you hated cigarettes,” I say at last.
“I do. I started smoking the week after Karen died.” Rachel blows more smoke rings and looks at me like I’m supposed to be impressed. “She came home a lot. At least once a month for a weekend. She wasn’t supposed to smoke at home, but she did, in her room.” She crinkles her nose. “You could smell it just by walking past her room, even with the door closed. Not just when she was home, but all the time.”
She inhales. Holds her breath for a moment, then exhales a plume of smoke, grimacing, like it tastes bad. I step back. “After she died, the stink went away. It happened so quickly. It was weird, you know. Sometimes she wouldn’t come home for a whole month, but the smell was still there, no matter how much air freshener Mom sprayed or how often she opened the window. But after Karen was gone, the smell disappeared so quickly. So I go in there, once in a while, and smoke a cigarette to bring the smell back. My parents still go in there, you know. Just stand there and breathe. So I spray her perfume around and I smoke her cigarettes.” She looks around. “Where are the cats? They were here a minute ago.”
“They probably left when you lit up. They hate cigarette smoke.”
Rachel stubs out the cigarette. Waves her hand in the air to disperse the smoke. “I went to the cemetery too.” She looks at me. “ To Karen’s grave.”
I shuffle my feet, not sure what to say.
“My parents go all the time. Like every week. Just to stand there. It doesn’t even have a headstone yet. There’s just a white cross with her name. And flowers. They take her flowers every week. They cry. And they talk. Sometimes they even talk to Karen, like she’s there, listening to them. And then they want to hug me, because I’m all they have left. I hate it. I hate everything about it. So I refuse to go there, and they think I’m a bad sister, but why should I, anyway? It’s not like she’s there. There’s nothing in the ground but a rotting body inside a coffin. Karen’s not there. She’s not anywhere.”
“Why did you go there, then?”
“I had to.” She slips the cigarette stub into her jacket pocket. “I needed to bury a queen in her grave.”
“A queen?”
“A white queen.”
“You mean a chess queen?”
“The queen always beats the rook,” she says. “Always. A queen beats anything, one on one. And the king—well, the king is just a joke. Do the police know yet?”
“Yes,” I say, because it’s simplest, easiest, and because I don’t know what Rachel would do if I told the truth—that I have no idea what Dad will do.
She nods.
“You have to go back home. You need to go home now.”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“Don’t be stupid. You can’t stay here forever.”
“I can’t,” she says. “I can’t go home. Don’t you understand?”
“Unless your parents are beating you or something, no, I don’t understand. They’re freaking out. They’re afraid they’ve lost you too. Everybody has pretty much written you off already, but they’re still hoping you’ll be found alive.”
She stares at me and doesn’t blink. “That’s the point. Don’t you see?”
“No. I don’t see.”
“When they found Karen, there was no hope anymore.”
By the time my parents are home, I’m in Dad’s study, half-heartedly doing a biology assignment.
They always seek me out to say hello when they get in. But not this time. After a while I go search for them. They’re in the kitchen. And there’s total silence. Mom’s standing by the window. It looks like she’s staring out, but the curtains are closed, so she’s just staring at the yellow-and-orange pattern. Dad’s sitting down. His hand is clenched around his mug, but there’s nothing in it.
I hesitate, wonder if I can sneak away, but Dad notices me. He waves me closer with a tired gesture. Mom doesn’t budge.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper, without meaning to.
Dad clears his throat. He’s pale. Looking more tired than he ever has during this entire mess. “Max confessed,” he says.
By the window there’s a sharp movement. Then stillness again. Dad rubs his eyes. “Harris discussed new evidence with him. His options. And he confessed to the murder.”
“False confessions,” Mom says in a monotone. “The pressure, the stress and confusion of being in prison. Happens all the time. Stress-induced hallucinations . . . they may even start believing they committed the crime they’re accused of . . .”
Dad’s sigh is almost inaudible. “Laura. Please.”
Mom sways, ever so slightly, like she can’t quite hold her balance.
“He knows things he shouldn’t,” Dad says quietly. “About . . . about what was done to the girl. Information the police had been keeping secret.” He lets out a shuddering sigh. “I don’t want to believe it either. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe Max did this. But we don’t have a choice anymore.”
“Don’t give up on him, Jack,” Mom pleads. “There has to be an explanation. Maybe he’s covering up for someone. Maybe it’s some kind of an honor code . . . maybe someone told him about it, and he got confused and horrified . . . and then the police grabbed him and put him in jail, and now he thinks he did it. . . .”
I’m numb with disbelief, even though I was the one who found the evidence. Even though I’ve known since yesterday that Rook was guilty.
I’ve been thinking about Rook all day. Rook in his armor, with his axe. Rook, stalking the galaxy in search of prey. Rook, a ruthless killer.
Rook. Not Max.
But Max confessed. Because Max is Rook. They’re the same. Not separate.
Relief mingles with the sadness and disbelief and fear tingling all over my body. Max has confessed. It can’t get any worse than this. It will be over now.
Then I look at my parents, and I know it will never be over.
“He can’t have done it,” Mom continues. “We just have to find out why he thinks he did . . . why he says he did . . .”
Dad is silent. Mom’s breathing is loud. Her arms are folded around her body, and she stares at the closed curtains. Her shoulders are so tight, her neck almost disappears. Slowly they lower.
“What could we have done?” she whispers. “How did we . . . ? How could we have made a monster?” She crosses the floor quickly, reaches up on a shelf, yanks at the cookbooks. They plummet down until every title is lying in a heap on the floor. “What’s the recipe for a monster, Jack?” she shouts. “Did we include all the ingredients? Because, you see, I don’t remember molesting Max. I don’t remember abusing him. I don’t remember neglecting him. I don’t remember making him feel worthless. What was it? What did we do?”
Dad reaches out toward Mom, but she shoves him away. “How?” she screams. “How? And what does this mean for Josh? What will this do to Josh?”
Dad looks at me. Don’t worry, his eyes say, but this time I’m not sure I can believe him. Go to your room, a sharp twist of his head says, but I ignore it. “Laura . . .”
“They’ll kill him, you know,” Mom says. “If he’s a . . . murderer.” She chokes on that phrase. “They’ll execute him. They’ll kill my baby.”
“No, Laura. He confessed. He’s cooperating with the authorities. It counts in his favor.”
“Then what? Will we visit him once a week until we die from old age? Will we look at him through a glass wall and know we caused the death of an innocent girl by bringing him into the world? And what about Josh?”
“What about me?”
Mom doesn’t hear me. “When Max was sick, I’d have done anything to make him better. Anything. If someone had offered me a deal, his life in exchange for the life of an unknown girl . . .” Mom hesitates. “Maybe that’s what happened. Maybe I did make a pact with the devil. My son’s soul and the life of this girl in exchange for the cure.”
“Laura!” Dad says. He tries to hug her, but she p
ulls away. “Calm down. You’re being hysterical.”
Mom slides down onto a chair. Stares at me, like I’m a stranger. “From the day you were born, Josh, everything was perfect. You were perfect. It was such a difficult pregnancy, but you were calm and easy from the first day.” Her voice softens, like she’s talking to a baby. “A lovable little angel, just like your brother had been. And you brought a miracle for Max. We had two wonderful little boys, two happy, healthy, smart little boys.” She shakes her head. “It was too easy. Too easy. Too neat. Too perfect. All this time I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop.” She leans over. Her hair, the dark brown color of my hair, Max’s hair, obscures her face. “I guess it just did.”
“I dress up in her clothes sometimes,” Rachel says. She’s sitting on the mattress. Cleo has squeezed under her knees and curled up there. “When nobody’s at home. Or at night. I dress in her clothes, wear her perfume, dance around, and pretend I’m Karen. Then I see my reflection in the window, and sometimes I see someone coming up behind me, someone with an evil smirk and a knife, and I twist around, but there’s nobody there. There’s never anybody here. That’s almost worse, you know. To wait, when you know you deserve what you fear, but it never comes.” She looks at me. “That’s why I came here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I saw Rook’s picture on the news. And your picture. I saw how much you looked alike. I hoped you were like him.”
She sounds annoyed. Like I disappointed her.
“When Rook was stalking Karen, I just wanted the problem to go away, and I thought it would if I closed my eyes and didn’t know about it anymore. That’s why I didn’t tell anyone. Because I could get in trouble. Because my parents would freak if they knew what I’d done. Then Karen died. And it was my fault, and I still didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want to get in trouble.”
“Rook killed your sister. You didn’t.” It’s easier to call him Rook. Rook has never stayed up with me late in the night, secretly watching a movie my parents wouldn’t allow. Rook never gave me my favorite computer games or admired my computer graphics, telling me I was the best artist in the world. Rook is a monster. I can picture him. He’s that sneering half elf, a bloody axe over his bare shoulder or a laser pistol strapped to his belt.
“Do you think she knew, before she died?” she asks. “Do you think she knew it was supposed to be me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe he called her by my name.” She’s digging into her arm with her nails, twisting the skin, leaving it bruised and torn. “Maybe, when he cut her, he called her Lehcar, and she knew. She knew I used that name online. Do you think she told him he had the wrong sister? Maybe she knew, but she didn’t tell him, so he wouldn’t come after me next. Maybe she saved me. I set her up, and in return, she saved me.”
My throat is dry. It’s hard to speak. “You don’t know that. Maybe—maybe it was the other way around. Maybe she even asked him to let her go and take you instead.”
“I was the one who should have died. My parents will never forgive me. They always loved her best. She came first. Parents always love their first child more than the others.” She turns her head to look at me. Her eyes are rimmed with red, but the cat is purring under her scarred hands, the furry belly bulging with the unborn kittens. “Like you. You were made to fix your brother. You’ll always be second best.”
“That’s not true,” I say. This is something I thought about a lot when I was little. Mom would tell me love was multiplied, not divided, or something like that. “Parents love their kids equally. It’s not like you can measure love, anyway.”
“You’re wondering, aren’t you? You’re wondering why I pretended to be Karen.”
“I guess . . .”
“I didn’t mean to,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean to pretend to be Karen. I just wanted to be like Karen, and it just happened somehow.”
“So Rook would like you.” The words slip out. I didn’t mean to say them. They’re cruel. I expect Rachel to give me one of her scorching glares, but she doesn’t. She rests her head on her knees and doesn’t say anything.
She doesn’t have to. The e-mails told me enough, and I can guess the rest. Rook liked girls his own age. College girls, not someone in junior high. Lehcar liked Rook. So Lehcar pretended to be what he wanted.
“It was supposed to be me.”
Rachel rocks back and forth. She isn’t looking good at all.
I don’t know what to do. I wish Dad were here. Even though he’s a full professor now, he does private practice on the side, because he loves to help people. I don’t. I hate it when people are miserable because I don’t know what to say or do at all. I don’t even want to know about it. I just want to run away.
“Dad’s a shrink,” I say. “If you want to talk to him . . .”
Rachel looks at me like I suggested she emigrate to Alpha Centauri. “Talk. To your dad. To Rook’s father.”
At least she isn’t shaking anymore.
“Forget it. Bad idea.”
“Duh!”
Max’s confession hits the news big-time that evening. The vultures return. The phones turn hyperactive again. And the next morning, when Mom and Dad come to my room, their faces tired and pale and hopeless, and they sit down on my bed and ask if I’d like to come with them to visit Max, I feel like I’ve suddenly gone mute. I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know what to think.
“He needs us, Josh,” Mom says. She’s clenching her hands and opening them, again and again, her face white and scared. I’ve never seen her like this. “If he did what he did, he’s very, very sick. He can’t help it.”
“If he’s sick, he should be in a hospital,” I say. “Not in prison.”
“Yes,” Mom says. “He should be.”
“It’s not that black and white,” Dad says. “You know that, Josh. Crime, sickness, evil—none of it is absolute. Not long ago, suicide was considered a crime. In the last century, homosexuality was an illness. Once, schizophrenia was demonic possession. Today, people are imprisoned for their crimes if we believe they know right from wrong but choose to do it anyway. Tomorrow we may decide they can’t help it, that it isn’t their fault, that they aren’t responsible for their actions. It’s all a matter of definition—”
“Jack, you’re not in a lecture hall now!” Mom snaps. “This isn’t a social studies class. This is our son’s life.”
Dad looks away.
“Max is sick,” Mom continues. “We don’t know yet what’s wrong with him, but if he did this, he’s very sick, and if he’s confessing to something he didn’t do, there’s something wrong too. Either way, he needs our support. He could use your support too, honey. He asked about you yesterday. But we don’t want to force you. If you feel uncomfortable visiting him, we’ll understand. Max will understand,” she adds, a little hesitantly. “It’s up to you.”
On the way to the jail, Mom’s cell phone rings. It’s Max’s lawyer.
Max’s former lawyer, as it turns out.
“Harris says Max fired him,” Mom says. She stares in disbelief at her phone, looking at it from all directions, as if that will help. “He’s hired someone new.”
“What? Why? Who?” Dad asks.
“I don’t know. Harris didn’t know.” Mom sighs, her breath trembling. “I’m sure Max will tell us.”
When we get to the jail, the woman at the front desk points out Max’s new lawyer, a tall, dark-haired man striding toward the exit. Mom and I go into the visiting room first, leaving Dad running after the new lawyer.
“Okay, honey.” Mom pauses outside the door, puts her hands on my shoulders. The guard stops, his hand on the keypad. “Don’t mention the charges,” Mom continues. “We won’t talk about the confession, the . . . crime. We’ll just talk about everyday, normal things. That’s what Max needs from us. Talk about your games, or school—no, not school, it will remind him why you’re not going. TV, music . . . whatever. Try to act like noth
ing has happened.”
“Okay.”
Mom tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite work. She straightens her back and nods for the guard to open the door.
Max is already there. It’s a different visiting room, but it looks identical to the first one. Max looks the same too. I don’t know what I expected. That he’d be ashamed, maybe. Look guilty. But he’s pretty much the same, only he seems a bit irritated. He jokes around with Mom, but he doesn’t look at me at all.
How do you make small talk with a murderer?
I just sit there and let Mom do the chatting. Opposite my brother, the monster who killed Rachel’s sister, who cyber-stalked dozens of girls. My brother, who confessed because of the evidence I discovered.
I’m the one who looks guilty and ashamed. He doesn’t at all.
Behind us, the guard’s phone beeps. I hear his footsteps recede a couple of steps as he answers.
Max leans over the table, ignores Mom who’s talking about one of our favorite science fiction shows, and finally looks at me.
“Why?”
The word is flat. Big. It falls down on the table between us and grows, pulses.
I know what he’s asking.
He knows. Somehow, he knows.
“Why what?” I ask, desperately trying to bluff, but Max isn’t fooled.
“You’re my brother. How could you betray me like that?”
I look at Mom. Dad didn’t tell her where the information came from. She doesn’t know it was me. But her eyes widen as she realizes what Max must be talking about.
“I don’t know what—”
He shakes his head impatiently, leans back. The cuffs rasp against the table. “Come off it, Josh. It’s you. I knew right away it had to be you. You know Genesis Alpha. You know the system I have for my passwords. I don’t know how you put it all together, how you found out about Rook, but I know it was you. And I won’t forget this.” He leans toward me again, looks deep into me, and I can’t breathe anymore. His voice is calm. Too calm. “I will never forget this, Josh.”
Mom is silent. She’s not looking at me anymore, she’s staring at Max with her mouth open, but she’s not doing anything to stop him.
Genesis Alpha Page 9