by Ellery Kane
“Onyx is a fast-acting and dangerous EAM that impairs the supra-marginal gyrus, the part of the brain that helps us to feel empathy or concern for others.” As she spoke, I pictured Carrie’s face, when she first told me about Onyx, Substance X.
“Hmm … so if someone were to use Onyx, they would be more prone to violence, correct?”
“Objection,” Mr. Van Sant interjected. “Leading.”
Judge Blacksher nodded, “Sustained. Please rephrase your question, Ms. Dillard.”
Without hesitation, Dream Killer restated, “What does the research tell us about the link between Onyx and violence?”
Dr. Pearson gestured toward a thin file in front of her. “Unfortunately, since Onyx is a relatively new substance, there isn’t much research. In fact, this folder contains most of what is known about this substance.” She held the file up for the jury. “Not much, as you can see. What we do know comes primarily from Guardian Force data, which suggests a relatively strong link between Onyx and aggressive behavior.”
“I see.” Dream Killer stood near the jury box, aligning herself with them. “Would those effects last even after a person stopped using Onyx?”
“That’s a difficult question to answer, but in short, yes. In some people, these effects are long term.”
Dream Killer attempted a frown, though her skin—pulled tight—remained masklike. “No further questions.”
Mr. Van Sant leaped to his feet, preventing Dr. Pearson’s response from lingering any longer in the minds of the jurors.
“Doctor, how much are you being paid for your opinion today?” She blinked several times, startled by his question.
“Went right for the jugular,” Max whispered.
“I am not being paid for my opinion, but rather for my time.” There was a discernible edge of annoyance in her voice.
“Are you familiar with the term hired gun?”
Dream Killer glared at Mr. Van Sant. “Objection—”
“I withdraw the question, Your Honor.” He nodded toward her with false contrition.
“Careful, Mr. Van Sant,” Judge Blacksher cautioned.
“I’m sorry if I offended you, Doctor. Earlier, you mentioned you are often asked to test the bodily fluids or tissue samples of the victim or alleged perpetrator in a homicide case. Were you asked to do that in this case?”
“I was.”
“And what did you find with regard to George McAllister?”
“Nothing.” I exhaled in relief. “Neither George nor Shelly were under the influence of any substances, including emotion-altering medications.”
Mr. Van Sant gestured toward Quin’s father. “Do you have any evidence George McAllister ever used Onyx?”
“No, but—” Before she could qualify her response, Mr. Van Sant interrupted. “Thank you, Doctor. That will be all.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY
LOOP THE LOOP
AFTER DR. PEARSON, it only got worse for Quin’s dad. For the next few hours, the prosecution introduced a parade of experts. The coroner established Shelly’s death due to multiple—fourteen, as Dream Killer reminded the jury—stab wounds, two of which were fatal, as the blade of the knife penetrated her heart. Her wounds were so extensive, the coroner speculated she would have lost too much blood to survive the trip to the hospital.
After seeing a post-mortem image of Shelly’s body with each laceration numbered in bold type, one of the jurors asked for a recess and promptly fainted. Not surprisingly, Shelly’s mother fled the courtroom bawling, as the coroner began his testimony. I waited on edge—anticipating her maniacal laughter, but she never returned. I was grateful. The idea of strapping an EAM tracker on my wrist was unnerving.
The day concluded with the testimony of the crime scene technician. The only fingerprints on the knife used to kill Shelly—part of a matching set from their kitchen—belonged to George McAllister. For Dream Killer, it was a cherry on top of an already perfectly crafted prosecutorial sundae.
“It’s been a long day,” Judge Blacksher surmised, considering the weary faces of the jury. “I suggest we end a bit early and reconvene tomorrow at 8 a.m. I don’t think I need to remind you that any and all contact with the media and each other regarding this case is prohibited.”
As the battle-worn jury filed out, Elana nudged me. “You and Max should come over to Edison’s tonight for dinner.”
Uncertain, I glanced at Max, but he seemed to be waiting for me to decide. “Who’s going to be there?”
Elana looked at me with exasperation. “Well, Quin, obviously.”
“Besides Quin?” I wondered, another question in my head. Will Emma be there?
“Just come. Please.” Elana was pulling my arm. “Emma’s not invited.”
“Fine,” I conceded, trying to disguise my relief. “Can String—uh, I mean, Sebastian come too?”
“Sure, I guess, as long as he’s on his best behavior.” Elana winked at Max.
An hour later, Max, String, and I were perched on the Van Sant sofa, watching Edison fume at the SFTV trial coverage. Sitting beside him, Elana rubbed his shoulder.
“Can you believe she said that?” Edison asked, punching the seat cushion. After his father declined to comment on the day’s events, Barbara Blake had referred to him as the captain of the Titanic, steering a sinking ship. “He’s going to be livid.”
“She’s just a reporter,” String offered. “She’d say anything for ratings.”
Edison glared at String. “Just a reporter? Media coverage can be critical in a case like this. What do you know about it anyway?”
String put up his hands in surrender. “Hey, man, I’m just trying to lighten the mood. You seem like you’re one broadcast away from a coronary.”
While Edison and String bickered, Quin—head in hands—muttered, “She’s probably right, there’s no way my dad can—”
“Don’t say that, Quin.” I stopped him. Even with all my doubts about his father, I couldn’t bear to see him lose hope.
“You don’t believe him anyway.” Quin spat the words out at me. His jaw was clenched in anger, but there were tears in his eyes. We all watched—silenced—as he ran up the stairs. Moving from the spot where he had settled near my feet, Artos followed him, choosing sides.
“Geez.” String turned to Max. “Is it always this intense around here?”
I found Quin sulking in the hallway, his forehead pressed against the wall. Artos sat on his haunches, looking up at him confused. I was afraid of what Quin might say, but he didn’t say anything, and that was worse. Instead, he stepped toward me and reached for my hand. He cocooned it tightly between his palms, as I looked at him bewildered.
“You don’t like it?” he asked, letting my hand fall.
“I didn’t say that. I’m just … confused.” That was an understatement. “You’re acting…” I searched for the right word. “Erratic.”
“Erratic, huh? That’s a new one.” He half-smiled at me, almost winning me over. Almost.
“You broke up with me, remember? You just snapped at me downstairs. Now, you’re holding my hand? You can’t have it both ways, Quin.”
He sighed. “Lex, I miss you. I miss—”
“Quin, don’t.”
“I miss when it was you and me against the world.” I couldn’t argue with that. “I want to show you something. Wait here.”
I stood there, bracing myself for his return. In the last two days, the roller coaster of Quin had taken me on a loop-the-loop. It was one of those rides, the kind you couldn’t wait to get off, but once it was over, you patiently stood in line for your turn to go again.
“I should’ve shown you this a long time ago. Your mom gave it to my dad the last time she saw him.” He handed me an envelope. Inside was a memorandum dated June 1, 2031, addressed to the Secretary of Health and Human Services and the Director of the Bureau of Prisons, marked in bold black letters:
United States Government, Genomic Prophecy Program
Confidential
As you are aware, within the last six months, utilizing the data previously collected from Crim-X participants, we have isolated a genomic mutation on the X chromosome that appears to predict the expression of aggressive, violent, and disruptive behavior. The presence of the mutation was confirmed for the following five percent of Crim-X participants:
004 Jaffrey
080 Yang
101 Davies
165 Arnold
166 Petersen
180 Vanetta
201 Smith
207 Ackerman
208 Vin
222 Gene
243 McAllister
257 Salcedo
260 Ashburn
261 Escobar
285 Bishop
300 Chung
302 Santiago
304 Alderman
359 Green
399 Guiterrez
402 Ng
408 Tracer
413 Markum
488 Angeles
490 Sorensen
It is our urgent recommendation these results be disclosed to all participants and the wardens of their respective penitentiaries. Though our data is insufficient to substantiate the heritability of the X mutation, it would also be prudent to notify any offspring of the potential risk.
Thinking of my mother, I carefully refolded the paper and handed it back to Quin. “So they just ignored the recommendations?”
Quin nodded. “Apparently. I’m not sure how your mom got her hands on it, but my dad was worried about the impact to me … and Colton.” He spoke his brother’s name the way he always did—with reverence. “She told him that boys are more vulnerable because they only have one X chromosome.”
“Guess that means Emma got lucky.” I was unable to restrain my sarcasm, not even trying to really.
“Hardly.” Quin scolded me with his frown. “A few years after the Crim-X program was shut down, Emma’s dad got out of prison on a technicality. I guess he had expected her mom to wait for him, but she didn’t. So he shot his whole family—Emma too. Her older sister saved her life. She crawled in her bed and lay on top of her. Only one of the bullets got through.” Quin pointed to his shoulder, the spot where Emma had her feather tattoo.
Instantly feeling childish, I changed the subject. “When did your dad give you this?”
Quin hung his head. “Just before he was released. I wanted to tell you, Lex. I really did. But I thought you might be…”
“Might be what?”
“Afraid.”
I shook my head. “That’s ridiculous.” Hearing the harsh tone in my voice, I added, “But I understand.”
Quin fidgeted with the paper, avoiding my eyes. “I was thinking of contacting the Prophecy Program … to have the test.” It was more a question than a statement. “That way you could be sure.”
“Sure?” I asked. “About what?”
“Me.”
From behind us, Edison cleared his throat. “I feel like I might be interrupting something kind of important.” Quin glared at him. “Like crucial even, but my dad wants to talk to you now.” He gestured to Quin.
“Okay,” Quin mumbled, shuffling reluctantly toward Mr. Van Sant’s office. As he shut the door behind them, Artos nudged his cold nose against my hand—with Quin out of view—claiming me once again.
CHAPTER SEVENTY - ONE
PLEA
I PEERED DOWN THE STAIRCASE into the living room. Elana was perched at the edge of her seat, tapping her fingers nervously. I heard String’s voice. “If I was him, I would take it.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
Elana gestured toward the television. At the bottom of the screen, the SFTV ticker flashed with a breaking news bulletin: SOURCES CLOSE TO THE MCALLISTER MURDER TRIAL HINT A PLEA DEAL MAY BE IMMINENT.
“What is going on?” I looked helplessly at Elana.
“I’m not sure. Mr. Van Sant stormed in a few minutes ago. He told Edison to get Quin and meet him in the office now.” She echoed Edison’s sense of urgency.
“Look!” She pointed at the television screen. VIVIAN DILLARD CONFIRMS: GEORGE MCALLISTER OFFERED TWENTY YEARS IN EXCHANGE FOR ADMISSION OF GUILT.
“I thought you could only take a plea deal before the trial started,” Max muttered, confused.
“Not true.” String cleared his throat, continuing in a formal voice. “A defendant may enter into a plea bargain any time before the verdict.” He countered Max’s skeptical look. “Trust me. My parents took their fair share. A plea is a guilty man’s best friend.”
“He would never agree to that,” I said. Unless he’s guilty, I added in my mind.
“He might not have a choice.” Edison remarked, as he descended the stairs, a pale-faced Quin one step behind him. “If he’s convicted, he’ll face life in prison, and this time there won’t be any chance of parole. With all the unrest in the city, the mayor is pushing hard for this deal too.”
“Quin, what do you think?” Max asked, his voice careful, as if one wrong word might split him in two. To me, Quin already seemed cracked down the middle. For a long time, he said nothing. String opened his mouth to speak, but I silenced him with a tiny shake of my head.
“He’s innocent. That’s what I think.” Quin didn’t look at anyone, just stared straight ahead, as if speaking only to himself. “And an innocent person doesn’t take a deal.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY - TWO
PEPPERMINT
TWO WEEKS AFTER HE FLED from his Rocky Road ice cream was the first hint Quin’s father might come between us.
That day Quin’s kisses were peppermint flavored. We found a stash of candy, months earlier, in one of the houseboat’s kitchen drawers, a stash that was dwindling quickly thanks to Quin’s sweet tooth.
With his mouth pressed to mine, I giggled.
“What’s so funny?” he whispered against my ear.
“You taste like Christmas.” Quin chuckled, propping himself up next to me on his elbow.
“I have to tell you something.” His face was serious. “But first, promise you won’t be mad.”
Teasing, I frowned at him. “That sounds like trouble.”
“Promise me,” he insisted.
“Alright, alright. I promise.”
“I’m going to work with my dad…” Quin spouted the words out quickly, then waited for my reaction. “On the Bay Bridge…” He paused again. “Starting next week.”
“Okay.” I tried not to be disappointed. Just a few months earlier—after he’d aced the GED—Quin and I talked about him applying to Stanford.
“Is that a good okay or a bad okay?” he asked.
“A surprised okay,” I admitted. “I just thought you had other plans.”
“It’s just for a while. I might not even like it, and I can still apply to Stanford for next fall.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were thinking about this?” I sounded hurt.
“I thought you’d try to talk me out of it,” he replied. “You know, tell me all the reasons why this is not a good idea.”
“You’re probably right.” I grinned through the knot of uneasiness tightening in my stomach. “But you wouldn’t have listened anyway.”
“Exactly. So I’m actually doing you a huge favor, saving you the frustration of that whole annoying conversation. You should be thanking me.” Quin kissed my neck—I breathed in peppermint—and that knot came undone, along with the rest of me.
“Thinking again?” Max asked, elbowing my side. “You haven’t said a word since we left Edison’s house.”
“Sorry. I’m just…” I sighed.
“First breakup?” String asked, suddenly an expert.
I nodded. “First boyfriend.”
“Rough.” String shook his head with sympathy. “What you need, Alexandra, is a rebound guy.”
“I don’t think that’s going to help,” I told String. “Quin is not the kind of guy that you just rebound from.”
“Well, in my experience…” Max rolled
his eyes, as String pontificated. “If you can’t forget him, it’s usually because you don’t want to.”
Shrugging my shoulders, I smirked at him. “Thank you, Doctor String.” Inside, I feared he was right. “But I think it might take something a little stronger to forget Quin, maybe Eupho,” I blurted without thinking.
His face serious, Max turned to me. “Don’t say that.”
“Sorry, I—”
“It wouldn’t help anyway,” Max offered. “Speaking as an expert on heartbreak, the longer you numb it, the more it hurts when you stop.”
“You two are about as much fun as a funeral,” String deadpanned. “I have something that might cheer you both up.” Grinning slyly, he reached into his inner right jacket pocket and removed four shiny silver spoons. He produced four forks from his left pocket, and four dinner knives from his waistband, stifling a giggle.
“What the—?” Max’s eyes were wide. “Are those from the Van Sant’s house?”
String nodded proudly. “These babies are easily worth a thousand bucks.”
Seeing the mixture of shock and disapproval on our faces, he added, “Chill out. I’ll return them. I was just making sure I still had it. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY - THREE
MOMMY’S APPROVAL
MY FATHER WAITED UP FOR US. When we arrived home, he was click-clacking away on his laptop. “What are you working on?” I asked him, as Max and String collapsed on the sofa and clicked on the television.
“Just jotting down a few ideas about Augustus, trying to organize my thoughts.” I peered over his shoulder, where he had typed, Grimley (dead)—Donnelly—McAllister—Augustus—Baudin (dead)—Ryker?
“Any epiphanies?” he asked me.
I shook my head, staring at the word dead. I wondered how many more parentheses my father would add before it was all over. “Not really, just that Zenigenic is the common denominator.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Paul Grimley and Dr. Donnelly worked there; George McAllister’s Macbeth clue was supposed to lead him there; their CEO set up a meeting with Baudin but never showed; and Augustus visited there after he received that threatening phone call.”