I close my eyes and tilt my head back, the sun warming my face, the ocean breeze cooling my skin. I’m thinking how peaceful it is here by the ocean, despite the occasional air horn that blares in the distance, when someone grabs me from behind. I open my mouth to scream, but the sound is stifled by a hand clamping over my mouth.
“Well, well, Miss Preston,” a voice I know all too well says. “It’s good to see you again.”
Before I can fight back, I feel a pinch in my neck, the ocean spins, and everything goes black.
14
SIENNA
My body is a leaden, dead weight. I can’t move anything, not my legs, not my arms, not even my eyelids. My eyes refuse to open. Only my other senses remain intact. Muffled voices move in and out of hearing range. The smell of disinfectant hangs thick in the air. My mouth is dry and cottony and feels like it’s stuffed with a thousand paper towels. When I try to move my hand, my fingers twitch, causing a slight rustle of medical bed paper.
My right eyelid is forced open, and then I’m staring at a bright red light. The light has several rings around it, like a bullseye. The fingers holding my eyelid let go, and then move to the left. There’s no pain, no pressure, only a feeling of numbness from my head to my toes.
I focus on the voices around me. One is male, deep, and oddly enough, sounds very familiar. It’s not Radcliffe’s voice, I’m sure of that, but I can’t place it. Or recall how I recognize it.
“She volunteered to have her DNA altered, you say?” the one voice speaks.
Another voice I don’t recognize. “Yeah. Just walked right up and turned herself over to Radcliffe. Something about being an orphan and knowing there’s mental illness in her family. Didn’t want to risk getting the same disease or something.”
Me. They’re talking about me. I try to force my eyes open, concentrating every last bit of energy on my eyelids. They open a tiny sliver, and bright white light forces its way in. Wincing, I squeeze them shut before trying again.
The room is blurry, fuzzy. White pendant lights hang from the ceiling and warm my body like an artificial sun. Everything is white—and sterile.
A figure moves into view, and even though it’s blurry, I try to focus on the person’s face. It’s a man, an older gentleman dressed in a white lab coat with salt-and-pepper hair. He leans closer when he sees my eyes open, and my throat goes even drier, if that’s possible.
I blink a few times, my eyelids so heavy they feel like they’re coated in honey. I expect the face to change, to look different, but it’s the same. The same brown eyes, the same graying hair, the same lines around his mouth.
No. This can’t be real. I must be hallucinating.
I try to open my mouth to ask them what drug they gave me. To tell them I’m seeing things. But nothing works. Not my mouth or my tongue. My mind floats just beyond reach, past the point of making sense.
My father is dead. I saw him right after he died. I watched them bury his body.
And yet, this man—this man who moves around me and studies me with the clinical eye of a doctor—looks exactly like my father, right down to the tiny scar on his chin.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. And I will suffocate right here.
I try to inhale, but it’s as if a ton of bricks are pressing down on my chest. My mouth works like a fish, but no words come out. No words and no air.
“Elevated heart rate. She’s showing signs of distress.”
And of course I recognize the voice now. The voice of the man who soothed me when I had bad dreams as a child; the man who taught me how to find Ursa Major by studying the stars; the man who undoubtedly is my father.
My eyes roll back into my head, and blackness consumes me.
***
I’m floating above my body, looking down, looking down on the pale body of a red-haired girl who’s lying on a paper-lined bed. A girl with a small locket hanging from her neck. The dark-haired doctor is checking vitals while the two women in lab coats write things down on a clipboard. The room is white, sterile, and uninviting.
When the man pricks me with a needle, inserting an IV, I don’t feel a thing. The body on the table jerks in response, but it’s not me. That girl isn’t me because I’m right here. How can I possibly be two places at once?
For a moment, I feel a sense of escape, yet I’m not sure what I’ve escaped from. All I know is that I feel a freedom I can’t explain. But as the man turns, and with fear in his eyes, pleads with the girl on the table to breathe, it all comes rushing back, like an ocean wave crashing over me, drowning me with the truth.
I haven’t escaped anything. The knowledge is right there, teasing me, tormenting me.
My father is alive.
In an instant, I feel as though I’ve been kicked in the chest, and all the air leaves my lungs. When I look down, I see that the man, my dad, is giving me CPR.
Every inch of skin from my fingers to my toes tightens until I feel like I might rip through my skin. My chest squeezes like it’s being gripped with an iron fist. I press my eyes closed and try to scream, but no sound escapes. There’s a final tightening, a slight whoosh of air, and then my body feels heavy again as I inhale a long, raspy breath.
“Thatta girl. Breathe in. Nice and slow,” the man says.
When I open my eyes, I find him staring at me, a small smile tweaking the corner of his mouth. That smile is so familiar it brings tears to my eyes. I’ve longed to see my dad smile, ached for his touch. And now, here he is, only inches away, and the most I can do is cry.
I try to speak instead. “Daddy,” I whisper, but it’s too soft. He can’t hear that. Wetting my lips with my tongue, I try again. “Daddy?”
He tilts his head and gives me a sympathetic smile before looking across the room. “You told me this girl is an orphan. That she has no parents to speak of.”
“That’s right. She’s a nobody.” Wait. I recognize that voice. The voice of the man I hate more than anything or anyone who’s ever walked the face of this earth. The man who ruined my life.
“Then why is she asking for her father?” My dad’s face is slightly skeptical.
“She’s probably just disoriented. She had a pretty big dose of Anamarin when we brought her in.”
I try to turn my head to see him, this man I hate, but my neck is too stiff to move.
“Why did you give her Anamarin?” Dad asks.
“She was nervous. We thought it would help calm her down.”
Liar.
“And you say that she volunteered?” Dad checks my vitals once more. His fingers are warm against my wrist.
“That’s correct. Said she wanted to help improve our society.”
A light flashes in my eyes, blocking my vision and causing black spots. “You gave us quite a scare,” my dad murmurs, and I know he’s talking to me. But what I don’t understand is why he’s not happy to see me? Why hasn’t he pulled me into his arms and whispered that everything is going to be okay? Why is he pretending not to know me?
“Please keep me abreast of her progress over the next few days,” Radcliffe says, his voice drawing closer. As he leans over the bed, I try to look away, but he’s there, only inches from my face, and I can’t move. “When we’re through with you…” he whispers, his mouth mere inches from my ear. “You’ll barely remember your name, much less that you ever had a thing for Trey Winchester.”
Fear grips my chest and claws its way up my throat. I try to spit at him, but my mouth isn’t working properly, so the only thing I manage to do is drool on myself.
Radcliffe laughs as he leans back. “I see you haven’t lost your spunk.” He winks at me. “It’s only a matter of time.”
I watch as he hobbles to the door, his titanium legs peeking out from the hem of his pants. The door closes behind him and I turn expectantly to look at my dad, sure he’ll drop the act now that Radcliffe is gone. But he’s too busy sitting on a stool in front of a computer screen, analyzing the lines and data that are pictured there.<
br />
“Dad,” I whisper, trying to get his attention. He doesn’t hear me, so I try again, louder. “Dad.”
This time, he looks up, startled. Almost in a daze, he slides off the stool and walks over to the bedside.
“Dad, please,” I whisper hoarsely. “It’s me, Sienna.”
“Just relax, Sienna. As soon as I’m done studying your body scan and DNA, we’ll begin the procedure.”
My eyes widen. Procedure? What procedure?
I give a low whimper. “Help me, please.”
I feel his hand rest on mine. “It’s okay. There’s no need to be afraid. I promise you won’t feel any pain. We’ll keep you heavily sedated the next few days until all phases of the procedure are complete.”
Tears fill my eyes. Why is he talking like this? Why does he refuse to acknowledge me?
“Dad,” I whisper, trying one more time. “I want to go home.”
He gets a sad look in his eyes before he says, “But, sweetie, you ran away from your home. Remember?”
And that’s when it all comes crashing down. The truth I was denying. The reality I refused to believe.
My dad is alive. But he doesn’t know me.
15
ZANE
When Sienna hasn’t returned by nine o’clock that night, I’m angry. By ten, I’m wary. And by midnight, I’m panicked.
Arian has long since gone to bed, and now I pace the living room floor, waiting for the front door to open and Sienna to apologize for staying out so late, for making me worry.
But she never comes through the door.
By the next morning, when she still hasn’t returned, and she won’t answer her Lynk, I know what I have to do. I was saving it for an emergency, but now that she’s missing, this qualifies as one.
On my Lynk, I access the tracker in her necklace. Sure, the butterfly locket is pretty, but it also keeps me connected to her, just like I told her at the train station. The map pulls up, and I lock onto her location. A red flashing light indicates that she’s in the ocean, not far from shore.
What the hell?
I zoom in. There’s a building in that exact spot, and a quick search reveals that it’s the Agency for Intelligence and Genetics, or AIG.
Letting out a slow breath, I lean back in the chair. She must have snuck in last night and is gathering information on Trey. If I bust in there now, I could ruin everything for her.
I decide to wait.
16
SIENNA
A thick fog settles around me, and I am like a boat bobbing in the ocean with no clear direction and no lighted path. The fog sweeps in and consumes my tiny vessel, drowning me in its thick haze, lending me no course. The occasional voice rouses me, but they are disembodied voices, only words without faces.
As I slip in and out of consciousness, I have no concept of time or place, only a lingering numbness and ache in my heart that must be associated with the constant needle pricks and DNA analyzation.
There are times I dream, of phoenixes and butterflies, but for the life of me, I don’t know why it’s always the two of them, like they’re interconnected somehow. I also dream of blonde curls, rolling meadows, and laughter in the wind. Sometimes I wonder if they’re dreams at all, or vivid memories. I wish I knew.
Most often, there’s a guy in these dreams, a dark-haired boy with a dimpled grin who coaxes me to do dangerous things. At the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean, he holds out his hand. “Come with me,” he says. When I refuse, he hurls himself over the cliff anyway. And when I look over the edge, he’s gone, his body swallowed up by the roaring ocean and surging tides.
Hours, days, maybe even years, pass like this; I really don’t know how long I’ve been here or where here is really. There’s only this nagging feeling like I should be somewhere else, doing something else. Is anyone looking for me? Does anyone care?
There’s a loud noise, like a door banging open, or maybe it’s not a door at all but a gunshot. Or a plate being thrown against the wall. I’m too tired to care. The numbness is thinning, leaving a residue of achiness—must be time for another dose.
There’s shouting—angry voices, male voices. Tubes plucked from my veins, solid arms beneath me, lifting me, carrying me. Cool air hits my skin; goose bumps rise on my arms and legs. I want to tell the person to put me back in the bed because I’m cold now, so very cold, but my mouth won’t open. Neither will my eyes.
The person holding me—a man, I think—says something. “Who gave you permission to do this?” His voice is angry, demanding. He shifts me in his arms, his grip tightening.
There’s a muffled response.
“I should have known Radcliffe is the one responsible for this.” The guy’s voice becomes low, threatening. “You tell Radcliffe that this just became very personal. He may have people in his pocket, but so do I.”
His angry strides jostle my body until my head flops onto his shoulder. It’s too heavy to hold upright anyway, so this is a nice place to rest it.
More cold air blows across my skin, and then there’s a brightness behind my closed lids like we’re only inches from the sun. I think my skin is melting off, each layer peeling back slowly, exposing the muscle, cartilage, and then bone underneath. I imagine myself a heaping pile of bones and sinew. Then I realize the sun is bright and yes, it’s really warm, but it’s not melting me away. I’m okay.
“Hang on,” the man’s voice says in my ear. “I’ve got you.”
Then we’re rocking, tipsy like, the smell of the salty ocean so strong I know it’s close. Seagulls caw like they’re flying directly overhead. The guy says something, and then I hear the gunning sound of an engine. From a boat perhaps?
I’m settled onto a lap as the guy takes a seat and grips me tighter. My head flops against his shoulder, my nose pressed into the soft flesh of his neck, and hands, warm hands, run up and down my arm. Then we’re moving, bobbing along, a slight misty spray hitting my skin. The rhythm of the boat, the undulation of the waves, is calming, and I find myself drifting back to sleep. After all, it is time for my next dose.
***
Hushed voices tiptoe around the room. My head feels clearer, less foggy, and my body less numb. When I try to open my eyes, they cooperate this time, and I see a room with gray silk curtains, cream walls, and sleek furniture. When I turn my head, I’m staring into the warm brown eyes of a guy I don’t know.
“Sienna,” he says. And that’s all it takes for me to remember. His smooth, deep, melodic voice.
Zane.
“Say it again,” I whisper. Why does it feel like it’s been forever since I’ve seen him?
His lips turn up into a smile. “Sienna,” he says, lingering on each syllable.
“Where have you been?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
He looks at me, confused. “What do you mean? I’ve been right here, waiting for you to wake up.”
“Wake up?”
Leaning close, he studies my face, his eyes searching every part. “You don’t remember?”
I give a little shake of my head, wincing as I do.
“You were in Radcliffe’s lab. They… experimented on you.”
The name Radcliffe vaguely rings a bell. But a lab? Why was I there?
I wet my lips with my tongue. “How long?” I manage to croak.
He clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “Two days.”
I search the recesses of my mind for any memory of the two days I spent in some lab. But there’s nothing. Just a fogginess I can’t explain or erase. I focus on eliminating the fog, clearing the clouds from my brain. I stretch my mind, searching for something, anything that will help me remember. Then, like a lighthouse illuminating a dark night, there’s an image of a man. Kind smile, brown crinkly eyes, salt-and-pepper hair.
I gasp, and Zane leans forward, watching me. I remember now—the lab, Radcliffe, the man who looked unmistakably like my dad… all of it.
“I remember,” I whisper. I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I di
dn’t.
Zane’s warm hand covers mine. “You okay?”
My eyes fling open. He’s staring at me with this concerned look on his face. “I think… I think my dad’s alive. He was in the lab.”
The concern on his face deepens. “You may think you saw your father, but—” He shakes his head sadly. “He wasn’t there. I can promise you that.”
“But he looked just like him,” I protest. “I even talked to him. He analyzed my DNA, convinced me it wouldn’t hurt.”
“Sienna, you were heavily drugged. It messes with your mind.”
“No, Zane. He was there. I saw him.”
“Sienna—” His fingers squeeze mine.
“It’s the truth,” I say, ripping my hand from his grasp. “I know what I saw.”
I remember the way the man’s eyes crinkled at the edges and how the lines around his mouth deepened when he smiled. He was so familiar. Even his voice sounded just like my father’s. But is it possible I hallucinated it all? Is it possible I only saw him because that’s what I wanted to see?
Zane’s voice is gentle when he speaks again. “When I got there, you were so out of it. You couldn’t have known anything. When I first saw you…” His voice hitches. “I thought you were dead.”
I shake my head, as if by doing so I can force the truth from my mind. I don’t want to believe it. I want to cling to the thought—to the hope—that my father may miraculously still be alive. But the idea is ridiculous. We buried my father over a year ago.
Like a swiftly moving river, the notion that my father’s alive is quickly getting swept away.
Of course Zane is right. Most of my time in the lab is one big, foggy blur. Obviously, the doctor I thought was my dad only looks like my dad, and I imprinted on him all those other qualities that made him seem familiar, fatherly even. His voice, his smile, his eyes. Given the circumstances, that explanation makes the most logical sense. I suddenly feel embarrassed for thinking my father could possibly still be alive. Talk about wishful thinking.
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