by Ellery Kane
I watched my father’s face soften with relief.
After he said goodnight, I lay in bed, staring blankly at the television. Another rerun. Closing my eyes, I pressed against my wound until it ached. Despite my grimace, there was something oddly comforting about the pain. Its source was tangible. It was expansive. It could fill almost any emptiness. I wanted to sleep, but I was afraid to dream, afraid of hearing my final question—how?— still unanswered.
When I opened my eyes, my mother’s face looked at me from a small box at the upper left of the television screen. The words Heroine of the Resistance scrolled beneath her. I sat up in my bed, instantly wide-awake.
“Good evening from SFTV. I am your host, Barbara Blake, reporting live from Alcatraz Island, former headquarters of the United States Guardian Force, where we have a breaking news update.”
Just behind the perfectly groomed Barbara Blake were the burnt-out remains of the Model Industries building that had been leveled in the blast. Somewhere in those mountainous piles of rubble were the shreds and shards of all the Guardian Force research.
“Just three days ago, Dr. Victoria Knightley and a small team of crusaders took on the insurmountable task of defeating General Jamison Ryker and his rogue Guardian Force. Though our government sources have repeatedly confirmed that the program was originally intended to protect our city, under the supervision of Jamison Ryker, the Guardians were subject to a cruel and exploitative experimental protocol using Emovere and other banned substances.”
I shook my head in dismay. Not surprisingly, the government hadn’t stopped spinning their own version of events, disavowing any direct connection to Ryker’s methods or the use of emotion-altering substances. Whatever their agenda, it certainly didn’t involve transparency or the truth.
“Dr. Knightley, true heroine of the Resistance, exposed us all to the harsh reality of the Guardian Force. Tragically, she lost her life for her cause.” Barbara Blake cast her eyes downward in disingenuous despair.
I imagined my mother sitting next to me. I knew she would have rolled her eyes at the term heroine—bristling, not at the word, but at the irony of it all.
General Ryker’s picture appeared. He was wearing his full military garb, and his face was expressionless. Instantly, I recoiled, seeing another image—Ryker pulling that trigger. In the last few days it came to me often, flashing from the recesses of my mind, each time as horrifying as the last. I took a deep breath, and it was gone.
“In the days since Dr. Knightley’s passing, an official government investigation has revealed numerous indiscretions and blatant criminal activity on the part of General Ryker and his lieutenants. Our sources tell us that Ryker manipulated the government’s policies on terrorism to justify his use of private information to identify and recruit candidates who had experienced trauma. Additionally, those inside the Guardian Force have reported that General Ryker ordered the executions of at least two dozen rejected recruits, often dumping their bodies in the San Francisco Bay.”
I clutched the side of my bed and gasped. On the screen was a picture of Augustus. He was wearing a suit and a familiar, slick smile.
“Within the past twenty-four hours, our sources have also uncovered a second hero of the Resistance, a mysterious figure, Mr. Augustus Porter. Mr. Porter has presented compelling evidence that, as the elected leader of the Resistance, he learned of General Ryker’s evil schemes and planned to release video evidence of those wrongdoings before he was unfairly ousted from power. Though he graciously insisted that tonight’s broadcast be devoted to honoring Dr. Knightley, we are fortunate that the humble Mr. Porter has agreed to be interviewed for tomorrow evening’s report.”
My eyes widened in disbelieving disgust. Just as my mother had predicted, Augustus had slithered out from under his rock. He was somewhere, coiled and watchful, readying himself for a well-timed strike.
“Tonight, let’s take a moment to remember two true champions of our once-glorious city, Dr. Knightley and Augustus Porter. And please tune in tomorrow night for my exclusive interview with Mr. Porter. This is Barbara Blake, signing off for SFTV.”
My mother’s picture—the one from her Zenigenic badge—lingered on the screen until it faded to static. I closed my eyes, but I didn’t sleep. Instead, there was a memory turning in my mind.
I was eight and my mother was running late. It was already dark outside. I stood on our porch and watched the headlights pass without stopping. My father appeared unconcerned. To him, her return was inevitable. But I pictured her car mangled on the highway, her body lifeless. Worse, I tried to imagine my life without her, but I couldn’t. There was only blankness, a string of empty days that I simply knew I wouldn’t live through.
I never told Elana, but from that moment, I knew exactly what she meant about the worst thing. The worst thing was a bullet to the soul, a black hole in the middle of life, swallowing everything in its path.
I clicked open the locket around my neck, holding it close to my face—and closer still—until all I could see was my mother smiling back at me.
No matter what was coming—Augustus, Ryker, or some other nameless terror—I wasn’t afraid. I knew. I had lived through the worst thing. If you can live through that, nothing else can touch you.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
THE DOG-EARED PAGE
IN THE WEEKS THAT FOLLOWED, I returned home. My father moved back into our house in Tiburon. Though his face was becoming a familiar sight to me now, I still found myself occasionally jarred by his presence. Sometimes I just sat and watched him, observing his mannerisms, trying to locate pieces of myself in this kindred stranger.
Elana visited me often. She was living with her mother in Marin, and she rode her bicycle to my house at least once a week. When I had seen her last, she had seemed buoyant, even more radiant than usual.
“Have you seen Edison?” I asked her. I hadn’t talked to him in a few weeks since he had returned home. He was attempting to reconcile with his father.
Elana nodded, her face turning red.
“Why are you blushing?”
She laughed. “Edison sort of asked me on a date.”
“On a date?
Her smiled broadened.
“Elana! I thought you didn’t like him. You said he was obnoxious.”
“He totally is,” she said, still grinning. “But, it kinda works for him.”
We both chuckled.
“Are you sure you’re ready for that? Dating, I mean?” I asked, recalling our earlier conversation.
“Not really,” Elana admitted. “But it helps that we were friends first. I even told him what happened to me … all of it.”
“How did he react?”
Elana smiled. “Well, first he offered to … seriously injure those guys. He didn’t say it that nicely, of course.”
“Sounds like Edison.”
“Then he just listened to me. It was actually sweet. A little strange, but sweet.”
“Who would’ve thought Edison was so enlightened?” I joked.
“What are you two giggling about?” Max interrupted our laughter, Quin following close behind him. My father had allowed Max and Quin to stay with us—temporarily, as my father repeatedly emphasized to Quin—until we could all figure out what would come next.
“Edison,” Elana answered.
“Say no more,” Max deadpanned.
Quin chuckled and sat down next to me on the bed.
Eyeing us watchfully, Max grinned. “Let’s leave these two lovebirds,” he teased, linking arms with Elana.
After they left, Quin sighed with contentment as he lay back on my pillow. I lay next to him, not speaking. Our hands were linked between us. Feeling jealous, Artos jumped onto the bed and nudged his way to the middle, settling comfortably against Quin’s leg. Slowly I turned my head to look at Quin. Though we were touching, his eyes seemed to be somewhere else.
“Hey, Lex,” Quin said, noticing my gaze. His voice was tender, his eyes present again.<
br />
“Hey, yourself,” I teased, the words calling to mind a distant, precious memory.
Quin guided my face to his and kissed me softly.
“I want to show you something,” he said.
From my bedside table, he produced my mother’s poetry book. Since she died, I hadn’t opened it. It was too hard. He handed it to me.
“Open it.”
I looked at him quizzically. “Just open it?”
“You know which page,” he directed.
My fingers easily found the dog-eared page. Pressed inside was Quin’s note. I held it, looking up at him warmly.
“Not that,” he said, shaking his head. “Although …” He kissed me again.
Pushing him away from me gently, I turned my attention back to the page. Written in the margin, in my mother’s nearly illegible cursive handwriting, it read:
“Quin isn’t the only one who loves you, in case you forgot.” —Mom
EPILOGUE
QUIN WAS SITTING NEXT TO me, his fingers interlaced with mine. He was squeezing my hand tightly. On his wrist was a not-so-familiar tattoo. I thought Max had been joking that first day when I met him, but he had convinced Quin to turn his Guardian Force badge into a dragon. Max was right—it did look pretty tough. Quin said it reminded him that we can’t change the past, only the way we perceive it. For me, it was like the scar on my abdomen, a reminder that no one can pass through this life unmarked.
I scooted closer to Quin. The room was cold and colorless, the building so sterile, I wondered how it could sustain life. And there was something else—a heaviness—as if the air was thick with hope long-discarded, an endless parade of days wasted in a self-inflicted purgatory. I glanced toward the door. It was marked in large black letters: Dellencourt Visitation Room. Despite knowing that I could walk through that door, leave at any time, the sense of feeling trapped was tangible. Still, I had promised Quin I would do this with him. And being here, a place where she had been, somehow, I felt closer to my mother.
“Visitor for George McAllister?” The throaty voice bellowed from a heavyset woman in police garb. Expressionless, she gestured toward a door marked with a large number five.
Through the door’s small window, I saw a man. He bore a faded resemblance to the mug shot in Quin’s file. His eyes were surprisingly human, not the dark, cold marbles that I remembered. Quin and I both stood.
“I’ll be right here if you need me,” I said, touching Quin’s hand. I added, “My mom would be so proud of you.”
He nodded and turned from me, taking an audible breath.
“Quin?” He paused, listening. “I love you.”
“I know,” he replied without looking back. There was an undeniable certainty in his voice.
“Oh, do you?” I teased.
He glanced back toward me, a wide grin on his face. “How else do you think I made it here?”
I beamed at him, my heart surging. His words were unexpected, but true. Love was the how.
Without hesitation, Quin opened the door and walked through it.
COMING SOON
The adventures of Lex Knightley continue in Prophecy, the second book in the Legacy series.
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A HEARTFELT THANK YOU TO:
My editor, Ann Castro, and the team at AnnCastro Studios for giving the book its polish.
Laney Dobbs, Dawn Blacker, and Melissa Diedrich for giving this first time author a bit of confidence.
Last, but most and always—to Gar, my Quin McAllister—in plot and in life, for giving me the how.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ellery Kane is a forensic psychologist residing in the San Francisco Bay Area. She spends her days evaluating violent criminals and trauma victims. Legacy is her first novel.
For the one who has changed, but keeps meeting his old self again and again in society’s mirror.
“The present changes the past. Looking back you do not find what you left behind.”
– Kiran Desai, The Inheritance of Loss
PROLOGUE
THE FIRST TIME I MET Quin’s father, I couldn’t stop looking at his hands. His nails were clean and cut short. His ring finger was looped with a thin band of gold—standard prison issue—its presence a simple and unavoidable pronouncement. His grip was strong like Quin’s. When we shook hands, I felt his muscles contract, strangling mine in a vice, simultaneously polite and forceful. As he spoke, his hands were docile, folded, and resting on his thighs like two lap dogs. But it was impossible to forget those hands had another life—a past life—when they were vicious and untamed. Those hands were capable of devastation. Once, they were merciless. Once, they were red with blood. Once, they had killed.
CHAPTER ONE
JINX
THE NIGHT OF THE MURDER, the rain was falling so hard, so steadily, it seemed deliberate. But lying in my pretend houseboat, I didn’t mind its persistent drumming. I was wearing Quin’s T-shirt. His bare chest pressed snugly to me—front to back—close, like two books on a shelf.
“I think we have a serious problem, Ms. Knightley,” Quin announced in a playful voice.
I turned to look at him. He was propped on his elbow, leaning head to hand. He narrowed his eyebrows in an exaggerated frown.
“What’s that?” I tried not to smile.
“Now that you’re a college girl, you might be too good for me.” He rested his hand gently on my stomach, stirring me with his touch. “On second thought,” he added, “you’re definitely too good for me.”
“Hmm …” I pretended to entertain his concern. “I think you’re right. I should probably leave right now,” I teased, sitting up and reaching for my sweatshirt.
Quin pulled me back to him, as I squealed with delight.
“Looks like you’re stuck with me,” he whispered, his lips finding mine. I let myself get lost in Quin, the tangle of his arms, the labyrinth of his eyes. All my reverie—the entire world really—faded to background noise, until one insistent thought made its way through.
I wish it could always be this way. Looking back, now that I know what was coming for us, I realize the very moment those words echoed in my mind, they had become a jinx, an unfortunate invitation to the universe, a foretelling of doom.
Later that night, a noise jolted me from sleep. I lay still, barely breathing, not moving. I could hear the sharp, relentless tapping of the rain pattering against my window. Suddenly, a hollow thumping jarred me—a knock at the door. From the foot of my bed, Artos whined. I turned my head ever so slightly to look at the clock. 3:03 a.m. The time nothing good is awake. The knocking came again with increasing urgency.
“Lex?” My dad called from the hallway. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” My voice was feeble. I was half-asleep, half-afraid.
I heard the soft padding of my father’s bare feet down the hall. I shuddered, as I imagined him approaching the door with caution, peering out the rain-fogged window into the night, an unknown face staring back at him.
“Quin?” My father’s voice was haunting. Sharp with surprise, heavy with dread, it cut me to the quick.
After Quin and I left the boat that evening, he planned to visit his father. Ever since he was paroled, George McAllister lived in Oakland with his new wife, Shelly. I don’t trust him. I can’t trust him. I won’t trust him. I was trying to unthink some variation of that thought ever since Quin reunited with his father, but my suspicion stuck, and I couldn’t shake it. Now it resonated louder than ever.
Hurriedly, I pulled back my covers and headed for the door.
The sight of Quin hit me hard. He was standing in the door
way, drenched, a puddle of rain already forming beneath him. His face was pale, shocked. Drops of water fell from his hair and face, making it impossible to tell if he was crying. He looked pitifully toward my father, then to me.
“My dad’s been arrested,” he said. “Shelly is dead.”
CHAPTER TWO
WEIGHTED
FIVE MINUTES LATER, QUIN WAS seated on the sofa, staring vacantly at the wall. Artos was sitting at his feet, looking up at him anxiously. Two thick blankets draped Quin’s shoulders, but I could feel him shivering. I scooted closer to him, wrapping my hands around his bicep—under my palm I felt the indentation of Quin’s newest scar, where a Guardian Force bullet nicked him. That nick, a hair’s breadth in the wrong direction, caused Quin to drop his own weapon, leaving him and my mother at Ryker’s mercy. I traced the scar’s jagged border with my fingers. Then I found Quin’s hands under the blankets and enveloped them in mine. At my touch, Quin turned to look at me. He started to speak but stopped. I knew he was broken.
My father came from the kitchen, carrying a steaming cup of coffee. He presented it to Quin and sat on the chair facing us. “I know it’s hard, Quin, but you have to tell us what happened. Just start at the beginning,” my father encouraged.
Quin nodded but said nothing. I squeezed his hands. “Take your time,” I said. I could hear him breathing deeply, trying to steady himself.
“There’s not much to tell,” he began, looking at me. “When I left you, I drove to their apartment. There were people and police cars everywhere. The whole complex was cordoned off with yellow tape. Right away, I knew something was wrong. I just had that feeling, you know. I overheard some of the neighbors talking about what happened. When I asked them, they said some lady got stabbed.” Quin’s voice cracked. Tears welled in his eyes.