Zoe looks at me, alarmed. “Does Patrick know about this?”
I don’t answer Zoe or tell her that Josh attempted to warn Patrick about this last night. Instead I move toward a reporter in a black vinyl jacket, listening closely as she presses on her earbud, standing in front of the gray cement wall of the building.
She holds her oversize tab in front of her face, saying, “That’s right, Owen. An unnamed source is confirming young Caldwell was found with distinct visor marks.” I walk behind her, looking at the photo that now fills her tab. I don’t get a great look, but I can see it’s of Caldwell’s forehead, the Equip marks clearly visible.
My shaking hand comes up to my forehead and I stand motionless in the crowd.
It’s the same picture that was sent to Josh.
“Unfortunately,” the reporter says ominously, “we may need to wait until Anthony Caldwell wakes up for definite confirmation on the Equip connection.”
Suddenly, Zoe is bathed in a pool of light that casts shadows on her mocha skin.
“And how do you feel about all this, young lady?” says a tall, athletic man in a cashmere overcoat, pointing his tab toward her.
“What?” Zoe asks. I’ve never seen her exude anything but confidence; however, she wasn’t expecting to be ambushed by the media. She nervously takes off her Florapetro glasses as she swallows, looking directly into the screen.
“Are you an E-fiend? Do you want to stay inside Elusion so badly that you’ll do anything to make that happen?”
“No” is Zoe’s simple reply.
“Ever been invited to an Elusion party in a warehouse?”
“An Elusion party?” Zoe asks, confused.
“Does this room look familiar?” The man shows her a picture he has blown up on his oversize tab.
“No, I’ve never seen this place before.” Zoe says.
But the photo looks more than familiar to me.
A dark, barren room with tools scattered across the tops of makeshift worktables, dirty mattresses, and piles of computer hardware fragments. MealFreeze containers, IV bags, and pill bottles litter the floor. The only thing missing from the picture is the number 5020 spray-painted on the wall, but there’s still no mistaking it.
It’s the warehouse where Josh took me. The “E-fiend” hangout.
The room where he last saw Nora.
Suddenly I know who the unnamed source is, and I’m wondering how long I have before the information on the QuTap is released too.
One thing is certain—I have been played.
Without saying good-bye to Zoe, I’m off and running, and no one can stop me.
The first thing I do once I’m inside Building A is send a message to Josh.
Where r u? Need to talk ASAP.
No response.
Ignoring the warning bell, I dart toward the south side of the school, where the seniors have a huge block of lockers, my bag weighing me down but not deterring me one bit. I turn the corner and spot him waiting for the elevator less than twenty feet away.
“Josh!” I call out, but he doesn’t hear me above the overwhelming chatter of our classmates, who are relentlessly gossiping about Anthony and Mr. Caldwell. He disappears inside an elevator, typing on his tab. Almost simultaneously, my phone buzzes with a message from him.
Chem lab. Tlk l8r.
He’s avoiding me.
What the hell is wrong with him? I thought we were a team, and now I find out he’s gone to the media without me? Is this all because of last night? I know there was tension between us right before he left my house, but in light of everything that’s going on, how could he be holding that against me? Or has he found out something else that’s spurred him to act sooner rather than later? Even if that’s the reason, why didn’t he at least give me a heads-up first?
I have to talk to Josh now, even if it means stalking him through the school. The information on that QuTap was taken from my dad’s computer, and whether he likes it or not, it really belongs to me.
As kids begin to clear out of the hall, anxiously hurrying to get inside classrooms before the final bell, I dash to the elevator bank, pressing the up button several times in succession. I groan in frustration, watching the antiquated lights as the elevator slowly ascends, making its way to the eighth floor, where all the science labs are located.
An adjacent elevator opens and I rush inside, happy that no one else follows me in. I press the button marked with the number 8, my palms slick with perspiration and my throat dry. The last bell rings, signaling the beginning of class. I’m officially late to English. Worse yet, it means that the GPS signal on my tab will soon give my location away, and whatever administrator is nearest will happily come and collect me.
I only have a few minutes.
After what seems like an eternity, I reach the eighth floor. I quietly walk down the hall, peering in the window of each classroom to see if Josh is inside, but he isn’t there. We’re not allowed to have our tabs on during class, but I text him anyway, just in case.
On 8th floor. What class r u in?
Then I see something odd—the door to the B stairwell closing automatically, as if someone just entered through it.
The B stairwells are to be used only in case of emergency. In fact, I’ve never even been inside one. I swipe my passcard near the lockpad and the door slides open. Directly opposite me is another door that leads outside to the flat tar roof. It must be left over from before this building was remodeled, because it’s heavy steel and still has a handle, which I try turning, but it won’t budge.
I’m not about to retreat.
I put all of my weight against the heavy steel door, pushing with my back and using my quad muscles to provide most of the force. The door nudges open, ever so slightly, allowing me to leverage all my strength to shove it the rest of the way.
That’s when I see Josh on the opposite side of the roof.
Talking to Avery Leavenworth.
I can’t hear a word of what they’re saying, but I don’t have to.
Josh is handing Avery the QuTap I used to take data off the quantum computer at Orexis—my father’s computer, damn it.
“No!” I yell, my voice filled with pure venom.
Josh turns toward me and for a moment our eyes lock. I can’t think. I can’t feel. But when my gaze shifts toward Avery and she pulls her frizzy red hair back from her face and gives me a smug, self-satisfied smile, my entire body feels like it’s been thrown into an inferno.
“Regan Welch!” I hear someone shout.
The deep, booming sound startles me, and I step back clumsily, crashing into a wall of bulk and flab. I turn around and see Mr. Oxbow, the tenth-grade vice principal with the highest rate of issued demerits, standing there frowning at me. I would say that he’s angry, but since he always looks really aggravated, it’s hard to gauge his feelings.
Even so, there’s no way he could be more furious than me.
“Get to class,” he says through clenched teeth. “Now!”
I look back toward Josh, ready to sell him and Avery out to Mr. Oxbow, but I’m too late.
They have somehow disappeared.
With everything that was important to me.
And perhaps even more.
TabTalk Message
From: Heywood, Joshua
To: Welch, Regan
5:27 p.m.
Don’t be mad. I can explain. Call me when you get this.
TabTalk Message
From: Heywood, Joshua
To: Welch, Regan
6:09 p.m.
Sorry. Know I hurt u. But u have 2 hear my side of the story.
TabTalk Message
From: Welch, Meredith
To: Welch, Regan
6:33 p.m.
Are u ok? Just saw the report on Mr. Caldwell’s son/
Elusion. Can’t believe this is happening. InstaComm me
@ work when u get home.
TabTalk Message
From: Heywood, Joshua
7:14 p.m.
Why aren’t u answering? Pls write or call back.
TabTalk Message
From: Heywood, Joshua
To: Welch, Regan
7:29 p.m.
Going to yr place. Hope u r there.
TabTalk Message
From: Simmons, Patrick
To: Welch, Regan
7:52 p.m.
Need to c you. V urgent. Meet me @ office around 9?
TabTalk Message
From: Heywood, Joshua
To: Welch, Regan
8:47 p.m.
The Ice Cave, 10 pm. Code 9017. Pls come.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
TWELVE
I’M STANDING IN FRONT OF OREXIS HEADquarters during an acid-rain downpour with a brand-new umbrella hovering above me. My socks are beginning to soak through, and the hems of my pants are like wet rags. As a gust of wind blows, I breathe into my O2 shield, clutching the handle of my umbrella with a death grip, my legs glued to the sidewalk.
I’m not the only one outside weathering this flash storm. I’m huddled with a pack of journalists, vloggers, and all sorts of media juggernauts, who are waiting to pounce on any high-ranking Orexis official for a comment on today’s big news, but they’re not having much luck. There’s a wall of stiff-postured security guards looming in front of all the entrances to Orexis, preventing anyone from getting too close.
Even though I’ve been here ten minutes, I haven’t yet made my way to the door. Why?
Betrayal. Disappointment. Loneliness. Fear.
These emotions have been hitting me in rapid-fire succession ever since this morning, and I want all of them gone.
But if that’s really true, why did I bother coming down here when Patrick said he needed me? I’ve been thinking about that question since I arrived, and I still can’t answer it. Maybe I want to confront him about Anthony. Maybe I want him to comfort me about Josh. Maybe I want to confess about the QuTap before Avery can pillage it and sell me out. Those all seem like perfectly good reasons, but I haven’t called to tell Patrick I’m just fifty feet away from his office building.
I can’t bring myself to do it.
Another burst of torrential wind blasts me and two or three other people near the back of the horde. Soon the Inner Sector will turn into a red zone. I think back to the calm conditions from this morning. Every day, something happens to remind me how fragile our world is. It can split open over and over and over again, and nothing can prevent that.
My umbrella kicks back hard, leaving my face exposed to the elements. I wipe at my eyes, which are already burning. Once I’ve gotten the grit out of my lashes, I see a lone figure exiting a secret side door on the far left of the building—sometimes my dad would use it to beat all the foot traffic. I take a few steps away from the cluster of reporters, moving slowly so I won’t arouse suspicion. As I close in, I can see the person is a woman, quite tall and wrapped in some kind of shimmering silver hooded cape, with a rebellious curl of white-blond hair poking out. My gaze shifts down and I recognize a pair of familiar jewel-toned designer shoes. Her steps become more hurried, like she’s trying to escape.
“Cathryn?” I say.
Her pace grinds to a halt when she hears her name, and she looks at me with surprise. “Regan? What are you doing out here?” She quickly glances at the media camp, and when she sees they haven’t detected her, she takes hold of my free hand and places it against her cheek, gasping when she feels how terribly cold my skin is. “Oh my God, you’re going to freeze to death.”
“I was . . . waiting f-for Patrick.” Now my teeth are chattering. She’s right; I just might turn into a human icicle.
“What? I sent him home an hour ago,” Cathryn says, her voice sounding a bit hollowed out through the speaker on her O2. “He was being hounded. Calls, texts, everything.”
I don’t say anything. My mind is kind of anesthetized, and suddenly I’m having trouble reacting.
“Come with me—we’ll get you warmed up.” Cathryn reaches out and hails an extra-stretch maroon luxury sedan that stealthily pulls up to the curb without its lights on. She puts her arm around me and leads me to the car. A pudgy man in a suit and cap darts out of the driver’s-side door and helps us into the back.
I close my umbrella and duck inside, sliding across the leather seat as Cathryn follows close behind me. Once the door is shut, we take off our O2 shields and she pulls her hood down, revealing a beautiful face that has not one fine line or wrinkle or any other imperfection. It’s uncanny how much she and Patrick look alike. Their eyes are these serene pools of aquamarine, and they have the same chins—strong and somewhat narrow, but with this dimple that makes them both look so youthful and innocent.
She pulls off one of her nylon-blend gloves and presses a button on the intercom, which is located on a glass media panel built into a retractable wall adjacent to one of the windows.
“Fiske, could you please take us to the Historic Sector? And call ahead to the patrols so they can make sure the private-access tunnels are open. It’s still going to be bumper-to-bumper out on the main roads.”
A voice crackles back, “Yes, ma’am.”
She’s taking me home, the last place I want to be. Then again, I don’t have anywhere else to go, do I? Unless I ask Cathryn to bring me back with her to the estate. I could stay in the wing with the least amount of activity and lock myself away for a while. Cowardly as that sounds, it seems like the answer to my problems.
“Are you all right?” Cathryn places her hand on my knee.
I know she’s just being nice, but how can she ask me that when flocks of bloodthirsty field correspondents have surrounded Orexis, and negative reports about Elusion are running rampant on every news outlet? She doesn’t seem fazed by any of it.
Not that this should catch me too off guard. I’ve known Patrick’s mom for a long time, and she has always been a bit . . . impervious to everything. Except for when her son wasn’t living up to his potential.
That was the only thing that seemed to strike a nerve.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I say, feeling my fingers and toes beginning to thaw.
She unhooks her cape, revealing a very expensive, high-collared silk blouse. “I’m sorry you missed Patrick. He could really use a friend right now.”
I want to tell Cathryn that I could use a friend too, but mentioning that seems woefully inappropriate considering I stole intellectual property from her company just yesterday.
I clear my throat and ask, “How’s he doing?”
“He’s a nervous wreck, I’m afraid,” she says, sighing. “You know how much I adore Patrick, but the slightest bit of pressure just completely overwhelms him.”
It sounds as though she’s criticizing him for being upset by what’s happened, even though that seems like a pretty normal response, given the circumstances. I’m almost compelled to defend him. Instead, I look out the window at the lights on the curved walls of the narrow tunnel, which are creating a blurry cone of golden yellow and milky white around the sedan.
“I worry he’s too much like his father,” Cathryn continues, her tone now perfectly clear and pinched. “Ambitious, smart, but not cut out for the high-stakes strategizing and head games of big business.”
Head games. That’s exactly what Josh played with me. Last night, Patrick insinuated that Josh was acting out some kind of vendetta, and that getting close to me was part of that plan. It seemed like a wild accusation then, but now that I know Josh gave the QuTap to Avery—who literally hates me—and leaked some of the information that we were investigating together, how can I think anything else?
But what about all those messages that Josh sent me? He said he wanted to explain. His sister is still missing—maybe everything he did today was because he is desperate to get her back?
; “You’re being too hard on him,” I say after a few seconds of silence.
Funny thing is, I don’t know who I’m talking about.
“You’re right,” she murmurs.
When I turn back to Cathryn, her shoulders have slouched forward a little and she is wringing her hands in her lap.
Definitely not her usual body language.
“I know I’ve made mistakes, and he’s paid the price for them,” she begins.
“Like what?”
She looks at me, a hint of embarrassment on her lips. “Well, somewhere along the way, I think my pride in him became more important than what was best for him. I let him fast-track school, I let him intern at Orexis, and I let him take over the Elusion project when your father—” She stops herself. “I never said no, Regan. I haven’t protected him enough.”
“But you only want him to succeed,” I say. “You’ve done whatever you could to make sure he has every opportunity to be what he wants to be.”
Deep down, I’ve always known the truth—together she and my dad did so much more for Patrick than anyone else because he had this unlimited potential. However, I also know something Cathryn may not—that her son can keep secrets from the people he cares most about, and risk the lives of people like Anthony Caldwell, Nora Heywood, and perhaps even my father.
She may be the president of Orexis, but in many ways she is merely a figurehead at the company. Cathryn doesn’t run the show day-to-day. She might be totally in the dark about Elusion’s apparent corruption, and someone we both know could very well want to keep it that way.
So I have to see for myself.
“Cathryn, are the claims in the news about Elusion true?”
Her eyes snap back to me, the blue irises tinged with fire. Clearly, I’ve put her on the spot, or offended her. But soon she softens and gently runs a hand down my arm—something that Patrick used to do all the time when I was afraid.
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