by Rysa Walker
Aaron leads me to the service elevator, rather than the more direct route to the great room.
“Why are we going in the back way?”
“You know this place. Word gets around.” He punches the button for the second floor. “There will probably be fifteen, maybe twenty, of the adepts hanging out upstairs to see if you’re wearing an ankle bracelet yet. We need to give Maria some time to convince them that would be a bad thing. Anyway, Deo and Kelsey are both waiting.”
“I think I’d rather run the gauntlet in the great room. How pissed is Kelsey?”
“Oh, she’s pissed.” I turn down the hall toward Kelsey’s office once we exit the elevator, but Aaron takes my arm and pulls me toward him. He tips my face up so that I have to look him in the eye. “They’re both pissed because they were both scared, Anna. And so was I.”
His grip isn’t tight and he’s not hurting me in the slightest. Still, I feel a faint tickle of annoyance again. Some stupid tiny part of me doesn’t want to be touched, and my body stiffens.
He releases my arm instantly and steps back. “Sorry. I’ll just . . . I’ll . . . see you later, okay?”
But I don’t want him to go. Okay, yes, that stupid, tiny part of me does, but it’s not going to win this time. Before he can leave, I close the distance between us and pull him in for a kiss.
There’s no hesitation on his part. We haven’t kissed much lately—or done anything else, for that matter—and Aaron’s response is immediate. He wraps his arms around my waist, lifting me up so that my face is level with his. I miss this. I miss him. I miss us. And the fact that the disconnect between us is entirely my own fault makes the situation doubly painful.
Two girls round the corner, nearly colliding with us. One of them is Bree Bieler, whose brother was recently one of my hitchers. I can’t remember the other girl’s name, but she was one of the kids at The Warren. I think she’s what Maria calls a Mover . . . in other words, telekinetic.
Bree herself has a smattering of different abilities, including the power to fry pretty much any electrical device simply by touching it. She burned through two PS4 controllers, apparently by accident, before the other adepts realized she hates to lose. Bree doesn’t like me much. I’m pretty sure it’s because she associates me with her brother’s death.
Right now, though, they’re just two little girls who have collapsed into giggles because they caught me wrapped around Aaron like a string of Christmas lights. I’m glad that neither of them is a Peeper like Maria, or else they’d have picked up some very R-rated thoughts just now.
Aaron says, “Begging your pardon, young ladies,” in a very formal tone, then tops it off with a wink. That sends them into another peal of giggles as they retreat back down the hallway.
“Maybe we should go to our room?” I suggest before remembering it’s no longer our room. It’s now my room, and his room is elsewhere . . . and that was apparently my decision. I don’t remember making it, and I don’t particularly like it, but I haven’t worked up the nerve to reverse it. My gut instinct is that it wouldn’t be a good idea to reverse it right now. A lot of my memory gaps seem to come in the morning, and it’s easier to hide them if I’m in my room and he’s in his. I always remember waking up, brushing my teeth and so forth, but then something happens. The next thing I know, it’s hours later and I have no idea why I’m on the deck or in the dining room.
He ignores my word choice, though, pressing his lips to mine again. “Mmhmm. Excellent idea. Oh. Wait . . .” My feet are now back on the carpet, and he’s looking down at me with narrowed eyes. “Nice try.”
“Aaron! That’s not what I was doing. I swear.” And it’s true, although I’ll admit that delaying the discussion with Kelsey would have been a nice bonus.
“Good.” Aaron plants a last quick kiss on the side of my mouth. “Then we’ll pick this up after you talk to Kelsey. And Deo.” He flashes me a wicked grin, puts both hands on my shoulders, and pivots me around.
“Fine,” I say. “Assuming I survive . . .”
He knows I’m joking. I’m not scared of Kelsey. She won’t even yell at me. It would be easier, actually, if she did yell at me. It’s the disappointment on her face that I dread.
NEWS ITEM FROM THE WASHINGTON POST
April 16, 2020
Sanctuary for Psychics, a nonprofit organization created earlier this year by Jerrianne Cregg, wife of presidential candidate Senator Ron Cregg (UA-PA), is urging anyone exhibiting psychic symptoms or who knows someone who exhibits these symptoms to call their hotline for assistance. “The danger from these vigilante groups is very real,” she said. “We can offer aid and protection. You don’t need to do this alone. We still do not understand the nature of this condition. Some experts believe that viral transmission is possible, so if you see something unusual, it’s your civic duty to make a report.”
Mrs. Cregg’s organization has been awarded a $72 million grant from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention to facilitate blood screenings at schools and local clinics for all students and interested adults. Several states are now requiring the test be conducted along with the eye examination when granting a driver’s license. Anyone who tests positive can then be tracked. The test is offered free of charge, and results are available within a week. A bill that would make this sort of screening mandatory for all US citizens and persons traveling into the country has recently passed the House of Representatives and is under consideration in the Senate.
Sanctuary for Psychics is also working in conjunction with several other organizations, including Decathlon Services Group (DSG), where Mrs. Cregg has served on the board of directors since 2014. Mrs. Cregg is currently chair of the Health, Environment, and Responsible Social Engagement committee. A DSG subsidiary, Python Diagnostics, holds the patent for an antidepressant drug that has shown promise as a psychic inhibitor.
CHAPTER TWO
Carova, North Carolina
April 23, 2020, 10:26 a.m.
Kelsey answers immediately when I tap on the door. I step inside and glance around the office, postponing the inevitable moment when I have to look her in the eye.
Even though I’ve been in this room dozens of times since Kelsey arrived at Sandalford, it’s still a slight shock to see her behind a different desk, in a different office, instead of her old office in Wheaton. In every rational sense, this place is an upgrade—the old location overlooked a rear parking lot and a dumpster, and often smelled of stale grease wafting up from the restaurant below. This room is twice as big and it has an ocean view. But I miss the familiarity of her other office. I don’t know if Kelsey misses it, but that place was one of the few constants for much of my life. Foster homes changed, foster parents changed, schools changed. Kelsey’s office was the only place that felt like home, even though I was only there for an hour twice a week.
The most important thing, though, is that Kelsey is here. These past few months have aged her, but the same patient gray eyes watch me from behind rimless glasses. Her hair is the same silver-white, though a little grown out, no doubt due to the lack of nearby salons.
And it’s the same blue mug—the one she gave me that first Christmas, the one with my name in white letters—waiting for me on the edge of her desk. A tiny curl of steam rises from the cup, and tears spring to my eyes as I breathe in the aroma. Black coffee, no cream or sugar, just as I requested the very first time I sat in her office chair, back when I was five and my legs were still too short to touch the floor.
It’s only a cup of coffee, but it symbolizes more than twelve years of trust that I’ve been chipping away at over the past few months. I sink into the chair, unable to meet her eyes. Unable to say anything because I don’t want to lie to her, but I’m too terrified to tell the truth. Too terrified to admit I don’t know what really happened this morning.
“Oh, Anna, you look like you’ve been sent to the principal’s office. I have no intention of scolding you. Did I scold you when you ran from the Becklers’ house?�
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“No.”
“Did I scold you or Deo when the two of you ran from Wheelwright’s house?”
“No.”
“And why do you think I didn’t scold you?”
I’m quiet for a moment, then say, “Because we had a reason for running. Especially that last time.”
“Exactly. Scolding you would have been pointless because you were in a situation beyond your control. My concern then—and now—was keeping you out of danger. You explained the problem to me both times, and we worked together to solve it. And that’s what I want you to do now. So. Try to explain why you left this morning, just two days after Magda’s security team reported suspicious activity around the perimeter.”
She’s been using her calmest and most level therapist’s voice, but worry creeps into the last few words.
“I can’t,” I tell her. “I can’t explain. When I woke up this morning, I just . . . I wanted to run. I didn’t think about whether any of Senator Cregg’s people or a group of rogue vigilantes might be in the area. All I remember is putting on my shoes and telling the night guard I was going for a run.”
“That’s the last thing you remember?”
It is the last thing I remember, but I shake my head, surprised that I let that slip. “No. I just meant that’s the last thing I remember before I left. I remember running, then sitting on the beach. Watching the waves until I dozed off. I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“And sitting there all alone, you didn’t think at all about the reasons Magda has guards here? About how she’ll want to tag you with one of those horrid trackers if she gets wind of this?”
“No . . . I didn’t think about those things. It’s off-season, midweek. I didn’t even see anyone, Kelsey. I was safe.”
Kelsey paces for a moment, then sits on the edge of her desk. Her voice is reflective, almost idle, when she asks, “Do you think maybe the boy in Virginia Beach felt the same way? Felt like he was safe?”
My hand tightens around the mug. Last week’s murder of Cameron Applebaum, a thirteen-year-old boy with low-level telekinesis, is the fifth killing we’ve tracked since December. Two of those kids weren’t even connected to the Delphi Project, at least not in any way we can identify. Just random kids who had a smidgen of native psychic ability. Or far more likely, they simply didn’t fit into the pecking order in their communities or schools, and were singled out for removal. The current hysteria over psychic abilities gave some people a handy excuse for killing a couple of misfits.
Cameron’s death came as a double blow because Magda and Kelsey—mostly Kelsey, to be honest—had finally persuaded his mother to let the boy come to Sandalford. Miller, Magda’s head of security, had already dispatched a team to fetch Cameron when the boy’s uncle called with the news.
The family had been receiving threats for several weeks. That’s what eventually pushed them to accept Magda’s offer of asylum for the boy. Cameron’s mom cautioned him to stay in the house. But he decided to walk over to his best friend’s house to say good-bye and, apparently, to retrieve a half dozen or so video games. Those games were found along with his body, crushed by a car on the way home. No witnesses, but just in case anyone was tempted to see this as an unfortunate accident, the perpetrator scrawled the word freak across Cameron’s forehead with his own blood.
“He was thirteen, Kelsey. I’m an adult.”
Her eyes flash, and I’m certain that she’s going to say that if I want to be treated as an adult, I need to start acting like one. That’s what every single one of the parents among my former hitchers would have said to an eighteen-year-old who was taking stupid risks. It’s what most of the foster parents I’ve dealt with would have said. Part of me wants Kelsey to say it, to snap at me out of anger and fear. To treat me like one of her children.
She doesn’t say it, though. Honestly, I’m not even sure she would have said something like that to her own two children, now adults with nearly grown kids of their own. More likely she’d do what I’m pretty sure she’s about to do now—toss in a few leading questions to help me draw that conclusion on my own.
Normally, I’d play along, but I really don’t have the patience for the psychiatric Socratic method today, so I jump in first.
“Yes,” I say, “I’ve been forgetful lately. Things slip my mind. You know that and you know why. This morning, I just needed to get away. I wasn’t thinking about Senator Cregg or the recent attacks or anything other than the fact that I needed to get out. Get some fresh air and exercise. I’m sorry everyone was worried. It won’t happen again. I told Aaron that I’ll wake him up next time, and I will. I promise. Just don’t tell Magda. You know it would make me crazy to wear one of those anklets.”
Kelsey remains quiet during my plea. Even after I fall silent, she doesn’t speak for a moment. She just watches as I sip my coffee. Her elbows are on the desk, hands folded together, chin on her thumbs, and her forefingers steepled below her bottom lip. This is her usual pose when she’s trying to think how to proceed. And after twelve years, I don’t need any psychic ability at all to know the question lurking behind her expression—what is it you’re not telling me?
Eventually, she sighs and gives me a weary smile. “Okay. You know I won’t mention this to Magda, but don’t be surprised if word gets back to her anyway. We have several dozen bored kids in this house. Gossip is a diversion, and there’s only so much we can do to keep them in line. Hopefully they’ll have forgotten by the time she gets back.”
She doesn’t add that some of the kids already resent the fact that I—along with Aaron, Taylor, and Deo—have been able to leave Sandalford on a few occasions, most notably back in December when we drove to Upstate New York. Magda had tentatively approved the trip, but we left ahead of schedule. The fifteen kids we rescued from the missile-silo-turned-prison where Cregg was keeping them don’t generally seem to have an issue with our off-campus privileges. They know they probably wouldn’t be here otherwise. And they’d much rather be here than in The Pit with Cregg’s guards. The kids who were brought in from the school at Fort Bragg, however, have been at Sandalford longer. Many of them miss their families, and pretty much all of them have cabin fever. Even if you can see the ocean from the top two floors, you still know that there’s now a fence and a guard.
“Thank you, Kelsey. And really, I promise it won’t happen again.”
Even though I was pretty sure she wouldn’t rat me out to Magda, I’m amazed that she capitulated so quickly. I thought we’d spend longer thrashing it out, while she poked at my excuse, searching for holes.
She brushes off my thanks and settles herself in her chair. “We had to cut our last session short because I had that meeting with the science team. But I do have about twenty minutes before my next appointment, so . . . ?”
Ahhhh. That’s the catch. We’re not actually finished. I want to tell her that I’m too busy. That Aaron is waiting. But we both know Aaron has nowhere to be. And we both know that I’ve been avoiding our sessions whenever possible—something that I’ve never done in the past.
“Sure,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “But there’s not really much that we haven’t already talked about, so . . .”
“What about the nightmares?”
“I’ve had a few. But . . . they’re just garden-variety nightmares, not the recurring ones.”
As I tell Kelsey this lie, a fleeting image runs through my head. A woman’s body is sprawled on a flagstone patio, one knee up and the opposite arm arched over her head near a hedge of white and pink rosebushes. You might think she was sleeping, except for the growing red pool beneath her face and the hand on her outstretched arm, which is badly broken and bloodied. The fingers jut out in odd directions, and one—the pinky—is missing.
Sometimes, the dream starts earlier, with a sense that I’m falling through the air. I never wake up when I land. It’s almost like the impact tosses me out of her body, and I walk toward her in a swirl of emotions. Grief. Guilt about
an argument. I hate you. You suck! Terrified that she’s dead. Terrified that I caused it.
The dream ends there, occasionally. Usually, however, everything around me morphs into a city scene. Downtown DC, I think, but then that’s really the only city I know. The woman is still lying on the ground, but she’s older now. Different face, different clothes. They’re drab and ragged. Dirty. She’s huddled in a doorway, sleeping next to a shopping cart full of her belongings.
In the dream, I draw back my foot and kick the woman in the stomach. I can see the shoe as it kicks again and again. It’s a pink-and-white sneaker with Velcro straps and little lights. One of the lights is broken, but the others turn on when you walk—or if you kick hard enough.
The old woman pulls away from the second kick and looks up at me, shock and horror in her eyes. That’s usually what wakes me up, but sometimes I keep kicking, over and over, and I don’t wake up until I feel hands on my shoulders, pulling me away. I don’t want them to pull me away, and it’s my anger that wakes me.
This last scene has frequented my dreams for years. Kelsey and I have talked about her before. I don’t know the old woman’s name. I don’t even think Myron knew her name. She was just there when he surfaced, a convenient target for his rage.
But the woman on the patio is new. I’ve never seen her before, and I’ve no clue why she keeps popping up in my dreams lately—at least a dozen times in the past few months. She must be symbolic. The missing pinky would seem to confirm that, actually, since I associate it with Graham Cregg’s victims.
I’ve had symbolic dreams before, and usually Kelsey helps me sort them out. But some instinct tells me to hide this new version of the dream, even from Kelsey. Maybe even especially from Kelsey.
So I shift the topic slightly, hoping she didn’t pick up on my lie. “But, like I said last time, I didn’t have a single exit dream after Hunter Bieler left. I don’t have any of his memories, either. That’s odd, don’t you think?”
