The Hidden Code

by P. J. Hoover

  “I consulted for them,” Uncle Randall says. “But only for a short period of time. And how do you know about that anyway?”

  I cross my arms. “I know that because, yeah, I did get caught. And they took me to a conference room where I had a nice chat with Doctor Bingham, you know, the CEO of Amino Corp. He said that he knew you. That you did some work for him.”

  “You talked with Peter Bingham?” Uncle Randall seems genuinely surprised by this information. And best of all, he seems distracted from the fact that I got caught.

  “Yep.”

  “What did he say?”

  I hold back, not telling him about how Doctor Bingham asked about the Deluge Segment. Or about how Amino Corp has a Deluge Segment, though I’m willing to bet Uncle Randall already knows that.

  “Nothing really. He told me how he knew you.”

  Uncle Randall clutches the handle of his coffee cup so hard I’m afraid he’ll break it off. Finally he says, “You’re grounded for the week.”

  “Are you kidding?” I say. “You run off for a week with no explanation and then you come back and start parenting me?”

  “I’m your guardian,” Uncle Randall says.

  “I don’t care,” I say. “You’re not my mom or dad. And I don’t have to listen to you tell me what to do.”

  Without another word, I stomp off, climbing the grand staircase of Easton Estate and retreating to my rooms. I don’t come down the rest of the evening.

  I wake the next morning and spend about an hour lying in bed, trying to figure out how I’m going to get another look at the third piece of the Deluge Segment. I’m sure as heck not going back to the Olivers’ house. The photo I took is worthless. It’s nothing but a blurred stretched image of half of a face—I’m guessing Ethan’s face—along with a door frame. The piece of the artifact is nowhere in sight. But after the hour, I know I have to face Uncle Randall. There is no avoiding it.

  I throw my dirty work clothes on and head downstairs. Uncle Randall is already busy watering the plants. I silently join him, hoping he’ll maybe forget about the whole discussion from the day before. He doesn’t say a word. I guess this means he hasn’t forgotten.

  During the week, Uncle Randall has Horticulture students from Harvard come in to take care of the indoor plants, but at least once a month, Uncle Randall insists we take care of them ourselves. He claims there’s no better way to learn. Taking care of the plants may sound like a simple job, but our Sunday routine takes the better part of three hours. I invite Lucas over to help, and he says he’ll come over later after he finishes spring cleanup around the house for his mom. I wish I could hire someone to do the stuff for him and that he could come over instead, but he tells me that would be “Totally not cool, Hannah. Totally not cool.”

  Uncle Randall is especially particular about his new carnivorous plants, and he finally uses them as a way to break the layer of ice between us.

  “I’m worried they aren’t catching flies,” he says, handing me a fly swatter. “So what you need to do is find a fly buzzing around, swat it, and then pick it up carefully, with just the tips of your fingernails by its wing so you don’t squish it, and then place it in the leaves of the Venus Fly-Traps.”

  “No problem,” I say, taking the fly swatter. “I should be able to find a fly around here.”

  “Not one,” Uncle Randall says. “Based on the number of plants we have, I’m guessing we’ll need around ten.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I’ve watered plants with Uncle Randall many times before, but this is the first time he’s actually asked me to hand feed the plants. Of course the carnivorous plants are a relatively new addition.

  He points to himself. “Does this face look like it’s kidding?”

  It doesn’t. It also doesn’t look like it’s angry any longer, and I don’t want to refresh his memory, so I begin scanning the greenhouse for flies.

  I’m four flies in, wishing for a plague of insects to descend upon us, when Madeline, one of our maids, comes into the greenhouse.

  “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Easton, but Miss Hawkins has a guest.”

  “Lucas is here?” I say. He must’ve finished his chores early, but it’s weird that she didn’t send him back. Besides my uncle, me, and the staff who work for us, Lucas knows Easton Estate better than anyone.

  “Not Mr. O’Keeffe,” Madeline says. “The gentleman introduced himself as Ethan Oliver.”

  Uncle Randall angles his head so he can see me and raises his eyebrows, waiting for an explanation.

  “I met him this week, just really quickly,” I say.

  He waits for more.

  “And I may or may not have gone by his apartment yesterday, but there’s a really good explanation for that.”

  “I’m sure there is,” Uncle Randall says.

  “Should I send him in?” Madeline says, deftly avoiding the conflict between us.

  Uncle Randall looks to me for the answer. Ethan did say he was here to see me.

  “Yes, please. You can send him to my lab.” I haven’t fed Sonic yet. And Castor and Pollux are going to be frantic that I ignored them last night.

  “Absolutely, Miss Hawkins,” Madeline says, and she leaves the room.

  I’m covered in mud and water. I haven’t showered. I am hardly ready for guests. If it were Lucas, it would be no big deal. But I look like crap. Still, it’s not like I have time to go take a shower and change clothes. Ethan will just have to deal with me the way I am.

  “Why is he here, Hannah?” Uncle Randall asks.

  I shrug, trying to play it off. “Guess I’ll go find out.” And I leave Uncle Randall to the remainder of the plants.

  Ethan is looking into Sonic’s habitat when I enter the room.

  “You want to hold him?” I ask.

  He turns at my words, and okay, I’m not sure why I haven’t put this together before now, but Ethan Oliver is completely hot. He’s brushed his blond hair, and he has these blue eyes that remind me of turquoise. Today he’s got a black T-shirt on, showing off his arm muscles, which are cut and buff, and kind of make me want to touch them. Holy smokes. How have I not noticed this before now? Maybe I was too busy looking at the dirty construction boots he wears. I should have made time to shower.

  “What?” Ethan says.

  “Sonic,” I say, walking over to join him at the hedgehog’s habitat.

  “Are you supposed to?” Ethan asks.

  “Sure, he loves it,” I say, setting the flyswatter on top of the habitat because I realize I’ve carried it with me, which must really complete my fabulous ensemble.

  “It doesn’t hurt?”

  I open the door of the habitat and reach for Sonic. His spines go out, but I smooth them and pick him up so they don’t poke into me.

  “You have to be careful when you first pick him up,” I say. “But then he relaxes.”

  Sonic has not yet relaxed, but I figure Ethan can deal with it. I hold Sonic out, and Ethan takes him, surprising me by not getting poked even once. And within thirty seconds, Sonic actually relaxes to the point of curling into a ball.

  “That means he likes you,” I say, trying not to notice how relaxed Ethan looks holding the hedgehog. How nice he looks. Animals have that effect of people. Well, at least the relaxation part. Ethan is looking nice all on his own.

  I wipe the thought from my mind because how ridiculous am I being anyway? I distract myself by heading over to Castor and Pollux’s habitat. They’re sleeping, but when they hear me rattle the door of their habitat, they wake and peer from their hammocks.

  “Did you guys miss me?” I ask, reaching for the sugar gliders. They love me so much that they basically melt into my hands like putty.

  “You like animals?” Ethan says.

  “More than people,” I say. “Except for my uncle. And my best friend. But otherwise, I think that animals are the best companions. They’re loyal and true. They don’t ignore you unless they have a really good reason. They like to snuggle.”
Almost like they are putting on a show, Castor and Pollux climb down my arm and slip into the pockets of the apron I wear.

  “Nice apron, by the way,” Ethan says. “You didn’t have to dress up for me or anything.”

  My face flushes with heat. “It’s not like I knew you were coming over.”

  “Like I didn’t know you were coming over yesterday,” Ethan says. “So I guess that makes us even.”

  When he puts it that way, it does seem to even out, but I see no need to agree with him verbally.

  “So you have a brain collection,” Ethan says, nodding his head toward the shelf where there are eight glass jars, each holding a different kind of animal brain.

  “Sort of,” I say. “It’s for an experiment I’m doing.”

  “Uh huh. And …,” Ethan says, waiting for more.

  “And did you know mammals are the only creatures with wrinkles in their brains? It’s because we needed extra surface area for processing. Unlike mammals, if you look at the brain of your average bird, it’s super smooth, meaning it has less gray matter and less ability to process information, hence the term ‘bird brain.’” I want to put my hand over my mouth because I’m babbling at this point.

  “A brain collection is weird,” Ethan says.

  This kind of summarizes why I’ve never had a boyfriend and most of the girls at school don’t want to be friends with me. My interests are not the norm.

  Madeline blessedly picks that moment to come into the lab. “Miss Hawkins, will you and your guest be wanting any refreshments?”

  I’m not exactly used to having normal guests, I mean besides Lucas. Politeness says that I should offer Ethan something to eat or drink.

  He’s watching me. Waiting for my response. I decide to go for politeness.

  “Do you want to stay for lunch?” I ask.

  His face breaks into a smile. “Why I’d love to stay for lunch, Hannah.”

  My asking him to lunch has nothing to do with the fact that he’s cute.

  I turn back to Madeline. “Lunch would be wonderful.”

  “Perfect. It should be ready in a half hour,” Madeline says, and she leaves the room.

  A half hour! I guess I’d expected lunch to be ready now. That means I have a half hour of talking to Ethan before lunch is even ready. Then there’s the time that lunch actually takes. But there’s no backing out now.

  “How do I put him down?” Ethan asks, holding out Sonic.

  “You can kind of roll him onto the floor of his home,” I say. “And then, if you don’t mind, you can feed him. He takes the stuff on the shelf next to the brains. Just a scoop. You don’t want him to overeat and get fat.”

  “That can happen?” Ethan says as he reaches for the food, making sure to avoid the brain jars completely.

  “It happens to people,” I say. “It can happen to animals.”

  “You seem a little obsessed with animals,” Ethan says. He sets the food in Sonic’s bowl, and the hedgehog scampers over to it and begins to eat.

  “I’ve been studying them my entire life. I’m fascinated with their genetics. Seeing how they’re all related to each other. Studying their mutations. You probably didn’t notice, but Sonic only has four fingers on his front right paw instead of five. Mutations like that occur randomly, but if you try to breed for them, you can create new species.”

  “So you’re creating a four fingered hedgehog species?” Ethan says, peering into the habitat, trying to get a look at Sonic’s paw. The hedgehog is too preoccupied with eating to worry about Ethan.

  “Not quite,” I say. “That would take too long. But I do make really good notes in case anyone ever wants to continue my research.”

  “Your parents were into genetics also,” Ethan says. “Both our parents were.”

  I nod, even as my mind tries to process this early childhood that is so not a part of my life.

  “This is the first time you’ve been back here since you were little?” I ask. I can’t see how Ethan could have been back here any other time, but maybe he has and I just didn’t know.

  He nods. “It’s a little smaller than I remember.”

  I laugh. “You may be the first person I’ve ever heard call Easton Estate small.”

  “I never said it was small. Just smaller than I remember.”

  “That’s because you were like three years old or something. Everything seems enormous when you’re that little. I used to imagine the tortoises were giants, like dinosaurs, roaming the backyard.”

  “That’s right!” Ethan says. “I remember the tortoises. I think I took a ride on one.”

  “King Tort,” I say. “He’s famous for having kids ride on his back. There are probably more pictures of little kids sitting on him than there are of Old North Church.”

  “Can I see him?” Ethan asks.

  I almost say yes, caught up in the moment, but I hesitate. “Why are you here, Ethan? What do you want?”

  Maybe it’s rude to be so blunt, but I don’t care.

  “Why did you come by yesterday?” Ethan counters.

  I open my mouth just a second too late. “I was—”

  “Okay, stop,” he says. “I know why you came by yesterday. Remember. I caught you trying to take a picture of it.”

  My stealth moves definitely need some improvement.

  “I figured you must have a piece of the artifact,” I say. “I wanted to take a picture of it. But you and your mom were trying to get rid of me so fast that I didn’t have time. What was up with that? Why would it have been so bad if your dad had gotten home?”

  “King Tort?” Ethan says, implying that maybe he’ll answer my question if I let him see the giant tortoise.

  “Fine.” I lead him back out, through the greenhouses, and into the area outside where the tortoises are kept.

  Ethan’s eyes light up when he sees King Tort ambling around the grassy enclosure. The giant tortoise stops every few steps to nibble on the fresh grass that’s poking up out of the ground.

  “Okay, he’s bigger than I remember,” Ethan says.

  “You can’t sit on him,” I say. King Tort may be strong, but he can’t take a full grown guy sitting on top of him, especially one as swole as Ethan.

  “There are smaller ones, too,” Ethan says. “Will they get that big?”

  Voldetort and Nefertorti have both made their way out of the heated tortoise house and are basking in the sun. “Yeah, but it will take a long time. You’ll be an old man.”

  “They’re really cool, Hannah,” Ethan says.

  The tortoises, above all else, seem to be the favorite of people who visit. It’s like they really are prehistoric giants.

  “So your dad,” I say. “Why did I have to leave?”

  Ethan runs a hand through his blond hair, breaking up the style. “My dad has a little bit of a temper. According to my mom, if he’d seen you, it would have set him off. He would have brooded for days.”

  “But why?” I say. “He doesn’t even know me. Hasn’t seen me for at least ten years, right?”

  Ethan swallows before answering. “Yeah, but the thing is that my parents and your parents had this huge argument back when we were little. Back when my brother died.” He looks away when he says it, like mentioning his brother brings up too many bad memories.

  “Do you know what they argued about?”

  “My parents blamed your parents,” Ethan says.

  “For your brother getting sick?” I say. “Uncle Randall told me that your brother got leukemia. How would that be my parents’ fault?”

  Ethan shakes his head. “They didn’t blame your parents for Caden getting sick. They blamed your parents because he never got better. Because he eventually died.”

  I feel anger bubbling up inside. “And that’s my parents’ fault? How could anyone even think that? It’s not like you just cure leukemia. It’s not like my parents could have done anything about it.”

  “Yeah, Hannah, they could have.”

  The anger th
at’s been brewing inside me pushes over. The letter from Mom pops into my mind. Could they have done something? But no. It’s impossible.

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say. “My parents are not responsible. That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. People get sick and die sometimes. That’s reality. That’s life. How did my parents have anything to do with that?”

  “Because they didn’t help Caden when they had the chance,” Ethan says, and I see the anger growing on his face, too. “They were fine to let him die.”

  “My parents didn’t have a cure,” I say.

  “They did. That’s what my parents said,” Ethan says. “And they refused to let my parents use it.”

  One second passes. Two. Ten seconds pass before I can formulate words.

  “You’re telling me that my parents had a cure for leukemia and they not only didn’t use it to heal your brother but that they didn’t use it to heal the other thousands of people who die from it each year? That’s ridiculous. That was their life’s work. What they’d always wanted to do. They wanted to cure diseases. I can promise you that if my parents had some cure, they would have shared it.”

  “You’re wrong,” Ethan says.

  “And you’re right?” I say. “Okay, fine. Why has no one else found this cure? If they had a cure, where is it?”

  Ethan reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone. “I don’t know where it is. I don’t know what it is. But I’m almost certain that it has something to do with this.”

  He turns on the phone and holds it out in front of me. On the screen is a picture of the third piece of the Deluge Segment. The piece from his apartment.

  CHAPTER 10

  “HOW COULD THAT HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH YOUR BROTHER? OR HIM getting sick?” I say. “You realize that makes no sense at all.”

  Ethan’s hands are shaking, just the smallest amount, probably from anger. Or maybe he’s nervous.

  Maybe he’s trying to find answers just like I am.

  “I realize that it sounds crazy,” Ethan says. “But I’m serious here. I’m not sure I understand exactly what I’m talking about, but everything my parents have ever said about the artifact in our house has made me believe that it’s the case. My brother died because your parents wouldn’t help him. It’s why they stopped being friends. Why there is no way my dad could have seen you at our apartment because if he had, he would have flipped out completely.”