The Legacy Series Boxed Set (Legacy, Prophecy, Revelation, and AWOL)

by Ellery Kane

  “Then I saw my dad sitting in the back of the police car. He looked so …” Quin didn’t finish his thought.

  In my mind, I finished it for him. Guilty.

  “I—I couldn’t handle it—I just left.”

  My dad took an audible breath before speaking. “How do you know Shelly is dead?”

  “One of the SFTV reporters told me.” Quin wiped a runaway tear from his cheek. “He didn’t know who I was. He said she was stabbed repeatedly.”

  Though it was strange to admit to myself, imagining Shelly dead—murdered—was not difficult. From the moment I met her, she seemed weighted for tragedy, anchoring herself to all the wrong people and places, the ones who would sink her right down to the bottom of a deep, dark place.

  We first met at Dellencourt. She was waiting to visit George. I was waiting for Quin. She was twelve years younger than Quin’s father but didn’t look it. Life had worn her, like an old set of tires, right down to the tread.

  Trying to be polite, I asked, “How did you meet Mr. McAllister?” She giggled, her schoolgirl twitter a marked contrast to her weathered face. “You’ll never believe it. We met on the Internet. Love-knows-no-bars.com. Isn’t that a hoot?”

  I raised my eyebrows and nodded at her, taking her in. She had mousy bleach-blonde hair that fell flat and oily against her skin. She was thin but wiry—stronger than you’d expect. A vine of butterfly tattoos snaked its way along her arm, disappearing under her tank top. On her hand was a heart, inked in black with the name Mike.

  Barely registering my reaction, she kept talking, as if she couldn’t help herself. “My dad was in and out of prison—robbery—so I know how lonely it can be. That’s why I started writing him. I never thought I’d meet the love of my life in here, but George is different.” She spoke the word with conviction then pointed to Mike’s name. “I’ve been with some real losers. George is the only man who’s ever understood me. He knows how to treat a woman.”

  I tried to maintain a well-mannered look of interest, but inside I was reeling, wondering exactly how much she knew about the love of her life.

  “Isn’t it crazy?” she asked, leaning toward me with forced intimacy. “Father and son reunited after all this time.”

  “Pretty crazy,” I admitted, picturing Quin’s face, cautious but optimistic, when he told me his father would likely be granted parole.

  But right now, Quin looked utterly defeated, his desolation palpable. I ached for him.

  “Let’s try to get some sleep,” my father said. “We’ll figure out what to do in the morning.”

  Quin was quiet for a moment. Then he asked, “Where’s Max?”

  “I assumed he was with you,” my father answered, before glancing at me with concern.

  I was worried about Max too. In the last month, he had been disappearing for days without explanation. I shrugged my shoulders. “I haven’t seen him since yesterday, but I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

  After an hour or so, I watched as my father dozed off in his chair. Quin’s head was resting on my shoulder. His breathing was slow and even. Even Artos was asleep. I closed my eyes, but my mind was wired, fully alert.

  Then Quin’s voice, childlike, interrupted the silence. “Do you think he did it?”

  I wanted to say no to comfort Quin—it would have been a lie. I wanted to say yes to prepare him for what seemed inevitable—it would have crushed his hope. I couldn’t say either, so I feigned sleep.

  CHAPTER THREE

  BACK TO STONE

  ARTOS’ SANDPAPER TONGUE ON MY cheek awakened me the next morning. Next to me, Quin stirred, his arm loosely wrapped around my waist. I didn’t wake him. I just watched his eyelashes fluttering in a dream. On the chair, my father was snoring softly.

  “Lex, are you awake?” Max’s exaggerated whisper came from the kitchen.

  Carefully removing myself from Quin’s arms, I joined Max at the table. He looked down, avoiding my stare, as I sized him up. His eyes were tired, bloodshot; his skin was sallow. There was a small tear on his shirtsleeve and a yellowing bruise on his cheek.

  We spoke simultaneously, my words covering his.

  “Where were you?”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

  I started again. “We were worried about you. Quin’s dad—”

  “I know,” Max interrupted, handing me his computer tablet, opened to the SFTV webpage. The titillating headline: Inmate 243 Kills Again.

  I felt nauseous, as I read.

  George McAllister, age 40, previously known as Inmate 243, has been arrested for murder, following a reported domestic dispute with his wife of two years, Michelle McAllister, age 28. McAllister was released four months ago from Dellencourt Correctional Facility after serving 13 years for the murder of his first wife, Angela McAllister. Sources confirm Michelle McAllister was stabbed more than 10 times and was pronounced dead at the scene. McAllister was transported to county jail, where he is being held without bond. The circumstances surrounding the crime are currently under investigation.

  “Is that about my dad?” Quin asked, suddenly wide-awake. My father followed behind him.

  I promptly closed the tablet and handed it to Max. “I don’t think you should read it,” I said to Quin.

  Surprisingly, he didn’t argue. Instead, he turned his attention to Max. “Where were you last night?” Quin asked him. “You look…” His voice trailed off, as he considered Max with dismay.

  Max sighed. “I was out, okay? You don’t have to check up on me. Besides, don’t you have enough to worry about?”

  I opened my eyes wide in disbelief. I’d never heard Max snap at Quin.

  “You’re right,” Quin shot back at him. “I’m sorry I asked.”

  Max got up, his face ridden with guilt, and left the table, taking the computer tablet and its disastrous headline with him.

  “That was weird,” I said, trying to put a word to the nagging feeling I’d been having about Max since his return from a brief stay at his mother’s a couple of months ago. He’d told me nothing about the visit, but I suspected it didn’t go well.

  “I have to see my father,” Quin announced. His face was as emotionless as the day we met. Though I knew his expression lied, it made me uneasy to see how effortlessly he could slip back to stone.

  My father placed his hand on Quin’s shoulder. “We’re not letting you go alone.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  OAKLAND

  WITH EACH PASSING BLOCK, as we neared the jail in the heart of Oakland, my stomach’s brutal churning intensified. Now, seeing it for myself, I realized why my father never allowed me to come downtown with Quin before. Here, the city was a pit of despair, a glaring reminder that the improvements in the economy were not as far reaching as the government claimed.

  Panhandlers dotted the street corners. Their eyes issued harsh demands, even as I diverted mine. Just across from police headquarters was a homeless encampment. As far as I could see, tent after tent lined the block, spilling out into the street. On a nearby fence, pieces of a tattered, long-forgotten banner painted with the mark of the Resistance fluttered in the wind. The sight tugged at my heart. I couldn’t help but think of my mother.

  It was hard to believe she had been gone for over a year. Quin told me it would get easier—not better—but easier, and he was right. Some days, it wasn’t the first and last thing I thought of. Even so, my body never ceased knowing. It was like breathing, an involuntary reflex, knowing what’s gone. I imagined it was a bit like losing an arm or leg; absence assumed a presence of its own.

  As the stoplight flashed green, a young girl darted out in front of the car. She was barefoot. Her threadbare dress hung loosely from her frame, slipping from her shoulders as she ran, as if it belonged to someone much older. She froze for a moment, looking at us. Her eyes were purposeful, intentional.

  My father slammed on the brakes, jolting me forward. I braced myself with a hand to the dashboard and felt Quin steady himself against the back of
my seat. The girl didn’t move. As I feared, she was not a small, helpless animal, haphazardly crossing the street. There was something predatory in her gaze. From the corner of my eye, I saw a man stumble toward my window. His eyes were wild; his grin, toothless.

  “Ya almos hit ma daughter,” he slurred, pressing his face right up to the glass.

  I stared straight ahead.

  “I’m sorry,” my father said. “I didn’t see her. We don’t mean any harm.”

  The man ignored his apology. He held out a small baggie of assorted white pills, shaking them vigorously at me. “This what yar after? A little pick-me-up? A little slow-me-down?” In a mocking tone, he chirped, “How do ya wanna feel today?”

  I immediately knew what he was peddling. After the reported dissolution of the Guardian Force, the government further expanded the ban on emotion-altering medications (EAMs), making them an increasingly attractive black market commodity.

  “Look at me, girlie,” he mouthed. “Look at me!” He smacked the window with his dirty palm, and I jumped. The man’s laughter cut through me like razor wire, but I willed myself to look at him. His head was thrown back in amusement, revealing a long, snake-like scar on his neck. Then I saw it. A gun, barely concealed by the waistband of his pants.

  “Go, Dad!” My father pressed on the accelerator, bumping against the girl. Carelessly, she skirted out of the way and into the encampment, concealing herself inside a tent.

  Looking sheepish, my father apologized. “I’m sorry. I panicked. Are you okay?”

  “I guess.”

  I felt Quin’s hand squeeze my shoulder. “Welcome to downtown Oakland,” he said.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  LIKE A DREAM

  THE SIGHT OF POLICE OFFICERS guarding the parking lot was a comfort; however, my relief quickly disappeared. A seemingly impenetrable wall of news reporters blocked the entrance to the jail. They chattered eagerly—grouped like a pack of hungry hyenas—as we approached.

  “Quin!”

  “Quin?”

  Each time they yelled his name, it pierced my heart. How did they know him?

  “Did your father do it, Quin?”

  “Are you surprised he killed again?”

  I kept my head down and walked as fast as I could. Next to me, I saw my father with his arm around Quin, shielding him from the barrage of questions and flashing cameras. Before we escaped inside the station, a lone reporter hurled one last question. It floored me.

  “Is it true your father is being represented by Nicholas Van Sant?” Quin and I exchanged a confused glance.

  The officer at the door ushered us into a crowded waiting room. I expected to be met with staring eyes, but amidst the thinly controlled chaos inside, no one seemed to notice us.

  “I can’t believe those vultures,” my father lamented, shaking his head at the scene outside. “Makes me glad to be out of the business.” I doubted that was entirely true. Since my father’s return to my life, he often shared his disappointment over his failed career as a journalist. He had worked briefly for Boston’s government-sponsored news station, but was fired for insubordination when he pursued a story promoting a local faction of the Resistance.

  Surveying the room, my father pointed to the visitors’ desk in the corner, which was manned by a gruff policeman who appeared to have exhausted his last thread of patience. He was glaring at two rowdy teenage boys in the corner.

  “I’ll go sign you in,” my father called to us, already walking away.

  With my father out of earshot, I turned to Quin. “Are you alright?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “I’m fine,” he insisted, an edge of annoyance in his voice.

  I shook my head, exasperated. “Quin, it’s me, Lex, remember? You don’t have to pretend you’re so strong.”

  For a moment, he said nothing. Then he offered a thin smirk. It seemed forced. “Who says I’m pretending?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  Quin looked down. “Okay, so maybe I’m not fine,” he admitted. “This whole thing doesn’t even feel real to me. I keep thinking I’m just dreaming, and any minute now, I’m going to wake up, and this will have never happened. I’d give anything to go back to last night … just you and me on the boat—”

  Quin stopped speaking as my father approached. Worry darkened his face. “Your father is being held in protective custody. Apparently, he was assaulted last night by another inmate.” I heard Quin draw in a sharp breath.

  “He’s okay,” my father reassured him. “But they’re taking precautions.”

  My father pointed toward a body-scanning machine at the end of a long hallway. “The officer will meet you down there and take you to him.”

  Quin stood and took a few steps before turning back. “Lex, would you come with me?”

  I glanced from Quin to my father.

  “Would it be alright if Lex came with me?” Quin asked. Though my father seemed reluctant, Quin’s eyes—undeniably forlorn—made it impossible to say no.

  “They’ll only allow one visitor at a time in the room,” he cautioned. “But I suppose if it’s okay with Lex, it’s okay with me.”

  “It’s okay with me.” I reached for Quin, locking my fingers in his.

  Halfway down the hallway, it became eerily quiet, the din from the waiting room barely audible. Only our footsteps echoed, as our heels struck the cold, white linoleum. Up ahead, an unsmiling female officer beckoned to us. She didn’t speak.

  Quin squeezed my hand. “It feels like a dream, doesn’t it?”

  I nodded. A nightmare.

  CHAPTER SIX

  VISITING

  WHEN QUIN EMERGED from the visiting room, I could tell he had been crying. Still, he half-smiled, trying to reassure me.

  “My father wants to talk to you.”

  “Me?” I asked, bewildered. My stomach flip-flopped. I had never been alone with George McAllister.

  “Okay.” I said, hoping I was as practiced at stoicism as Quin was. The room was so cramped I could have stretched my arms wall to wall. A small, uninviting stool was secured to the floor, facing thick glass. Picking up the antiquated telephone receiver, I finally turned my eyes to the man in front of me. He looked utterly defeated, his strong features a drastic contrast to his pitiful expression. A dark, purple bruise encircled one of his eyes.

  Tense, I cleared my throat. “Hi.” My voice sounded undeniably young.

  He offered a faint smile, though his eyes remained downcast. It still pained me to admit how much of his smile was Quin’s.

  “I’m so sorry you had to come here.” He ran a nervous hand through his thinning brown hair. “This is not a place I ever wanted Quin to see again. I can only imagine what you must think of me.”

  I tried to maintain a face of neutrality, but I suspected my mistrust was apparent. I’m not sure what to say,” I admitted.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” he replied, finally looking me in the eyes. “I wanted to ask a favor of you.”

  “A favor? Of me?”

  He gave a solemn nod. “My son … he feels pretty strongly about you. He listens to you, trusts you—more than he trusts me—not that I blame him. You may not know it, but you have a lot of power over him.”

  Power? I looked at him with doubt. He obviously didn’t know my Quin—the Quin who, for months now, stubbornly insisted his father had changed, even as I remained skeptical; the Quin who breezed through his GED but accepted a job alongside his father rebuilding the Bay Bridge, even as I protested; the Quin who spent nights at his father’s house in Oakland, even as I worried. I had no power over that Quin.

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” I argued. “Quin makes his own decisions. He’s pretty hard-headed.”

  George McAllister chuckled. “He gets that from me, I guess.” His mirth was short-lived. As my face contorted in a reflexive grimace, he hung his head.

  “I’m sorry,” I began. “I—”

  “Don’t apologize, Alexandra,” he interrupted. “I h
ave no right to be offended. You’re smart to want Quin to be nothing like me.”

  An awkward silence settled between us. I searched for the words to justify my reaction, all the while chastising myself for believing I owed him an explanation. “I guess I’m just cautious. After all, I hardly know you except for …”

  I didn’t have to finish. We both were all too familiar with the horrors of his past. “And now this.” I gestured to my dismal surroundings.

  He nodded, his eyes welling with tears. He turned away from me, but I could still see his face. It was taut, battling with itself, determined not to cry. “I can’t believe she’s gone,” he rasped, twisting his wedding band on his finger.

  I sat quietly, observing him, unsettled by his display of raw emotion. A part of me wondered if it was a sham.

  “What happened?” I asked. I already knew he couldn’t answer. Over his shoulder, the small eye of a camera stared down at him. Still, I examined his face, hoping the question would catch him off guard, revealing the unknown.

  My question expected, he looked at me helplessly. “It’s complicated,” he began. “I don’t … I can’t … remember.”

  Again, my face took on its own life, assembling its parts into a countenance of disbelief.

  “It’s the truth.” He countered my expression. “I don’t blame you one bit for not trusting me. After all, you are your mother’s daughter.” He spoke of her with fondness, laying claim to my mother, as if they were old friends. His assumption of familiarity rankled me.

  “It’s not about my mother. I have my own reasons.”

  I held back, uncertain if Quin had shared with his father the details of our worst argument only a month ago, after I noticed a black bruise peeking out from under Shelly’s shirtsleeve, when she dropped Quin off at our house. It was the first time Quin had yelled at me since the night with Edison in our kitchen. This time, I yelled back.