by Ellery Kane
“Just the opposite,” my father answered, disbelieving. “He saved him.”
Barbara Blake turned toward Quin, jabbing at his face with the microphone.
“Mr. McAllister, can you tell us what happened tonight?”
Not taking my eyes from Quin, I sat down on the sofa. “Dad, I’ll call you back.”
CHAPTER FIVE
STRANGER THINGS
WHEN MY FATHER OPENED the front door three hours later, I was stuck in that same spot. My eyes felt like sandpaper, sleep tugging at their lids. Still, I couldn’t stop watching. SFTV replayed the interview again and again until I knew Quin’s words as if I had spoken them myself.
“I was taking a walk to clear my head.” Quin gestured over his shoulder to Zenigenic’s headquarters, as he explained the incident to Barbara. “I noticed the lights were on in the lobby. I thought that was strange, since it was so late. Then, out of nowhere, there’s this guy in a mask running up to the building. He had a gun. That’s when I saw Mr. Steele coming down the stairs alone.”
“Then what happened?” Barbara asked.
Quin shrugged. “I guess I did what anybody would do.”
Wide-eyed, Barbara countered, “I’m not sure just anybody would tackle an armed gunman. Mr. Steele has called you a hero.”
“I’m no hero. I was in the right place at the right time. That’s all.”
“You are a humble young man, Mr. McAllister.” She seemed a lot more convinced by Quin’s story than I was. But then, maybe not. “However…your father’s attorney, Nicholas Van Sant, has been quite vocal about his belief that Zenigenic played a role in framing your father for murder.”
“Is that a question, Ms. Blake?” Quin’s eyes flashed to the camera, mischievous. In my imagination, they connected only with mine.
“Just an observation,” Barbara answered. “It is ironic, to say the least—you rescuing Xander Steele.”
“Stranger things have happened.” Quin smiled a little.
Barbara turned her face away from him toward the camera. “They certainly have, Mr. McAllister. They certainly have. This is Barbara Blake, reporting live from San—”
The television went silent, muted by my father. “Dad!”
“Yes?” My father raised his eyebrows at my protest. “I’m guessing you’ve already memorized the entire broadcast.” He collapsed onto the sofa with a deep sigh. His eyes looked as tired as mine.
Ignoring his sarcasm, I asked, “Have you heard anything?” I stopped myself from adding, about Quin.
“They’ve released the name of the suspect. Peter Radley.”
“Radley,” I repeated, trying to place the name. On just a few hours’ sleep, thinking felt strenuous.
“Sound familiar?” My father handed me his computer tablet. “Press play,” he instructed. “I think you might’ve seen this before.” He was right. On the screen, George McAllister addressed a crowd of anti-EAM activists.
“I wish that I could say that my life was the only one impacted by the government’s greed, but I am not alone. Tonight, you will hear from Mr. Peter Radley, a Guardian Force survivor like my son, and—Emma, come on up here—Ms. Emma Markum.”
I hit stop, before the camera panned to Emma. I had heard those words before. “So he’s a former Guardian?”
My father nodded. “And a member of the New Resistance.”
“Who knows Quin.”
“It seems likely.”
“Is that it?” I asked, desperate for more.
“That’s all they’re telling us right now. What about you?” He looked toward my phone on the coffee table, its screen dark, lifeless.
A flame of anger—how could he not call me?—licked through my exhaustion. “If you’re asking if I’ve heard from Quin, the answer is no.”
CHAPTER SIX
SLIVERS
LEAVING MY FATHER drifting in and out of sleep on the sofa—with a contented Artos as a pillow for his arm—I slunk away to the bathroom. I pulled my hair into a clumsy ponytail and stared at my face in the mirror. The corners of my eyes were a pinkish red. Awful, I muttered to myself, a word that seemed to sum up everything. I scooped two handfuls of cool water and splashed it on my face.
“Lex, your phone!” Water dripping from my chin, I was already in mid-stride using the collar of my shirt as a makeshift towel. I reached for the phone as it buzzed with urgency.
“Oh.” My voice flattened. “It’s a text from Max. He heard. He’s coming over.” My father nodded, pretending not to notice my disappointment. He was awake now and scrolling through a social media website on his laptop.
“Hey, take a look at this,” he said, patting the seat next to him. “It’s Peter Radley.” A master of distraction, my father turned the computer screen toward me, revealing a young man’s face. He didn’t look like much of an assassin or even a former Guardian. His skin was the color of plaster, his cheeks plump and splotchy.
“Only fifteen friends.” My father tapped his finger to Peter’s profile stats. I wasn’t surprised. He looked like the kind of boy who was used to being picked on or worse … ignored.
My father clicked on a recent post dated January 10, 2043.
Demons inside of me. Howling. This night, every night, always the same. I murder them in my sleep. Watch their bodies convulse and writhe. Cut them into slivers and swallow them. Demons inside of me again.
“Well that’s intense,” I said, watching my father mouth the last sentence to himself.
“Pretty disturbing, I’d say.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, Dad. It sounds like typical teenage-boy angst to me.”
My father chuckled. “Is that your official diagnosis, Doctor?”
My smirk faded as I pointed to Peter’s last post, a captioned picture from January 13. “Now that’s disturbing,” I said. In the photo, he wore his military uniform, its buttons straining around his belly. The Guardian Force logo was obliterated with a line of red tape. He held his cell phone in one hand, aiming its lens at his bathroom mirror, where the mark of the New Resistance was drawn in red. In the other, he cradled a gun. His face was blank, his mouth a thin dash. Beneath it, he had typed two words: It’s time.
“Looks like an open-and-shut case to me,” my dad concluded. “The guy was clearly a little off kilter.”
“He probably has Ryker and the Guardian Force to thank for—”
Stopping mid-sentence, I watched my father’s finger trail down the list of Peter’s friends. Third from the top was Sebastian Croft.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BULLETPROOF
MAX DIDN’T BOTHER KNOCKING. “Have you heard from Quin?” he asked, shutting the door behind him. Still dumbfounded, my father and I sat side by side, studying the computer screen. I shook my head.
“You two look like you’ve seen a ghost or something,” Max said, positioning himself behind us to get a better look.
“Or something.” I followed his eyes until they reached String’s face and opened wide. He steadied himself against the chair.
“Is that? Is this?” He stumbled over the answers to his questions before he could finish them. “Whoa.”
“Did you know Peter Radley?” my father asked.
Max nodded. “He was recruited by the Guardian Force just before I got the ax. I didn’t really know him that well. But he was at that rally in the fall, the one String forced me to go to. I talked to him for about ten seconds. He seemed … off.”
“What do you mean?” My father was already typing. Max’s words—he seemed off—materialized on the screen.
“It’s hard to describe. He reminded me of my mom, the way she gets when she’s trying to convince me that she’s still clean, but it’s obvious she’s not. I figured he had probably relapsed and just didn’t want to admit it.”
“Did you ask him about it?”
Max laughed at my father’s question. “That would’ve been the pot meeting the kettle. I wasn’t exactly the model of sobriety myself.”
�
��And String? Did they talk? Did he ever mention Radley to you?”
Max exhaled and slunk down onto the sofa next to me. “Dad, cool it with the inquisition.”
Looking a little guilty, my father shrugged, but kept typing.
“Never,” Max answered. “How long have they been friends?”
“Looks like they connected on this site about two weeks ago.”
“Two weeks.” Max said no more. It had been two weeks since their last breakup—and two weeks since Max returned home to his family, his mother supposedly off Eupho again.
My cell phone buzzed again, prompting my father to look up from the computer screen. “It’s from Elana,” I said. Her text was five familiar words with an answer that stung.
Have you heard from Quin?
As I typed my standard reply, Artos’ ears perked. He stood and trotted toward the door, eyeing it with interest. Then a knock. “I’ll get it, Dad.” I peered through the peephole. On the other side, biting her lip, was an unexpected face.
I turned to Max. “Emma,” I mouthed, my stomach twisting with the turn of the knob.
We stood there stalemating—each of us waiting for the other to speak first. The tip of her nose was blush pink. I could tell she had been crying. “Hi,” she finally said, breaking the silence. Her voice, fragile at first, gained strength as she continued. “Is Quin here?”
“No.”
“Oh.” My answer seemed to startle her. “Well I need to talk to you.” She looked over my shoulder into the living room. Max and my father stared back at her. “Alone.” As much as I wanted to send her away, I couldn’t. Whatever she had to say, I knew it was about Quin. “It’s about Qu—”
“I know,” I interrupted. “Come in.” I directed a what-is-she-doing-here glance at Max and my father and ushered Emma inside.
“Hey, Artos,” she said, rubbing the top of his head. He greeted her with a lick to the hand. Traitor.
“We can talk in here.” I pointed to my bedroom. The clop of Emma’s boots followed behind me. She took off her jacket and sat at my desk chair. It was strange seeing her—glowing blonde hair, black braid, perfect bow lips—backdropped by my things. On her neck, there was a freshly inked tattoo. “Is that new?”
She pulled back her hair, revealing it to me. The dark cursive writing traced a path from her earlobe to her clavicle. Thankfully, it didn’t read Quin. “Bulletproof,” she said, grinning.
I smiled back at her. “Clever.”
“It was Quin’s idea.”
Suddenly, like the pin-pop of a balloon, my smile disappeared. I glared at her. “Why are you here?”
“Believe me, if there was any other place for me to go for help, I would be there right now.”
“Help? Do you really expect me to help you?” As I spoke, Emma appraised my desk. She picked up one of my trophies and held it up to the light.
“First place, senior science fair.” Her voice was singsong, mocking. She grabbed a group of my award ribbons, rattling them off in rapid succession. “Citizenship award. Perfect attendance. Most likely to succeed.” Her contempt was tangible. “No wonder Quin broke up with you. You’re such a goody-goody. I’m sure he was bored out of his mind.”
I resisted the overwhelming urge to yank her braid until she screamed. “Did you really come here to insult me?”
With a careless flick of her wrist, she tossed my ribbons back on the desk and rose from the chair. We stood face to face. Hand on her hip, she replied, “I came here because I thought you should know that Quin has—” She lowered her eyes. “There’s no other way to say it—he’s lost it. Completely.”
“What do you mean?” I knew what she meant.
“Xander. I’m assuming you’ve heard.”
I nodded.
“Quin left me in L.A. three days ago. He didn’t even tell me he was going. Just disappeared. He and his dad had this big fight—or at least that’s what he said—before he left. Next thing you know, he’s saving Xander from a bullet and then this.” She held out her cell phone. In my mind, it was a hot coal. I reached for it, but I didn’t want to. I knew it would burn.
There were several days’ worth of texts, ranging from demanding to disappointed—all from Emma to Q. Then there was this:
Emma: Where are you?
Emma: Please, tell me. Please.
Emma: I know we’re not “together,” but still, I thought you cared.
Q: You’re the one who begged to come to L.A. I told you a long time ago not to get involved with me. Lose my number. Forget you ever met me.
When I looked up at her, Emma was catching tears on her cheeks with the back of her hand. “It doesn’t sound like Quin, right?” Her voice sounded desperate. “What do you think, Lex?”
I took a breath, steeling myself, willing away the words together and involved. I shrugged. “Maybe you’re not as bulletproof as you thought.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
MEAN
FROM THE DOORWAY, I watched Emma leave. She had a way of walking—a strut, really—that was undeniable, even now. Her hair sashayed behind her with a bounce that seemed both effortless and intentional. With one graceful swing of her leg, she was seated on her motorcycle. She gave a halfhearted wave as she circled the cul-de-sac and drove out of my sight.
Max and my father sat on the sofa, engaged in pretend chitchat. I waited for their questions.
“Well?” I asked finally when neither spoke.
My father grinned. “Well, what?” He turned to Max. “Did we miss something?”
With a straight face, Max shrugged. “I didn’t see anything.”
I glared at them. “Whatever.” They both laughed. I flopped onto the chair nearest them, sighing. “Emma thinks Quin’s gone off the deep end.”
“A reasonable assumption, I suppose,” my father said. I was grateful when he added, “For someone who doesn’t know him that well.”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted, replaying Quin’s harsh words to Emma. “I’m beginning to wonder how well I know him anymore. His text sounded—” Mean. The ring of my father’s cell phone interrupted me.
“I’ve got to get this,” he said, phone in hand, heading toward the kitchen. “It’s Langley, my assignment editor.” He answered in his professional voice. “Bill Knightley, Eyes on the Bay.”
“So what else did Emma say?” Max asked, with my father out of earshot.
I rolled my eyes. “Here’s a replay of the highlights. There’s a new tattoo on her neck. She’s flabbergasted I didn’t kill Quin with my utter dullness. Apparently he left her in L.A. They weren’t together, but might’ve been involved, whatever that means. And she hasn’t heard from him since.”
“O—kaayyy.” Max drew out his voice, awaiting my reaction.
“Oh yeah, one more thing. Quin told her that he had a fight with his dad right before he left.”
Max cocked his head to the side, perplexed. “That’s odd.”
I nodded. “But not as odd as Quin popping up out of nowhere and saving Xander.”
“Or String knowing the guy taking the shot.” Max’s smile didn’t hide his melancholy. “Do you think String and Radley were … dating?” He said the word carefully, as if its edges were razor sharp. “He said we could see other people.”
“I seriously doubt it.” In fact, I hadn’t even considered such a mundane explanation. “He doesn’t exactly seem like String’s type.” I combed my hand through my hair in an exaggerated preen.
Max half smiled, then sighed. “We really need to talk to Quin.”
“Hold that thought,” my father said. With one hand, he looped his press pass around his neck while the other shoveled his laptop in its briefcase. “Xander’s giving a press conference at Zenigenic in forty-five minutes. Who’s coming with me?”
CHAPTER NINE
HOOPLA
“HEY, LEX, LOOK!” Max pointed to a row of mahogany-framed portraits lining the lobby wall at Zenigenic. “It’s your mom.” I nodded, melancholy with memory.
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The last time I was inside this lobby, I was thirteen years old and watching my mother receive the Z Innovator Award and a standing ovation for her contributions to the development of Emovere. That evening, my mother radiated. It seemed the whole room was in an orbit of awe—myself included—spinning around her. But looking back, her disenchantment was just a fingernail’s scratch below the surface. At the night’s end, we all stood on the roof of the building, eyes to the sky, watching the company-sponsored fireworks. My mother whispered, “All this hoopla for a drug. It seems silly, doesn’t it?” I didn’t know why, but my stomach hurt when she said it. She resigned a few weeks later.
My father patted my arm as we walked along the periphery of a crowd of reporters. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I said, one foot still in the past. “It’s just been a long time.”
“Will you tell me about it later—if you want to?”
Sometimes it was overwhelming. There were entire books of my life that my father had never opened.
“Of course,” I reassured him. Just outside the lobby, a large group of protestors was gathering. I could hear their chanting even through the soundproof glass. “Steele must go! No more drugs!”
Max nudged me with his elbow. “Is that Quin?”
My heart revved. “Where?” I stood on tiptoe and followed Max’s finger to the stage. Standing just behind Xander’s spokeswoman, Gina Tan, was Quin. He was shoulder to shoulder with Zenigenic security, his black suit jacket and stony expression camouflaging him among them. Now that he was so close, it was hard to be still. It was silly, but I imagined shouting his name, pushing through the crowd, throwing my arms around him. Since Quin left, I daydreamed this moment many times. But this reunion—confusing, detached, and very public—wasn’t what I had pictured.