by Rysa Walker
“Yes, it is,” Aaron says. “Fifty-two points.”
“Sweet.”
Daniel glares at the two of us. “Wait a minute. Vietnamese? You said no foreign words.”
“Foreign currency is allowed,” I explain. “And a few other exceptions.”
Aaron already has the Scrabble dictionary open on his phone. “See? It’s a valid Scrabble word. Vietnamese monetary unit. One one-hundredth of a dong.”
“You’re one one-hundredth of a dong,” Daniel mutters as he jots Aaron’s points down on the envelope they’re using to tally the score. “Game’s not over yet.”
Aaron frowns, studying his tiles. I scooch over next to him and examine the board.
“Oh, no, you do not,” Daniel says. “You are not helping him. Get out.”
I stick my tongue out at him and tap two of Aaron’s tiles. “You could play—”
“Out,” Aaron echoes. “Move it. I can beat him on my own.”
Daniel glares at him. “Only because your eighty-two-year-old ghost girlfriend taught you a bunch of fake foreign words.”
I leave them to their game and head downstairs to the kitchen. It’s dark, except for the light from the open fridge, which is blocked partly by a girl’s silhouette. She’s crouched down in search of something on the shelves.
“Your brothers,” I begin as I flip on the light, “may be the most competitive . . . Oh. Sorry. I thought you were Taylor.”
Sophie tosses lunch meat and cheese onto the wooden table, then turns back to the fridge to resume her hunt. “Taylor’s sleeping. Where did the bread go?”
I pull out the loaf—the second loaf, apparently—from the pantry next to me, and hand it to her.
“Pfeifer’s asleep, too,” she says, adding mustard to the collection on the table. “In case you’re wondering why I’m not on duty.”
I was wondering that, but it seems rude to admit it. Sophie can’t stay cooped up in that room with him indefinitely. The whole reason she came with us was because she wanted some place where people did more than house, feed, and exploit her. Where she could have a life.
“Is he doing . . . better? More under control?”
“He was under control last night until you—” Sophie stops, shaking her head. “This is crap mustard. Crap bread, too. But I need fuel.”
She spackles a thin layer of the bright-yellow stuff onto four slices of butter wheat. She piles about half of the meat and cheese to form two sandwiches and then sinks her teeth into one as if she’s starving.
“I don’t really like neon-yellow mustard either.” I fold a slice of cheese into bread and then hunt in the pantry for chips to give it a little crunch. “Let us know what you like to eat, and we can pick up different stuff next time we’re out.”
Her fierce expression gradually mellows, likely because she has food in her hands. Taylor’s the same way when remote viewing. It appears to be a second-generation thing, and it only seems to hit some of the adepts. Peyton Hawkins can munch her way through an entire box of cookies if she spends a few minutes moving things around with her mind.
Sophie’s wearing a pair of black leggings that I picked out and a matching shirt. It would be tunic length on me, but it hits at midhip on Sophie, who is nearly as tall as Aaron. In the direct light of the kitchen, I realize that she’s also older than I thought. I’d initially figured her to be about my age, but she’s probably in her midtwenties.
“Are the clothes okay? I bought stretchy stuff since I didn’t know your size. We can get something different, though. Someone will have to go back into town for food again eventually.” And by eventually, I mean tomorrow, if she keeps eating at this rate.
“They’ll do. Some color would be nice, though. I look like a damn ninja.”
“Sorry. I don’t . . . shop. Maybe Taylor can go with us next time. How did you end up at The Warren?”
She doesn’t answer for a moment. Possibly because her mouth is full, but she might also be weighing her response. Or whether to respond at all.
“Parents couldn’t handle me. Wound up in a psych ward. Must have attracted someone’s attention, because next thing I know, I’m being checked out in the middle of the night.”
Sophie’s story is a familiar one. It’s basically the same thing that Jaden told me, but it doesn’t entirely ring true coming from her. It takes a minute for me to realize why. How would a blocker be hard to handle? Or, for that matter, how would they attract attention from Cregg or anyone at Delphi? Before I can ask, though, she jumps in with a question of her own.
“Why did that other guy leave today? The one with the hair.” She flips her hand up from her forehead, mimicking the quiff that Deo usually wears. “And how long are we staying . . . here?” She looks around the cabin dismissively.
I ignore the first question. It’s not that I don’t trust her—okay, yes, it is partly that I don’t trust her. Like Daniel said earlier about Stan, I don’t know Sophie. I don’t know her motivations. She seemed a lot friendlier in my vision, and apparently, I will trust her eventually, but we aren’t there yet.
“We’ll stay here until we’re sure that Pfeifer is stable. We don’t want to endanger the entire group at Sandalford. But we’ll find a way for you to get out a bit more. Let you take some extra break time.”
“I’ll be taking that break time,” she says. “Whether you let me or not. That room is tinier than the one I was in back in Nevada. But I’m not buying your reason. You ask me, you’re the bigger danger to all those kids than Pfeifer. He has Will, Oksana, and a bunch of the other Warren people inside of him. But you? You’re carrying around the son of a bitch who had them all killed.”
“He’s not in control.”
“So you say.”
Because she doesn’t trust me, either.
She doesn’t trust any of us. And why should she? She doesn’t know me any more than I know her.
Sophie tosses her napkin in the trash. “I should get back, in case he wakes.” She nods toward my phone, which is charging on the kitchen counter. “And you should check that. You had a call earlier.”
Hoping for privacy from any members of my father’s menagerie who might be awake and tuning in, I trek out back. It’s good to have my phone again and really good to hear Kelsey’s voice when she answers, even though it sounds strained and nervous.
After twelve years of talking to each other at least two hours a week, we rarely wander into awkward silences. But after she asks me how I’m handling the risperidone and how I’m sleeping, an awkward silence is exactly where we find ourselves.
“This isn’t working,” she says. “I need to see your face to have this conversation. Skype?”
As soon as her face appears on the screen, I know she’s right. Even though I can tell she’s troubled, seeing her relaxes me. Her gray eyes have helped me weather every storm I’ve encountered since we met. She is my anchor.
“Deo should be at Sandalford within the next hour or two,” I say before she begins talking. “Don’t be too mad at him, okay? Please. He was only trying to help me.”
Kelsey sighs. “I’m not mad at him. Not really. But don’t tell him that. Since I’m now his legal guardian, I have to at least pretend to be angry. He opened my safe and took a controlled substance. That’s not something I can officially condone, even if I know his heart was in the right place. I need to let him reflect for a while.”
“So you’re sitting him down in the corner and making him think about what he’s done?”
She smiles gently. “Something like that. But when he and I actually do sit down to discuss all of this, to really talk it through, I’m the one who will be apologizing. He should never have been in a position where he was forced to make that kind of choice, and the blame for that is on me.”
Then Kelsey’s lower lip twitches, and she begins to cry. Not just a stray tear but actual sobs. I stare at the screen, totally dumbfounded. I’ve seen Kelsey’s eyes grow misty on a few occasions, but I have never, ever seen he
r lose control.
“Sorry,” she says through the tears. “Maybe Skype was a mistake. It’s just . . . I broke your mug.”
“You . . . what?” I know exactly what she said, but I need a moment to process it.
“Your mug! The one I bought you for Christmas that first year.”
I struggle to keep my face as neutral as possible, with enough sad in the mix to let her know that the cup was important to me, but not enough to let her know exactly how much it hurts. And I definitely don’t want to let her see anger, because I’m not mad at her. No, the anger is all for Cregg.
He was lurking when I entered Kelsey’s office the other day, knowing that the sight of that mug, filled with coffee and waiting for me on her desk, made me feel loved. Made me feel wanted. I’d bet every other possession I own that Cregg left a nice little poison-pill suggestion in Kelsey’s mind, knowing that breaking the mug would be one more way of breaking me down. Of hurting both of us.
Thinking back, he even tried to get me to break it. That surge of fury when I slammed the mug onto her desk, spilling coffee everywhere—it came out of nowhere. And why was I even angry about her bringing up Myron? It’s not like we’d never talked about him before.
“I don’t remember breaking it,” Kelsey says. “But the handle was still in my hand, and the pieces were scattered all over the carpet, and . . .”
“I’m sorry it’s broken. But . . . it’s just a thing, Kelsey. It can be replaced.”
Kelsey snatches a few tissues from the box she keeps on her desk for patients and takes a few deep breaths before she continues. “I’m so, so sorry—not only about the mug. You’re right on that. I’ve already ordered you a new one, although it won’t be exactly the same. But how could I have misread your situation so badly? I pulled out my notes last night, the ones from our sessions over the past few months, and it’s all garbage. I remember writing those things, and at the time I truly thought it made perfect sense—my diagnosis, my comments, my treatment strategy. But now I look at it, and . . .” She sighs. “I let you down.”
“No, Kelsey, you didn’t. You understand why you can’t remember, right?”
There’s a very, very long pause, and I don’t step in to fill it. I can’t help thinking how strange it feels to have our roles reversed like this. Usually Kelsey is the one coaching me, trying to help me remember or admit something I’d rather bury.
“It was him,” Kelsey says. “Cregg was . . . influencing me. Probably during the hypnosis sessions.”
“Yes. And you weren’t the only one. He used his ability on Aaron and Deo a few times, too. Taylor was the only one he didn’t manipulate.”
“Perhaps she should take my job. Now I’m wondering about the advice I’ve given to you and the other adepts in the past few weeks. How much of what I said and did was influenced by that monster?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I doubt he had time or energy to drop suggestions about the other adepts. I think it’s like it was with Daniel. He found it harder to use his ability when he wasn’t in his own body.”
“Well, I hope so,” Kelsey says, and I hear a tiny note of panic in her voice. “Otherwise who knows what kind of damage he might have done. I should have realized, should have been more on top of the situation.”
“Don’t you think you’re being a little hard on yourself? Cregg convinced you to accept a perfectly reasonable explanation for my symptoms. One you probably wanted to believe, because—”
“Because I love you. And because I didn’t want to think about you having yet another monster in your head. But that’s exactly where I failed you. You and Deo both. I let my feelings blind me.”
“No. First, you wouldn’t even be in the middle of all this if not for me. If anything, I owe you an apology. You should be enjoying your retirement at North Beach. Spending time with your grandchildren.”
“Psh. As much as I would love a few days off to curl up with a good mystery or two, retirement would bore me silly. In the past few months, I’ve learned things about the possibilities of the human mind that my colleagues would happily trade a limb for. Maybe two. I love my grandchildren dearly, but they are all in college now. They have lives, and so do their parents. My family loves me, but they don’t need me. These children do. They need someone to look out for their interests. I just hate that I let my feelings get in the way of doing that job responsibly.”
“Cregg used your feelings, Kelsey. But I totally get what you’re going through. It’s hard not to blame yourself for things done with your own body, even if you weren’t in control. If it helps at all, you were the one—at least indirectly—who started me on the medication. It wouldn’t even have been in the cabinet for Deo to swipe if you hadn’t, and I don’t think Taylor would have had the nerve to give it to me on her own if you hadn’t prescribed it before Cregg started interfering.”
“Well, that’s something, I guess.”
“When did you realize that Cregg was . . . ?”
A long pause, and then she says, “Using me? I knew something was wrong after you left for DC. Given your memory gaps and the episode earlier that morning, I wouldn’t have approved of your travel. I might not have been able to stop you if you were determined, but I certainly wouldn’t have advocated it. And yet . . . I sort of remember being all for it when everyone was debating the trip in my office.”
“Hey, at least you have a memory of that conversation. I don’t recall any of it. One second I’m walking into your office hoping that you’ll veto me leaving Sandalford. And the next thing I know, I’m halfway to Kitty Hawk. Anyway, maybe everything was for the best. I needed to be here. It’s not just Pfeifer, Kelsey. He picked up my mom when she died. And now there are about a dozen other people in his head, too, and—” I stop and shake off the tension. “Let’s just say this really is not the way I imagined finally meeting my parents.”
I spend the next fifteen minutes or so filling her in on the actual circumstances of my mother’s death, my weird conversation with my parents, and everything else that’s happened in the past two days.
Well, almost everything. I don’t bring up last night with Aaron. For one thing . . . I don’t really want to share it yet, even with Kelsey. But I also think Taylor may be right. Everyone we know probably assumes that it happened long ago, maybe even before I picked up Cregg.
Thinking about why it didn’t happen months ago reminds me of Hunter and Daniel’s theory about his abrupt departure. I try to come up with a subtle way to broach the subject, since Bree Bieler, like all of the adepts at Sandalford, is Kelsey’s patient. But in the end, I just blurt out the question.
“Did Hunter move into Bree’s head when he left? Is that why I don’t have his memories?”
Kelsey doesn’t respond, but I can tell.
I smile. “I’m glad. When Daniel told me he thought Hunter left, I was worried his spirit was still in that airport hangar. At least this way he had time to really tell her good-bye.”
Again, she doesn’t say anything, but her expression speaks volumes.
“He hasn’t moved on? I thought the thing holding him here was needing closure with Bree.”
Kelsey takes a deep breath, and then the words come spilling out. “Okay, fine. I was thinking about having you talk to Bree eventually anyway. To try and explain, as best you can, why it would be good for Hunter to move on. Honestly, I don’t think she has any intention of him ever leaving. She said she won’t let him die again. And I have no way of knowing whether this is what Hunter wants or not, just as I have no way of knowing whether it’s what Cla . . . ra . . .”
She stops, realizing she’s said too much and probably hoping I don’t make the connection. But I do. That explains why one of Magda’s daughters—Clara, apparently—is in a wheelchair. The twins prefer riding together in one body.
“That’s in confidence, Anna. I shouldn’t have let it slip. But maybe it will help you understand Magda’s concern. The woman makes me crazy on a regular basis, but it m
ust be devastating to watch your child wither away like that.”
“Willingly? I mean, Clara wants this?”
“Chloe says she does. Just as Bree says that Hunter is happy. But . . . you can understand now why Magda is so desperate for a cure.”
“There isn’t going to be a cure for second-gen adepts, though. Pfeifer says it’s simply impossible to do more than treat symptoms, given the way our brains developed. Magda needs to know that eventually, but . . . you can’t tell her he’s here, Kelsey. Not yet. I hate to ask you to keep things from her, but—”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I have to keep a lot of things from Magda. It’s an occupational hazard. But . . . are you sure you’re safe there, Anna? Even with these so-called Furies your father picked up?”
“I think so. We’ve reached a truce, apparently due to my mother’s influence. They’re not happy that Cregg is inside my head. For obvious reasons, he terrifies them. But they seem to understand he’s not an invited guest, and they’ve assured me they’ll behave as long as I can, as they put it, keep my spider in his cage.”
Kelsey frowns. “Your . . . spider?”
“Cregg’s . . . avatar? That’s how my warped mind has decided to visualize him. And it’s a spider-rat, technically. With tiny hands on the end of the legs instead of claws. Minus their pinkies, of course.”
Her face grows pale and morphs into an expression that I’ve seen only a few times before. Grim but hesitant, like her foot is hovering above glass shards and there’s no way to avoid that next step. She’s about to broach a topic that she knows will upset me.
“The human hands are a new addition. But the spider-rat . . .” She pauses, waiting to see if I’ll remember on my own.
My stomach clenches. I don’t exactly remember, but I can certainly guess. “Is that how I saw Myron?”
“Not exactly,” Kelsey says. “But it is the imagery that Myron used to control you. To keep you at the back when he wanted to take over. He would taunt you with things he knew you feared. He told you he knew a place where a giant spider lived, bigger than the rats in the downtown sewers. And he threatened to feed you to the spider if you fought him. That’s a pretty effective threat against a five-year-old, especially when you already knew he had killed before.”
