Soulprint

by Megan Miranda

  I feel hands on my arms and metal on my wrists and a knee in my back. I cannot see Casey or Cameron as I’m yanked to my feet and led to the back of a police car. Someone guides my head so I don’t hit it on the roof, and then I’m tossed across the seat, no free hands to brace my fall. The door shuts behind me.

  I can’t see what’s going on outside, through the chaos of the people. I can’t hear what’s happening, through the static of the radio. I can’t do anything more.

  I close my eyes, and I picture my mother out there somewhere. I wonder if she sees the news. What she thinks of this. Of me.

  Chapter 27

  I am kept in a hotel room, somewhere near my island—where the original event took place. They are careful not to call my escape a crime, because that implies I had been held captive. But still, I am kept. It is not a prison, or a containment. Not exactly. But it is a room with a guard just outside—it’s for my own protection, I am assured.

  I spent one day inside a cell while they sorted everything out, but they could not hold me any longer without charges. Not even for my own protection. Not with the public watching so closely. Not with the endless debating on television, which I have now come to love. It may save me this time, public opinion. Which is all law really is, anyway.

  We make our laws, and then we must suffer for them.

  I’ve been in this place for six days now, and I’m growing anxious.

  Casey, Cameron, and I were kept in different rooms, paid for by public donations to our cause. Yet again, I have become a cause.

  Cameron spent the first two days in the hospital, and he was here for only one night before he and Casey left for their sister’s memorial. I felt better when Casey was in the same building, but she and Cameron have been gone for four days now.

  Even when they were here, we had very little contact.

  We were watched at all times. We were never left alone together. I know we were all walking a line, each afraid to cross it.

  Casey hadn’t spoken about her sister other than that one morning over breakfast, before Cameron returned. “I just don’t feel like she’s gone,” she said.

  But the thing is, she’s not. Just like June isn’t. Not entirely. I hope that thought gives her comfort.

  Ivory and Mason are under investigation—kept under house arrest—but Dominic is gone. Disappeared through the tunnels during the chaos.

  I am the only one here, once again.

  The news reported that Casey has struck some kind of deal in the days after the memorial. And, they say, if she is free, then the logic goes that Cameron should also be free. And then maybe I will be free. But in the meantime, I am not eighteen yet, and there are legal loopholes to examine and stories to dissect and truths to create.

  My lawyer said that part of Casey’s deal will be her cooperation with the federal division of cyber crimes—I guess technically they have recruited her. Part of me thinks this will make her happy, that she will love it, but I haven’t had a chance to ask her. I don’t know if I will. I don’t know whether she will come back.

  Cameron and Casey will not need the public’s funds any longer. They don’t have to come back here, once they are set free. He and Casey will inherit the money that Ava had left to herself in her previous life. Once they are free, they will truly be free.

  I tried to catch Cameron in the hotel lobby as he left for the memorial. But I barely got a chance to say anything other than sorry as he and Casey were ushered past me, through the open glass doors and into the back of a black SUV, disappearing down the road.

  And so I am in a room, alone, with a television and a laptop and a window blocked by trees—no view in, but no view out, either. With a guard outside and the media out front and a lawyer who sits in the lounge all day and doesn’t let anyone question me anymore.

  The news is on again—this time, it’s a talk-show-style debate about Ivory Street and the falsified study. They cannot disprove the study for certain without going back into the database; but they also cannot prove it. They show June’s math on the screens, pictures captured from the video I took in the van and enlarged for all to see. Our fates will be decided by the public. Not science. Not law. I know that.

  We cannot be reduced to numbers. A human being isn’t quantifiable.

  Even if we could find out for sure—whether one life affects the next, whether our nature is predetermined—people keep saying it’s better not to know. There’s too much at stake. Too many consequences. We want to believe in free will here. We want to believe in the power of redemption here. That we are always capable, for this life or the last, of making each life worth something.

  What I would give for that chance—what I have given for that.

  Nobody’s sure what to do about Dominic. Where he fits in the balance of good and evil, right and wrong. If Cameron, Casey, and I are to be free, then shouldn’t he be as well? I think about telling the investigators about the gun, and the way he pointed it at Casey, the way the bullet grazed my skin. That’s a crime with a standard punishment. An accepted consequence.

  But part of me does believe in some sort of karmic justice, and my soul cost him his life once before. I do not want to be responsible for the containment of his soul anymore.

  I have given them the location of the hideaway, so sure he would be there. And the cabin, too, but it had been destroyed. It doesn’t seem fair to me that he should be out there when I am still being held. But then I think of June, driven underground, unable to show her face. Out, but not free. And then I think that maybe it’s fitting.

  There are different types of prison, after all.

  Besides, Dominic has too many cards to play. He’s too smart. He’ll strike a deal if he gets a taste of containment—maybe end up like Casey. I don’t want to be anywhere nearby when he crawls out of the woodwork. I need to shake myself free of his obsession as well. I have this fear that he is in a basement somewhere, watching us. Hacking into the security feed of the hotel, watching my keystrokes on the computer. Sometimes I write him notes, typing and deleting them in a blank document, just in case he is watching.

  Go live, I tell him. Live this life.

  Sometimes I type I’m sorry.

  I don’t know for sure whether he’s alive or dead, but he’s a ghost to me either way.

  I’m lying on my stomach with the laptop propped up between myself and the television. I scroll through a new article I find and stop at the bottom, at the comments section. It’s become an obsession, reading the comments on the articles and the blog posts. I probably shouldn’t, but I cannot stop. The opinions vary, but the majority are in support of my freedom. Many offer their homes, their names, their help. I’ve read thousands. And still I cannot stop.

  Because the first article I read, three pages down in the comments, I found this, sent from an anonymous account:

  I wonder what you dream of, niña. I hope you find it.

  And I remembered that commenter from the article we read in the school computer lab.

  Where she might go, one can only dream.

  So I began an endless search, every place our video feed appeared. Every news site, every blog, every online journal. I read every comment, searching and searching for more.

  I’ve found 107 comments. Every one from an anonymous source. Every one the same:

  I wonder what you dream of, niña. I hope you find it.

  There aren’t any comments left on this one yet. So I close the article and bring up that video feed of my mother, the only time she spoke to the press. I watch it again, even though I know it by heart. But I like to see the shape of my eyes mirrored back at me as she speaks. In truth, there’s a lot I get from her. Not everything comes from June, from my soul. We are more than that—a combination of genetics and the soul and the experience of our lives. And something more, I am sure.

  “I used to sing her a lullaby,” she says on the video. “Same as my mother used to sing to me. She can find me there, in her dreams.” I see myself refl
ected in her. Her eyes. Her resistance. Her refusal to barter with lives. And her ability to bide her time, to trust that I might find her.

  Go to sleep, and we will see each other in the land of dreams. Tierra de Sueños.

  She can find me there, she told the media—she was telling me.

  Find me there.

  I am not supposed to leave. It’s for my own protection, I am told. But there’s a gaping void the size of a lifetime that can fit between “not allowed to” and “not supposed to.” I have read the comments. I have listened to the news. I believe they will let me go. I believe that if I walk out that front door and turn down the street and wave good-bye, nobody will stop me.

  I am not okay with waiting for someone else to decide my fate.

  But I sit here, still, on the seventh day, growing anxious and antsy and claustrophobic.

  I sit here still, because after I said sorry to Cameron as the lobby doors slid open, he leaned in close, placed his cheek against mine, even though the cameras were on us. And he whispered, “Wait.”

  Because he knows. I will not stay here long.

  My lawyer has requested a meeting over lunch, which I am all too happy to take, because it’s in the dining hall and not this room, and she will not allow anyone to follow us.

  She’s eating a salad with slices of fruit and nuts sprinkled on top, and I order the same because my mind is ten thousand miles away.

  “I’m working on declaring you an emancipated minor,” she says. “Are you okay with that?”

  I shift in my seat. Emancipated means free, so at least this is in the right direction. “How long will this take?”

  She chews on her lettuce for an eternity before speaking. “First, we file a petition with the court. Then we go from there.”

  “Sure,” I say. “Let’s file the petition.” But I am used to laws that are bent to contain me, not a court that grants me freedom. It makes me nervous. It’s a nice thought, though. It might just work. Too bad I won’t be sticking around long enough to find out. Maybe they can emancipate me in absentia.

  The guard to my room is returning with his sandwich delivery at the same time I’m walking down the hall. I slide my key into the door and nod at him. He nods back, his mouth full of bread and chicken as he slides into the chair.

  I step into the room and I smile—there’s a bag in the corner that does not belong to me, and there’s a guy standing beside it, leaning against the wall. I turn on the television, turn the volume up high, before going to him.

  “You waited,” he says before I get to him. He’s quiet, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the guard outside or because of where he just was and what he went through.

  “Of course I waited,” I say.

  He smiles, but he doesn’t come closer.

  I do not know what to do with this new Cameron, this version of him who has lost a sister. “How’s Casey?” I ask, which seems like the safest way to find out how he is.

  He shrugs. “Okay. Devastated and angry, but she’ll be okay. Better today than yesterday. Better yesterday than the day before.” He pushes off the wall then, meets me halfway. “Ava’s been gone for a year, Alina. It’s … there’s some comfort in knowing the truth, even if it’s not what you were hoping for.”

  “You’re okay,” I say.

  “I’m okay,” he says. “Better now that I’m here.”

  “You came back,” I say.

  His eyes shine. “Of course I came back.”

  He leans closer, but there’s a commotion in the hall. I turn the volume down on the television and hear the guards speaking to each other. “Cameron checked in, but he’s not in his room. Have you seen him?”

  Cameron laughs. “I wanted to come see you before heading to my room. I didn’t know if there were rules about room visits, so I figured it was a better plan to just not find out …”

  I knock on the door and tell the guard, “Cameron is fine.” And the commotion stops. I don’t think anyone knows if there’s a protocol for this.

  But then the talking picks up again.

  He rolls his eyes. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.” His face goes serious. “What’s the plan, Alina Chase? They’re not going to let me stay much longer.”

  But just in case, I move the lock at the top of the hotel door, to slow them down.

  “You better sit down,” I say.

  I sit beside him on the edge of the queen bed and show him my laptop, the comments I’ve found, the video of my mother. I sing him the lyrics. He’s watching me with his head tilted to the side.

  “She’s telling me to come,” I say.

  “Are you sure it’s her? It could be anyone—it’s anonymous.”

  “Yes. No. I’m not sure,” I say. “But I believe it is.” How insidious a belief can be, coloring all of my decisions. I shrug, playing it off, closing the laptop. “But if not, I hear there’s an ocean. Maybe I’ll finally learn to swim.”

  He smiles and pulls me close, his hands around my back, his face close to mine. “I think it’s her. I hope it’s her.”

  So do I. Hope must be contagious, too. And, I think, if I am so full of the hope that maybe she has waited these seven years for me after the failed escape, then maybe so is she. Maybe she has hope still that I will make my way to her.

  I pull back from him, and I tell myself to look brave, look calm, don’t cry. “I have to go,” I whisper.

  For a second, I think he’ll try to talk me out of it. To be honest, I hope he tries. “I’ll come back and find you,” I say. “I promise.”

  But he stands and goes to the window, where he picks up his bag, pulling it open. “There’s still some room,” he says. “I packed light.”

  And when he sees the look on my face, he smiles and says, “One more crime, for old time’s sake? Honestly, I’ve kind of missed it.”

  He pushes the screen from the window, but there’s a two-story drop. I reach out, my hands testing the nearest branch. “You sure?” Cameron asks.

  “Ha,” I say. “How’s your back?” I ask. “Can you do it?”

  He holds my waist and helps me hoist myself onto the branch. I wrap my legs around it and scoot closer to the trunk, and I laugh as he mumbles, “Of course I can do it.”

  We make our way down the tree, branch to branch. Cameron stays close, in case I need an extra hand—or in case he does. We drop the remaining distance together, and I laugh as he stumbles on the landing. He puts a hand over his shoulder, reaching down his back. “I have an injury, don’t mock me—some girl saved my life by taking a knife to my back. Such is love, so I hear.”

  And then he’s the one smiling and I’m the one stumbling, but he’s definitely not wrong. “So I hear,” I say.

  There’s no pattern to falling in love. At least, nothing I can understand. Not something I could see beforehand. Not something I can decipher after, either. Trust can be earned, piece by piece, like links of a chain. But love is more like faith, or belief: it’s a leap. It’s hurtling over the edge of the cliff and trusting you will not drown.

  “What are you thinking about?” Cameron asks. He’s looking at me as if he can read something on my face, but it’s also a challenge.

  “You,” I say, and I feel my smile mirroring his.

  He closes the distance between us. “Just so we’re clear,” he says, “I’m here because this is the only place I want to be.”

  “Outside a hotel?”

  “Alina,” he says. “I’m trying to tell you something.”

  I already know. But I love how he wants me to be sure of him.

  “Clear,” I say, the second before he kisses me.

  There’s a commotion nearby, near the corner of the hotel, as we pull apart. And I see a single reporter, his camera on his shoulder, his press badge swinging across his button-down, his eyes fixed on me and Cameron. I pick up Cameron’s bag, swing it over my shoulder, and hold up my hand in greeting. He holds up his free hand as well. I smile—at him, at the camera—and I wave good-b
ye.

  “Wait,” he says, as I turn away. Cameron takes my hand, and I can feel the tension in his grip—he’s ready to run. But the man rests his camera on its side in the thick grass, fishes inside his pocket, and tosses a set of keys in our direction. “It’s the black truck near the playground,” he says, gesturing through the trees. “If you’re looking for a ride.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  We race through the trees until we hit a park. I see children running across the grass, a girl with her head tipped back on the swing, a baby in a carriage while a woman rocks it gently back and forth. Some of them look at us, some of them smile. Some look away. But nobody stops us.

  The children go back to their game. The girl stretches her feet to the sky. The mother goes back to her baby.

  I want to believe it’s Genevieve, with her head tipped back, staring at the sky, and Ava, being rocked to sleep, beginning her life again right now. I hope, whoever they are, that they have a good life. I hope they live and love and know that there are people who love them back—in this life, and the last.

  “I really can’t wait to teach you to swim,” Cameron says, hanging an arm over my shoulder. “I mean, seriously, you’re horrible. It’s like you have no natural instinct for survival.”

  He opens the door of the mud-covered truck, and I climb in before him. “I bet you don’t even know how to drive,” he says.

  “Add it to the list,” I say.