by Kami Garcia
The phone rang inside the apartment, and Mulder fumbled with his house keys.
“Who’s calling so late? Your dad?”
“He almost never calls.” When Mulder finally got the door open, he jogged to the kitchen and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Fox?” his mom cried out, the way she used to when he wandered away from her in the grocery store.
“Mom? Are you okay?” His insides knotted.
She burst into tears. “Where have you been? It’s the middle of the night.”
“I was at my friend Gimble’s house.” He didn’t remind her that he was almost eighteen.
“I thought…” She sniffed, and his chest tightened. “I thought I’d lost you, too.”
He swallowed the fist-sized knot in his throat. “I’m fine, Mom. You’re not going to lose me. Phoebe’s in town, remember? I was introducing her to my friend, that’s all.”
His mom blew her nose on the other end of the line. “I’m acting ridiculous. It’s not even that late for you. I tried to call your father, but he was ‘unavailable.’”
Mulder leaned his arm against the wall and pressed his forehead into the crook of his elbow. “Dad is always unavailable. You know that.”
Phoebe touched his arm, a silent show of support.
“You’re right.” His mom sounded like herself again. “I just need some sleep.”
“I’m sorry that I worried you, Mom.” The guilt he fought so hard to keep at bay threatened to crush him.
“Good night, honey. I love you.”
“Love you, too. Night.” Mulder waited for her to hang up, keeping the phone against his ear until the line went dead.
Phoebe took the receiver out of his hand and returned it to the cradle.
Mulder’s heartbeat thumped in his ears, and a familiar burning sensation spread through his chest. Samantha had been missing for almost five and a half years, and his mom still felt the effects of that loss every day. She never admitted it outright, but she didn’t have to, because he felt the same way.
Phoebe wheeled him around and took his face in her hands. “Your mom is fine. Don’t torture yourself.”
“I’m not.” He tried to turn away, but she kept her palms firmly planted on his cheeks.
“And don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not trying to torture myself, but I can’t stop thinking about what happened.” He fought to keep his voice steady. They both knew he was talking about the night his sister vanished.
“When was the last time you slept?”
He shrugged.
Phoebe closed her eyes for a second and took a deep breath, and Mulder finally got out of his own head long enough to look at her. She was beautiful. Her long lashes brushed her cheeks, and her full bottom lip made it look like she was perpetually pouting—or trying to seduce him. Not that it would take much effort on her part. He had a dozen issues of Playboy magazine stashed under his bed, and if he had a choice between any of the women on those pages and Phoebe, he would choose the girl standing in front of him.
Phoebe’s eyelids fluttered as her eyes began to open. Mulder’s whole body was on fire now, and his heart ached so damned bad. Her lips always took the pain away, even if the aftermath of their kisses caused him a different kind of pain.
He stopped thinking and pressed his lips against hers. Her lips parted, and she sighed softly.
Mulder slid his hands down her sides and cupped her ass.
“Fox?” she murmured.
Hearing her say his name in that breathless voice drove him half crazy. They stumbled to his room, Mulder walking her backward down the hallway, his mouth never leaving hers. His elbow hit the doorjamb on their way in, but the sting only made everything inside him burn hotter.
As he eased her onto the bed, she put her hand against his chest, holding him back. “I know why you’re doing this.”
Mulder stared into her big blue eyes. “No, you don’t.”
Because I’m too scared to tell you how I feel.
She was still out of breath, and her chest rose and fell faster than normal. “Kissing me won’t make you forget.”
“I don’t want to forget. I want to find the psycho who took my sister.”
“But the person who’s taking these kids might not be that person.” She searched his face. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Not until I find him.”
“Fox—”
“If there’s even the slightest chance the same thing happened to Samantha, I have to know,” he said.
Phoebe gave him the same sad look he remembered from the day he moved. “Promise me you won’t get obsessed with this. That you’ll be careful.”
Mulder moved closer. “I promise,” he said with his mouth against hers. Then he kissed her until their lips were swollen and they were both exhausted.
Phoebe nuzzled his neck and he tightened his arm around her waist, listening to her breath against his ear. Holding her made him feel normal, as if he were just another guy who loved playing basketball and hanging out with his friends. A guy who was still trying to figure out the big stuff—like where he should go to college in the fall and how to ask the girl he’d kissed five minutes ago out on a real date.
* * *
Hours later, when the first blue-black signs of dawn began to bleed into the sky, Mulder was still awake. The urge to kiss Phoebe and feel her lips against his was replaced by a different urge. It compelled him to ease out of bed without disturbing her and cross the room to open the closet door.
He took a marker off the shelf and picked up the yardstick he had dragged from Martha’s Vineyard with him to DC. It was the yardstick his mom had used to record Samantha’s height every year on his sister’s birthday. Mulder flipped it over to the back, where he was keeping a record of his own.
He wrote a number above the one he had recorded yesterday.
1,952
The number of days since the last time he’d seen his sister.
CHAPTER 15
Lauinger Library, Georgetown University
April 2, 10:40 A.M.
Mulder woke to the sound of the shower. He rolled over and stared at the wrinkled sheets next to him. He could still see the faint outline of the spot where Phoebe had slept last night.
The fact that she was already out of bed and in the shower saved him from the awkward moment when she would inevitably tell him why something like this couldn’t happen again.
He tugged on a pair of jeans, threw on a plaid button-down, and rolled up the sleeves. He padded down the hallway, getting his ass kicked by his thoughts, so he didn’t notice the bathroom door open. Phoebe walked out, and he almost plowed into her.
Mulder caught her by the shoulders. “Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.” Phoebe was wearing a flowered peasant top with jeans and her wooden Dr. Scholl’s sandals, and he let his fingers linger on her bare skin.
“That’s a first,” Phoebe teased. She had a deeper voice than most girls, and it sounded even sexier in the morning. Her damp blond hair framed her face, and her expression made him want to kiss her again. She tilted her head to the side, a sign she was weighing her options.
Did that make him an option?
“I wanted—” he started to say, just as she said, “About last night—”
So much for dodging an awkward moment.
“What were you going to say?” she asked, her expression hopeful.
“‘My tongue gets tied when I try to speak,’” he quoted with a sheepish smile. “You go ahead.”
Suddenly, Phoebe seemed nervous. She parted her hair down the middle, gathered one section, and pulled it through a hairband to make a pigtail. “I know the situation with Sarah Lowe is stirring up all sorts of memories and emotions, and I’m here for you.” She finished twisting one side and moved on to the other one, her fingers moving faster now. “But I can’t be your security blanket whenever you get lonely.”
“That’s not how I think of you,” he blurted out. And
it wasn’t.
A security blanket?
Suddenly, it hit him.
He only had the guts to act on his feelings for her when life got intense. The rest of the time he was too paralyzed to make a move, or admit the way he felt. Why wouldn’t she think that he was only interested when he got lonely?
“I’m a jerk, Phoebe.” Mulder ran his hands over his face. “That’s not the way I feel about you, at all.”
She was watching him. “Then how do you feel?”
Tell her the truth.
Tell her that you think she’s the smartest person you’ve ever met. The only person who knows more about Star Trek and rocket science than you. Who knows that you never sleep in your bed, unless she’s in it. Tell her every time she smiles, you wish that you were her boyfriend.
Mulder rehearsed the words in his head, but he couldn’t get them out.
The stakes were too high with Phoebe. He couldn’t risk losing his best friend if she didn’t feel the same way, even though he was pretty sure she did. And what if she had real feelings for him, too? He couldn’t hurt her, the way he seemed to hurt everyone else he cared about.
No way.
Phoebe deserved better. No. She deserved the best.
And I’m not even close.
Mulder’s eyes locked on hers, and he tried to find the right words. He took a deep breath, even though he had no idea what he was going to say. “Phoebe, I—”
The doorbell rang and they both jumped.
Who’s here this early?
He cleared his throat to start again, but the doorbell rang two more times.
Phoebe sighed. “Maybe you should see who it is?”
“Right,” he said, stepping around her.
The moment was over. Whoever was at the door had probably saved him from total humiliation or losing his best friend.
Mulder opened the door, and Gimble pushed past him. “What took you so long?” he asked, unzipping his blue velour track jacket.
“How did you get here?” Mulder asked.
The Major refused to get Gimble a car. He was convinced that someone would plant a tracking device on it and use it to locate his base of operations.
“I took the bus.” Gimble strolled into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, something he couldn’t do at home without removing a bike lock. He popped the tab on an orange soda and took a swig.
“I said I’d pick you up,” Mulder reminded him.
“The Major blew a gasket when he found out I plugged in the phone upstairs. It’s only for ‘life-or-death emergencies.’” Gimble moved on to the pantry and rummaged around until he found a Hostess cherry pie. He ripped open the wrapper and took a bite. “I didn’t feel like manning the telescope all day, watching for little green men. So when he locked himself in the basement early this morning to work on his files, I wrote him a note and bailed.”
Phoebe walked into the kitchen as if everything was perfectly normal. But Mulder noticed that she didn’t look at him.
Because she cares? Or because she doesn’t?
She plucked the pastry out of Gimble’s hand. “I hate to interrupt such a nutritious breakfast, but the library opens in ten minutes. You can eat in the car.”
“Whatever you say.” Gimble flashed her a smile and headed for the front door.
Mulder hung back and caught her hand as she started to walk away. “Phoebe? Wait.”
She turned and locked eyes with him, and his stomach bottomed out.
He had to explain and make her understand. “I don’t want—”
“That’s the problem, Fox. You don’t know what you want.” She smiled enough to let him know everything was okay.
Except it wasn’t. Not for him.
“I hope you figure it out one day so you can finally be happy.” Phoebe squeezed his hand, and then she let go.
* * *
“We didn’t have to come here,” Phoebe said, eyeing the Gothic architecture surrounding the quad. “Georgetown isn’t the only university in DC with a library.”
“But I know this one is open to the public,” Mulder said. He remembered the detail from the campus tour he’d taken with his dad, back in October.
“Why does it seem like I’m always missing something?” Gimble asked.
“Because you are.” Phoebe flashed him a wicked smile, the tips of her blond pigtails grazing her shoulders as she walked.
“Don’t look so proud of yourself. I set myself up for that one.” Gimble ducked under the limb of a massive oak and turned to Mulder. “So what’s the story?”
“Fox’s dad wants him to go to Georgetown,” Phoebe explained, sharing another piece of information that Gimble didn’t know.
“And you’re not into it?” Gimble asked.
Mulder shrugged. “I can’t picture myself here.”
Georgetown was for guys who wanted to graduate and go into politics or law, and join country clubs. Guys like him, who wanted to travel into space or invent a teleportation device so Scotty could “beam them up,” went to schools like MIT, Berkeley, and Cornell.
“Did you decide where you’re going yet?” Mulder asked Gimble.
“The Major thinks I’m joining the air force. He writes a letter to the Air Force Academy every week. Then he folds up the letter until it’s the size of a stick of gum, hides it in the bottom of an empty cereal box, and throws the box away when he takes out the trash.”
Phoebe reached up and plucked a pink cherry blossom off a tree as she passed. “Is he confusing the garbage can with the mailbox?”
Gimble stared at his blue-and-red-striped sneakers, and his hair fell forward, shielding his face. “That would be too normal. He thinks Sergio retrieves his gum-sized letter, covered in cereal crumbs, and delivers it to the superintendent of the academy.”
“What are you going to tell your dad?” Phoebe sounded concerned.
Gimble shrugged. “Nothing until I find out if Virginia Tech or one of my backup schools offers me a scholarship. Then I’ll convince him that I’m in a program studying top secret alien technology.”
“Are you sure this is the way to the library?” Mulder asked.
The black hole that lurked in the darkness, waiting to drag him into oblivion, felt closer than usual. Based on the information he’d gathered at the public library about the other missing kids, the killer would keep Sarah Lowe alive for only four more days.
What if no one found her in time?
Gimble rotated the campus map in his hand until it was right side up. “The Lauinger Library should be behind the old library over there.” He pointed at the far end of the quad.
They passed a group of guys wearing Georgetown Crew T-shirts with gym bags slung over their shoulders. Two girls giggled and flirted as they walked beside them, their sorority letters prominently displayed across their chests.
Phoebe narrowed her eyes. “When I get to MIT, I’m starting a sorority for girls who know more about splitting atoms and hydraulic energy sources than lip gloss. If they can’t run through the periodic table of elements like it’s the alphabet, they’ll get cut.”
Gimble turned around so he was walking backward as they moved between two buildings. “Instead of Greek letters, you can put the symbol for francium on your shirts. It’s the most un—”
“Unstable element on the periodic table, with a half-life of twenty-two minutes at its most stable,” Phoebe finished for him. “I like it. And we’ll throw the best parties, because all the drinks we serve will produce cool physical reactions, like nitro cocktails and dry ice martinis.”
Mulder wondered if Gimble realized she was serious. Some people spent lots of time talking about all the cool things they planned to do, but Phoebe actually went out and did them.
When Mulder was younger, he believed that anything was possible. Before his dad told him that he couldn’t be an astronaut. Before Samantha vanished.
What was he supposed to believe in now? Brutal memories and broken families? Unanswered questions and
unhappy endings? Numbers on a yardstick in his closet?
Other people moved on after tragic events, but he wasn’t one of them. Moving on meant giving up on his sister. Accepting that she might never come home and finding a way to live with it. And he wasn’t capable of doing those things.
A sudden breeze shook the branches of a cherry tree, and pink blossoms fluttered through the air and settled on the grass. Mulder wondered if he’d ever be able to look at flower petals again without picturing Billy Christian’s eight-year-old body lying on top of a bed of them.
Phoebe stopped walking and scrunched up her nose. “Is that it?”
The building at the end of the sidewalk was a solid mass of concrete, modern and utilitarian compared to the detailed Gothic architecture that surrounded the quad.
“It’s like someone played that Sesame Street game ‘One of these things is not like the others,’” she added.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s ugly, as long as it has the books we need,” Mulder said, taking the steps two at a time.
He held the door open for Phoebe, and let go before Gimble made it through.
His friend caught it and followed them. “Real funny. I’m going to tell the Major that you want him to tell you more about the cyborg the aliens are building.”
“While you’re at it, ask him about Elvis,” Phoebe said.
Inside, the building stretched skyward, with floor after floor of narrow shelves facing the railings and the lobby. Students were crammed beside one another, scouring the shelves.
“It’s claustrophobic in here,” Gimble whispered.
“Think of it this way,” Phoebe said. “The sooner you find the information we need, the faster we’re out of here.”
“Or the faster you find it,” Gimble shot back. “This is a team effort, Phebes.”
Mulder cringed as if he were the one about to face Phoebe’s wrath. Then he did what any best friend would do and took off for the circulation desk.
Just before he was out of earshot, he heard Phoebe say, “Have I ever told you how I feel about cutesy nicknames, Gims?”
Mulder approached the desk and waited for the librarian to notice him—if the woman wearing a pastel-pink V-neck sweater and a macramé choker sitting behind it was actually the librarian. She stood out in the sea of Hoya sweats and preppy collared shirts with alligators on the pockets.
