by Ellery Kane
There was no response from the guard, but I imagined Augustus was issuing a silent threat. If the guard didn’t shoot me, Augustus would. That thought—his smug satisfaction as I plummeted to the concrete below—was more dreadful than death.
“Stop,” I spoke the word softly, almost to myself. Wobbling like a newborn fawn, I faced Augustus. He had his gun pointed at the wide-eyed guard.
“Stop,” I said again, louder this time. “I know someone who can help you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY - FOUR
SOMETHING COMING
“IS THIS YOUR CAR?” I asked String. We were halfway to Stanford University—driving a red sports car, the flashiest I’d seen in a while—to meet with my Intro to Psychology professor, Dr. Donnelly. I was hopeful—my last hope—that he held the key to my freedom.
“No questions,” String repeated for at least the fifth time, but the slight upturn of his lips told me the car was his.
“Must be another job perk.”
I wasn’t about to let String off easily, and talking—even to him—was a welcome distraction. “You know, String or Sebastian or whatever your name is, Max really cares about you. I don’t know why, but he does. And he’s been through a lot. When he finds out about this, it’s going to break his heart, just keep that in mind. Besides, you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into with Augustus. He’s a snake, a con man. He doesn’t care about you. He’s using you just like he uses—”
“Shut up!” String pointed his gun in my direction. “No talking. Like silence, get it?”
“That’s no fun.” I tried to sound relaxed, as if my being handcuffed at gunpoint was an everyday occurrence. Lately, it had been.
String glowered at me. “Fine,” I conceded, my thoughts turning to Dr. Donnelly.
On the first day of the semester, the only day we were encouraged to attend in person, Dr. Donnelly mentioned his recent hiring as a consultant for Zenigenic. After class, I approached him, curious about his involvement.
“Ah, yes, Alexandra. I was thrilled when I saw your name on my class roster. Your mother is something of a legend at Zenigenic—a bit infamous, I’m afraid, but a legend nonetheless.” As he spoke, Dr. Donnelly fidgeted with his glasses, repositioning them in a precarious balancing act near the tip of his nose.
“What’s your job there?” I asked.
Taking a quick glance around the near-empty lecture hall, he lowered his voice. “Product development.”
I hoped my quizzical look would encourage him to continue.
“Zenigenic is trying to recapture the public’s interest with a brand new emotion-altering medication. They’re hoping I can help.”
I smiled to disguise my inner disgust. Another drug? “Any ideas yet?”
“Something to decrease boredom perhaps, judging by the response to my lecture.” I laughed. Several students in my row that day had fallen asleep. “I’m hoping it will just come to me,” he added.
Looking at String and his gun, I shuddered, thinking of the email I had sent Dr. Donnelly at Augustus’ demand, requesting a meeting that afternoon. Something was coming to him—probably not the something he had in mind.
“So what’s the plan?” I asked String, as we approached Jordan Hall, screeching into a nearby parking spot.
He shrugged, apathetic. “That’s your job. I’m just here to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.” With an intentional glance in my direction, he tucked his gun into his waistband, concealing it beneath his black T-shirt and leather jacket. He withdrew a small vial and needle from his pocket. I knew what was coming.
“I don’t need that.” The handcuffs rubbed my wrists as I wriggled against them, squirming away from String.
He held tightly to my forearm with one hand and jabbed the needle into my skin. “I don’t remember asking.”
CHAPTER THIRTY - FIVE
YO-YO
“ALEXANDRA, YOU’RE EARLY.” Dr. Donnelly shuffled toward his office, juggling his briefcase, laptop, and a cup of coffee. “Would you mind holding this?” he asked, handing me his coffee.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, staring at the red marks on my wrists. “Are you alright?”
“Fine,” I assured him, offering no further explanation. Giving my arms another look of concern, he unlocked his office door and ushered me inside. String followed.
“Dr. Donnelly, this is my friend Sebastian. He’s thinking of enrolling next semester.” With no fear of getting caught, the lie rolled off my tongue.
“Nice to meet you, Sebastian.” Dr. Donnelly extended his hand to String. “Are you interested in psychology?”
“Very,” String smirked. “I’m actually a bit of a Freud groupie.”
Dr. Donnelly chortled. “Really? Most young people find his theories a bit old-fashioned.”
String shook his head, widening his eyes in disbelief. “You know, Dr. Donnelly, I haven’t shared this with Alexandra, but I owe my nickname to Freud, believe it or not.” Amused, he played with the string around his wrist.
“Not,” I said aloud, feeling no need to censor myself.
Ignoring me, Dr. Donnelly raised his eyebrows, curious. “Nickname?”
“String,” I spoke for him. “Everyone calls him String.”
“Well, do tell us, String, what on earth does your nickname have to do with the great Sigmund Freud?”
I listened with disinterest, numb. String sat down facing Dr. Donnelly’s desk, crossing his legs and leaning head to hand.
“I imagine you’ve read his case analysis of child-play.” String’s voice deepened, adult-like, as he addressed Dr. Donnelly. “The yo-yo symbolizing the mother, being sent away and brought back by the child, all with the mere flick of a string. Fascinating stuff. I did a presentation on the topic in high school, and the name just stuck.”
“Impressive,” Dr. Donnelly concluded. Through my haze, I studied String. Maybe he was smarter than I thought.
“So, Alexandra, you weren’t clear in your email. Why did you want to meet today? I can’t imagine it’s related to your grade in my course. You’ve been doing excellent work.” Dr. Donnelly’s glasses slid down his nose, as he considered me.
“I wanted to ask you about Onyx.” No hesitation, I just said it. Even String seemed surprised. Emovere wasn’t subtle.
“Onyx?” Dr. Donnelly’s eyes darted. “I’m not sure I can help you.”
“I think you can.” My voice sounded threatening, but the words escaped before I could soften them. When it came to Emovere, I was still a rookie. “Is Zenigenic manufacturing it?”
Dr. Donnelly repositioned his glasses and cleared his throat. “Onyx is a banned substance. As far as I understand, it’s not even available on the street—a good thing—because in the wrong hands, you can imagine the devastation. If Zenigenic was making it, that would be illegal. May I ask why you are interested?”
“I’ve heard it was administered to the Guardian Force,” I replied. “I was wondering if there were any plans to tweak the formula, maybe release it as a new product.”
Narrowing his eyes at me, Dr. Donnelly shook his head. “Never. I’ve been told the entire supply of Onyx, along with the formula for its manufacturing, was destroyed at Alcatraz. And we’re better off for it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Alexandra, I have a class to prepare for.” He began shuffling through his briefcase. I had to act fast—my window of opportunity was shrinking.
Calm as still water, I lurched for the door, one step ahead of String. “Call the police.” My voice was an even timbre. I ran down the hallway with the thump, thump, thump of String’s boots behind me, his long legs quickly gaining ground. I’m not afraid, but I have to run. The words beat a steady refrain in time with my heart that pounded in my ears. Feeling empty, but compelled, I skidded around the corner, reached for the staircase railing, and hoisted myself atop it. A two-story slide down was the surest route to freedom.
“Get down from there!” A wide-bodied campus security guard at the base of the stairs began a labored
but determined march toward me. “Did you hear me?” he demanded. “Hey, come back!” His words floated away, meaningless. I’d already reversed course and was set to collide with String in one thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three. As his long fingers searched me out, I sidestepped him. I was sprinting now, my target in sight. The sky through the window was the perfect shade of robin’s egg blue. It was all I could see. It beckoned to me, urged me, even as I propelled myself toward it.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” String yelled. He was behind me, but he wouldn’t catch up. He had to realize that by now.
Before I jumped—my shoulder cracking the window—I called back to him. “That’s what you get for giving me Emovere.”
I was an icicle of glass. And like all the other icicles, I fell. But I didn’t shatter, didn’t feel impact, didn’t even feel at all. I was frozen solid all the way through. Cat-like, I rolled to my feet. Pain is trivial. I brushed it away, effortless, along with the snow-flaked shards of glass sticking to my jeans.
With single-minded focus, I headed toward Oval Park. The campus was mostly deserted, but a few eyes greeted me with terror as I ran. I didn’t realize I was bleeding until a girl pointed at me, opened her mouth like a dark cavern, and screamed. When I followed her panicked stare to my arm, I found a deep track of crimson dotted with glass. Somewhere inside—way, way down—was a prick of revulsion. But it was as small as a needle stick. My legs kept moving, undeterred.
“Don’t make me shoot you!” String was a hundred yards back. He fired into the air, then aimed his gun at me.
“Lex!” a voice called my name with urgency from the street. Max was sitting in the driver’s seat of String’s red sports car. “Get in.”
“Don’t speed,” I instructed. Max looked puzzled but didn’t argue. The faint wailing of sirens grew louder and louder until they were the only sounds I could hear. As we turned the corner onto the main road, I glanced in the rearview mirror. String was on the ground, a policeman’s knee in his back.
CHAPTER THIRTY - SIX
ALMOST BACK
“ARE YOU OKAY?” Max asked, once we were a safe distance from campus. He grimaced at the sight of my arm, and I covered it with my shirt. “You seem strange.” He mimicked my methodical tone. “Don’t speed … really?”
My laughter sounded canned and far away. “I can’t help it,” I explained. “Emovere. String gave me Emovere. And I didn’t want you to attract any attention from the police. Besides, I could say the same about you lately.”
Max nodded. “I can’t argue with that.”
I laid my head back against the seat. In a small, dark corner of my mind, I wondered why Max was there and where we were going. The thoughts were weightless. They floated away like feathers blown by the wind, leaving me with a blank space.
After a few minutes of silence, Max turned to me. “How do you feel? Are you normal yet?”
I shrugged. “Hard to tell.”
Suddenly, flooring the accelerator, Max glanced at me sidelong, as I lounged unaffected. He chuckled. “Looks like normal is still a ways off. We should probably drive around a little before I take you home.”
I nodded. Home. The thought of it was no different than the thought of everything else—an empty shell clunking inside the hollow drum of my mind.
Hours later, we were parked on the Tiburon side of the Golden Gate Bridge. I was shaking, huddled in the backseat, while Max tried to reassure me. It was hopeless—I rapid-fired questions at him, barely pausing to exhale.
“What if Augustus followed us? What if Augustus hurt Quin or my dad? We should go home right now. We should call them. Is Dr. Donnelly okay? I’m definitely getting a failing grade in that class, after the way I acted. What if I get expelled from school? What if Shelly’s mom was right about Quin’s dad? Why are you using Eupho?”
“Lex, it’s gonna be okay.” Max seemed so calm. “You’re just coming down from the Emovere. You’re going to be fine. Just breathe.”
Just breathe, I repeated in my mind. It seemed so simple. “Is this what it was like for you? For Quin?”
“At first,” Max admitted. “But once they started upping the dose, the effects lasted longer, and Ryker timed the injections to minimize our symptoms. Quin told me that he stopped having these kinds of withdrawals. Eventually, he felt numb all the time.”
“Max.” I touched his shoulder. “Thank you. Seriously, I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t been there.”
“Are you kidding? I should be thanking you. I feel like this whole thing is my fault.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“Last night, String got really hyped up on Eupho. He was totally out of it. He let it slip about taking you for Augustus—he never said his name before.” I patted his arm to comfort him. “I had no idea, Lex. When I first asked him where you went, he said you got upset and left. Of course, I just figured I didn’t remember. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I assured him. “I just hope…”
“Never again,” Max interrupted, reading my thoughts. “Eupho and I are done. I’m just sorry it took you being kidnapped for me to realize that.”
I grinned. “Just glad I could help.”
“Anyway, this afternoon, I heard String get the call from Augustus. He told me that he had to drive to Stanford. When I heard that, I thought you might be involved, so I took the bus there. Then I just watched and waited.”
“So String never mentioned Augustus?”
Max shook his head. “He told me his boss was this hotshot, Gus. I never made the connection, but then again, my brain wasn’t exactly at its best.”
“I know what you mean.” I chuckled. My laughter was my own again. “I missed you, Max. I’m really sorry about String. I know you had feelings for him.”
Max sighed. “It’s just hard to believe he was pretending the whole time. I guess I’d like to think he cared about me…”
“Either way—it’s his loss,” I offered. “Hey…” I paused, debating whether to say more. “What happened with your family?”
Max hung his head. “The question is what didn’t happen? Nothing changed. My mom was still sneaking Eupho—that’s where I got my first taste of it—I found her stash. And my stepdad divided his time between yelling at me and pretending I didn’t exist. It was pretty miserable.”
“You should’ve said something,” I told him.
“I know. I just didn’t want to admit to you or to myself that I’m alone.” Max fought back tears.
“Well, you’re not alone. You’re an honorary member of the Knightley family.”
With a fragile smile, Max replied, “I’m not sure how your dad feels about that.”
“He’ll just have to get used to it.”
“I almost forgot.” He reached over me to open the glove compartment. “I found something in here. I think it belongs to you.” Coiled inside—its chain broken—was my locket. I tucked it safely inside my pocket. Max turned on the radio, a never-ending lullaby of SFTV oldies. Suddenly, my eyelids felt heavy. I surrendered to sleep, still trying to process it all—Augustus’ desire for Onyx, Zenigenic’s hidden factory, the one-hundred-million-dollar wire transfer receipt stuffed in my shoe, and … it was better just to picture Quin’s face.
“Lex.” Max nudged me awake with his elbow. “We’re almost back.”
I sat up, yawning, feeling reinvigorated. Now, the thought of home—of Quin, of my father—was a warm blanket I wanted to curl up in.
I smiled at Max, but he was on edge. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I went online, while you were sleeping.” He pointed to his computer tablet sitting near my feet. “There’s something I think you should see.”
I opened the tablet—trying to fight against the overwhelming worry bearing down on me again. SFTV had breaking news: Son Of Inmate 243 Proclaims Father’s Innocence.
This morning in a live press conference outside of Alameda County Jail, Quin McAl
lister, the son of Inmate 243, George McAllister, spoke out publicly for the first time since his father’s arrest. “I am making this statement today in support of my father, George McAllister. He would be the first to admit he has made mistakes in the past, but he did not kill his wife, Shelly. I saw them together many times. He loved her and treated her with respect. I believe my father has been wrongfully accused of this crime, and I am absolutely certain he will be found innocent.”
Accompanying the younger McAllister at his first press appearance was his father’s attorney, Nicholas Van Sant, and his friend and supporter Emma Markum. Markum has gained attention in recent months for her public appearances condemning the use of emotion-altering substances. Of note, in 2032, her father, Everett Markum, was convicted in the shooting deaths of her mother, stepfather, and older sister. A participant in the Crim-X program, Markum had been forcibly returned to prison in 2028, along with the other 500 experimental subjects. He was released in 2032 after successfully appealing his original conviction but went on to carry out a gruesome attack on his family a few months later, leaving Emma Markum, his then-nine-year-old daughter, as the sole survivor.
I stared at the picture just above the text: Quin and Emma side by side. I studied Quin’s face, trying to understand—he was still my Quin—the same strong jaw, the same piercing eyes, but it seemed I hardly knew him. When had he become so sure of his father? He wasn’t always so sure.
We’d been four miles into a five-mile run, when Quin first told me his father was granted parole. Prisons were overcrowded, and long-term inmates, like his dad, were being targeted for release. I could tell something was on his mind. He was running even faster than usual.
“Are you trying to run me to death?” I teased between gasps, barely keeping up.
“Sorry.” Quin eased his pace. “My dad heard back from the parole board today. His release date is set.”
“Oh. Wow. That was quick.” Quin had attended his father’s parole hearing at Dellencourt just a few days before.