by Ellery Kane
As you requested, all files related to the Second City Project have been destroyed.
“Second City?” Elana asked.
Mr. Van Sant nodded gravely. “It’s an old nickname for Chicago.”
CHAPTER FIFTY - SIX :
VANILLA
Ten minutes later, I was still peering over Max’s shoulder into the bright light of the computer screen. Like a moth to flame, I found it hard to look away, even though the rest of me was somewhere else. Chicago. Zenigenic. My mother. Did she know? It was two years after her resignation, but that picture of her with Ryker reaffirmed what I already knew. My mother had a hidden life, a buried labyrinth that knew no bounds. It was easy to get lost there. But I didn’t want out … only to understand why. Still, I kept stumbling into new rooms, each darker and emptier than the last. I could feel Quin’s heat next to me. He was lost inside his own thoughts, his eyes as distant as mine. His thumb rubbed my index finger methodically, strumming something electric inside me with each stroke. I focused on that—the way his touch played the vibrato strings of my body—to the exclusion of everything else.
Edison burst into sudden laughter, and I jumped. “Click the one at the top. Dear Mother.” He read aloud.
My Dearest Mother,
I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing to offer my sincerest gratitude for your support. Despite your reservations about my appointment as CEO and leader of our family’s greatest legacy, Zenigenic Corporation, I assure you that I will do everything in my power to secure the success Father worked so diligently to achieve. I promise I will not disappoint you.
Your loving son,
Xandi
“Xandi! Ha!” Edison doubled over laughing.
Mr. Van Sant—who was perched on the sofa, drafting an email to Langley—shot a stern glance. “We’re taking all of this to the media,” he said after we found the Second City memo. “And not Barbara Blake. The real media.”
Quin tugged at my hand, pulling me away from the spot where I was anchored, weighted by the heft of all that was unknown and unanswered. “I have to go soon,” he mouthed, glancing down at his watch. It was over an hour since he and Edison returned. Xander and—worse—Valkov would be looking for him. Quin was going to leave me again. It was inevitable. The room felt airless. The wings fluttering in my chest since I saw him went still. “Can we go somewhere to talk?” he asked.
I nodded, letting him guide me up the stairs and into the first open door, one of Mr. Van Sant’s countless guest bedrooms. Quin closed the door behind us, shutting out the light from the hallway. He reached for the lamp on the nightstand, but I stopped him. Knowing I might cry, I was okay with only the glow of the moon through the window.
Quin sat on the bed and patted the spot next to him. He lay back, using his hands as a pillow. “What a day.” He was trying to be cool, but I could tell he was nervous. I was too. I sunk back into the soft mattress, painfully aware of the space between us. I tried to keep my breath steady and even. Slowly I turned toward him, hoping—not hoping—hoping—not hoping—to find his eyes. He was staring at the ceiling. My fingertips brushed his.
“Hey,” he said, curling his hand around mine.
“Hey, yourself.” Our familiar back and forth was a comfort, like returning to a favorite childhood place and finding it just as you remembered. For the first time in days, I felt safe.
“I want to ask you something.” He rolled over onto his side and scooted nearer to me, putting his hand firmly on my hip. “What is it that you think happened between me and Emma?” And there she was, the elephant in the room. Although really, Emma was nothing like an elephant. Not even close. She was more of a fox. Sleek, cunning, but pesky.
I propped myself up on my elbow, releasing his hand. “A dalliance?” I parroted Augustus.
Quin rolled his eyes. “First of all, please don’t ever quote Augustus. And second of all … ”
“Second of all?” I prompted, preparing myself for the worst.
“I kissed Emma one time after she came to L.A. She always wanted to be more than friends—but you know that already—and I wanted to try to forget you.”
“And?”
“Do you really not know?” I started to answer him. That day she taught me to ride, Emma reluctantly admitted the same—one kiss. I carried those words in my pocket like two wishing stones. Even now, I wanted—I needed—to hear him say it. “I felt nothing.”
“But Emma is so … I don’t know … exciting. With her tattoos and her motorcycle—and her braid that’s always changing color. Maybe I’m too vanilla for you.” I looked down when I said it, following the moon-cast shadows on Quin’s chest.
He gently lifted my chin. “If this is vanilla—if you are vanilla—then I’m crazy about vanilla. I adore vanilla. I’m pretty sure vanilla is essential to my survival.” I half smiled at him.
“Seriously, Quin.”
“Okay, seriously. Kissing her only made me miss you more. But in a way, I was glad. I don’t want to feel this way about anybody else.” I thought of my uninspired kiss with Percy and understood completely. It was dreary, dull, drab—nothing like the first-day-of-summer feeling Quin gave me.
“That night at Coit Tower, I had a dream you said you loved me.”
He swallowed hard. “That wasn’t a dream, but you were supposed to be asleep.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t know how you felt. If you’d say it back. So I figured it was probably best just to keep it between me and … well, me.”
I wrapped my arm around his waist, resting my hand just near the hem of his untucked shirt on a slice of bare skin. It was so warm that it left me capable of only one thought. I don’t want to ever stop touching him. He reached for my hand and pulled my arm tighter around him. “Do you want to say it again?” I asked, his lips nearly on mine.
He cleared his throat ceremoniously. “I love you, Alexandra Knightley. I never stopped. I don’t think I can. I don’t want—”
Before he could speak it, the rest of his speech tumbled into my mouth. Our bodies picked up the dialogue where the words left off. It was like a half-delirious, talk-all-night conversation so intense you can’t sleep afterward, don’t want to. I was flush against him, his fingers tangling in my hair. I ran my hand under his shirt, pressing hard against his back—his muscles solid, tightening like a taut rope beneath my palm as he moved—then lower along his waistband, letting my fingers dip dangerously below it. His lips were insistent, needful, asking. So were mine, replying.
“That would’ve been my answer,” I whispered as our kisses slowed to a lazy back and forth. “That, and I love you too.”
I could feel his grin beneath my lips. “That’s one helluva answer.” He trailed his mouth along my jaw, then buried his face in my neck, inhaling me. His stubble prickled against my skin, but I leaned in anyway, listening to his breathing in my ear. I was transfixed by its contradiction—all at once calm and urgent. “But I want you to trust me,” he whispered. “Do you trust me?”
I was prepared for this. It was the riddle I always came back to in the dead of night after all my other thoughts fell away, exhausted. I was still mulling over my mother’s secrets—how she kept them and why. And my insatiable need to know—the push and pull of it. With Quin, it was no different. “I think that’s the wrong question.”
“So tell me the right one.”
“Do you trust me? You’ve said it yourself, you’re a closed book. And I understand why. You want to know—really know—I can handle it. Hiding Augustus from my dad was like that. I didn’t think he would understand. But I was wrong. I had to trust him. I had to give him a chance. Quin, I need you to let me in. All the way. I can handle it.”
“I know you can.” He paused, then sighed. “But I guess I’ve always been worried you would stop loving me … maybe return this closed book to the library.” I shook my head, laughing, but Quin silenced me with a tender kiss. He pulled me to him, his chest pressed firmly against my back. It
was his favorite way to hold me—no space between our bodies but avoiding my eyes. “When I was in L.A., I went to see one of those Prophecy Program researchers.” I felt myself stiffen. “They tested me.” I couldn’t speak, so I just laid there in the blaring silence.
“Lex?”
“Mmhmm.”
“I decided I don’t want to know the results.” I shifted under the weight of his arm, turning to face him. He didn’t look away, his brown eyes so bright in the moonlight, they warmed me like the sun.
“Okay,” I said. And it was. Whatever was inside of Quin—pumping through the secret, world-worn chambers of the heart I loved, deep in the marrow of his bones—was no different than anybody else. It was mother, father, good and bad, and everything in between. It was whatever he chose it to be. I didn’t need a test to tell me that.
“And I do trust you. I trust you completely, more than anybody else. That’s why I wanted to talk to you alone. There’s something I need to tell you, something nobody else can know.”
“What is it?”
“That soldier who saved me—he was my brother. It was Colton.”
CHAPTER FIFTY - SEVEN :
KEEP RUNNING
“What—how do you know—are you sure?” The words shot out of mouth in a run-on sentence. I sat up too quickly, spinning a little from the rush.
“I’m sure.” Quin sat up next to me. His voice was absent of any doubt.
“But how?”
“I noticed him watching me during Xander’s speech. He looks just like me at seventeen. And then I saw him up close when String started shooting at me. Colton had this birthmark on his neck, a red splotch just below his ear. This soldier had one just like it. It’s him.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
Quin shook his head. “They pulled him off me, and he disappeared into the crowd with the other Guardians. But he slipped this into my pocket.” Quin handed me a piece of paper—folded and unfolded so many times that it felt like cloth. I opened it with care.
It was a photocopy of a newspaper article dated November 5, 2028. McAllister Sentenced To Life In Brutal Slaying, Young Son Finds New Home. In the margins, there were drawings, some pencil scribbling, and handwriting in faded ink that read Colton McAllister Masterson.
George McAllister’s sons, ages six and two, were present in the home when their mother was killed. Los Angeles County Child Protective Services confirmed today that the younger of the two boys was recently adopted, releasing a statement that read, in part, “We are happy to report he has been permanently placed with a loving family.”
CPS also confirmed McAllister’s oldest son remains in their care and custody. There has been an outpouring of support for the two boys, with many offering to adopt or foster them. However, child psychologist and trauma expert Margot Denam cautioned, “In cases like this, even under the best circumstances, we expect deep emotional scars. Research tells us children who witness one parent murder the other have increased difficulty forming attachments with new caregivers. Adopting a child who has suffered this type of trauma is a serious commitment.”
“It’s … ” Strange, but in that moment, I felt the most bitter melancholy. “Wow. This is incredible. We should look in the asterisk folder, see if we can find him. Maybe—”
“I already did when I was looking for Radley’s file. He’s not in there. But I didn’t think he would be … ” Following Quin’s finger, I turned my attention back to the well-worn piece of paper. Taped to the bottom was a picture of Quin, printed from one of the recent Zenigenic Internet ad campaigns.
“Look underneath,” Quin said. I scratched at the edge of the tape until it lifted. More handwriting—freshly inked this time.
Big brother, I’ve been looking for you since I was 12 years old, the day I found this article in my parents’ bedroom drawer. After our dad got arrested again, there you were on the Internet defending him. So I came to San Francisco to find you. But I got recruited—or should I say persuaded. General Maze told me he knew you and that he could reunite us. He lied. Once I enlisted, nobody would tell me anything—just that you went AWOL. They won’t let me leave. Half the time, I’m doped up on Emovere. Maze told me he wants me for a special mission. I don’t know how you got out, but I want out too before they make me do anything else I regret.
Quin made a small sound, cocooning his face in his palms. Was he crying? “I wanted him to have a better life, a real family. But all of it was for nothing. He’s exactly where I was. Because of me.” When he lifted his head and opened the curtain of his hands, his eyes were wet.
I wanted to tell Quin I understood—the rejections, the scars, the labels, all of it—the immeasurable price he paid counting on Colton’s escape. It wasn’t fair. Mostly, I just wanted to catch him on his way down, like he had done for me so many times. Tell him we would figure it out together. But I never got the chance.
The thin rectangle of light at the base of the bedroom door disappeared. Downstairs, I heard a collective shout.
“Did the lights go out?” Quin asked, sobering quickly.
The answer came—fast, heavy—and not from me. Bullets pinging the house, windows exploding, Elana’s wailing scream. It was the sound of a monster spitting fire in a dream, but we weren’t dreaming. This monster was real.
Quin grabbed my arm and jerked me to my feet. “The window,” he said, already pulling me toward it. Jarring it open with one hand, he stepped out onto the roof. I followed. We couldn’t see much, only the fenced backyard. Backlighted by the moon, tendrils of gun smoke rose up from the front of the house. “This way.” Quin shimmied down the second-floor overhang to the edge. I scooted after him, the hard tiles scraping my thighs even through my jeans. Ten feet below us was a pool of glass from the picture window.
“We have to jump, then run like crazy,” he said, not giving me a choice. “Ready?” I nodded against all instinct—where’s Emovere when you need it?—and pushed myself into the sky. Mid-flight, I felt the burn of vomit rising in my throat. Barely a breath later came bone-juddering impact. No time to assess the damage. No time to look back. A bullet cut the air next to my ear, and my legs were churning as fast as Quin’s. We busted out through the gate and onto the street.
“Keep running!” Quin implored, as if I planned to stop. His voice was muted by the pulsing ring in my ears, my frantic half gasps for air. Keep running. I trained my eyes on his back—tunnel vision—matching my pace to his. Keep running. It wasn’t until he pointed up ahead that I realized his words weren’t meant for me. I named them all, counted them in my head. Someone was missing. Keep running. And we did.
CHAPTER FIFTY - EIGHT :
CHOCOLATE-COVERED ANTS
It was so cold my skin hurt. Teeth chattering, I tucked my hands further under Artos’ warm belly. His head lay on his paws, but his eyes were open, alert, watching a small bird hop in the corner of the room. Artos had been here before. So had I. In another life—a life without Onyx, without Valkov, without Xander Steele. A life before I found my father and watched my mother die. A life before I gave my whole heart to a tattooed boy with mischievous brown eyes, a boy who was gone … again.
“Are you sure no one else knows about this place?” Edison asked, scowling at Augustus. He returned his chin to rest on the top of Elana’s head. She was pressed snug to his chest, his arms blanketed over her. I never felt so jealous. “Why should we believe you?”
“You have a better idea, I presume?”
“Here we go again,” Max muttered. Edison and Augustus had been going at it, jab for jab, since we arrived at the abandoned Resistance headquarters over an hour ago. Augustus led us here through the pin-drop silence of the BART tunnel, past the lab, the control booth, and the Map Room to his old office. He swiped at the cobwebs in the doorway with his long fingers and produced a key from his pocket, lips turning up in a satisfied smile as he fit it inside the lock. I imagined it was much as he had left it when he fled here over two years ago. Hanging above the wall o
n his desk was a diploma from New York University, Stern School of Business. Real or fake? Wondering was a convenient distraction.
“You just happened to have a key to an office that’s been deserted for two years? Am I the only one who finds that disturbing?” No. Right here. Me, definitely disturbed. But I didn’t say anything. My tongue sat thick and useless in my mouth. I felt numb and not just from the cold. Barry was dead, shot in Mr. Van Sant’s living room by Satan’s Syndicate. No one told me, no one spoke the words out loud, but I knew.
If I closed my eyes, I could pretend Quin was here with me. “Lex.” I could still feel the puffs of his breath tickle my cheek when he’d whispered my name outside the boarded tunnel entrance. He shivered against me, his body saying I love you, while he mouthed other words in my ear. “Don’t trust Augustus. There’s no way he got out of Coit Tower on his own.” His hand slipped under my shirt to the small of my back where he carefully tucked his gun into my waistband. I watched Quin walk away from me until his silhouette was part of the shadows. I was practiced at goodbye, and yet—every single time—it split my heart like a melon and scooped it hollow. Love should come with a warning label.
“He’ll be okay.” Max nudged me with his elbow, reading my dark thoughts as clearly as if they were scribed in stone. “Remember when we first met?” He half smiled. “I told you Quin is kind of amazing.”
Being in this place brought it all back, and in spite of everything, I beamed back at him. “I think your exact words were moody, but strikingly handsome.”
“And was I wrong?”
“Truer words were never spoken.” I leaned against Max and put my head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry about String.”
Max sighed, then chuckled. “That’s what I get for trusting a guy with better hair than mine.” But there was no mistaking the sorrow behind his jest.