by Driza, Debra
FOURTEEN
I took a disbelieving step forward, at the same time I heard Hunter gasp. He walked straight toward the refrigerator, reaching around the side to pluck a photo away from a silver magnet shaped like a horse. All of my newfound confidence evaporated.
The photo was of three people. Mom, Jensen . . . and me.
In my anxiety over human threats and weapons, I’d never given a single thought to worrying about simple, inanimate objects. But I should have. Because as Hunter extended the picture toward me, my heart—whatever, my pump—felt like it screeched to a stop inside my chest. Then, it burst back to life, pounding out a harsh, frantic beat. Evidence of my mother’s lies staring me directly in the face. I gaped at the photo, words failing me completely.
Not so for Hunter. “I don’t understand—if you’ve never met your real dad, how does he have a photo of you, him, and your mom? One that looks really recent?”
Good question. If only I had an answer.
“I mean, that is him, right?”
Another bull’s-eye. With a trembling hand, I reached for the photo, wishing I had an answer for him. Or that someone had an answer for me. Lots of answers. Because I had no idea how I’d gotten into that picture—and Hunter was right—I looked exactly the same as I had back in Clearwater. And Jensen? He looked exactly the same as he did in my memory. Before my mother had told me those images were totally fabricated.
“Mila?” Hunter prompted.
I shook my head, my hand refusing to stop trembling, despite my urgent commands. “I don’t . . .” My voice trailed off when I noticed more details, all at once. The man’s—my fictitious father’s—arm was draped around my mom’s shoulders, while both of them beamed at the camera. Waves in the background, and sand—we were at a beach. Obviously this photo was taken during a happy time. His other hand rested casually, comfortably, on my shoulder.
And me? I was smiling too. Only . . . it was me, and yet it wasn’t.
Apart from my mutilated hair, the happy girl in the photo looked identical to me in every single way, save one. While my eyes were a bright, almost too vibrant shade of green, that girl’s eyes were brown. It was like the stun of meeting Three for the first time, all over again.
Wait. Could . . . could that girl be Three? Or One, even—the version who’d existed before me?
Then, I remembered the third, empty file Mom had left for me. Her voice, whispering in my ear.
Maybe I’d finally found the mysterious Sarah.
Maybe I had yet another “sister.”
The photo slipped from my grasp as a sea of unanswered questions tossed through me, but the image remained implanted in my head. The memory from Virginia Beach teased at the back of my mind. The ocean, the seagulls, the roar of the waves. Wet sand, squishing between my toes. Then came the one from the carousel. Spinning, spinning, spinning. However, instead of becoming paralyzed, the images created a strange warmth in my heart, a feeling that I . . . belonged.
The fragmented images flickered. Then, they were gone.
Hunter bent over to retrieve the photo. He must have stared at the faces for ten seconds before he returned it to the refrigerator. I realized I still owed him a response, but what could I possibly say? Hello, sorry, but I have no clue how I could possibly be in a photo with that man. Oh, and there’s a chance that girl probably isn’t even me. I seem to have more than my fair share of imposters running around out there—crazy, right?
Hunter turned to me, his arms crossing over his chest. “Tell me what’s going on.”
I held up my hands. “I swear, I don’t know anything about that picture. Nothing.”
“But you’re not that young there—how could you forget? That could only be, what, a couple of years ago, max? Unless you have a twin,” he scoffed.
I coughed to cover my reaction. As an excuse, it really was the only plausible explanation, with the exception of the truth. Actually, strike that. This lie was probably way more plausible.
“Maybe I do have a twin. I’m adopted, remember?”
“But . . . doesn’t that mean she’s not your real mom?” he said, gesturing to Nicole.
“I don’t know,” I said, pacing in my agitation. “How could I possibly know?”
He must have sensed the honesty of my reaction, because though his frown deepened, he nodded. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—it just doesn’t make any sense.”
No, it really didn’t. But we had work to do. “Look, we can talk later. But Jensen could be back at any moment.”
Hunter opened his mouth like he might argue, but only sighed. “So what should we do?”
Guilt made me avert my eyes, but that didn’t stop the swell of relief. After everything we’d been through, I knew this looked bad. Like I’d gone right back to my old tricks of half-truths and lies. But honestly, at this point, the truth was more nuisance than help. It would steal too much time—time we didn’t have.
“Split up. You take downstairs, I’ll take upstairs, and we’ll meet back in the kitchen.”
An emphatic head shake this time. “I think we should stick together, just in case—”
“No, splitting up will make things go faster. We have no idea when Jensen is coming back, so the sooner we do this, the better.”
Nothing. And then finally, one curt nod. “I guess you know what you’re doing. Just to confirm, I’m looking for . . . ?”
“Weapons, which you should grab, and basically anything that looks suspicious.” Which was intentionally vague. I couldn’t add that I was also looking for info on the MILA projects, or information as to why Jensen was in witness protection. I figured that time would come soon enough, and besides, if he saw my name on something official-looking, undoubtedly he’d be on instant alert anyway.
That was actually part of the reason I wanted to split up. Not just for convenience—but that way, if I found something referring to my androidness, I could peruse it without fear of being caught.
“Okay,” he said, but his words fell on my back, since I was already halfway up the stairs.
The landing was small, and clean, and opened into a narrow hallway with four doors. One led to a bathroom, one room was completely bare—once upon a time, a bedroom, perhaps—and another was the master. That room was sparsely furnished, to the point that it scarcely looked lived-in. No pictures or art hung on the glaring white walls, and the queen-sized bed lacked a headboard. The comforter was plain navy blue—no throw pillows, no decoration of any kind. No knickknacks cluttered the simple dark-wood dresser, though it was devoid of dust. No desk of any kind in here, either, and all the nightstand held was a digital alarm clock. I hit Alarm and saw it read 12:00—probably still on its default setting.
Weapons scan: No weapons detected.
I scoffed. No weapons? Seemed highly unlikely. Unless Jensen took them with him?
I pulled out drawers and scanned contents. Socks, plain gray boxers, a few T-shirts and shorts. All neatly folded, and not much of any one item.
The small walk-in closet yielded about the same results. A few neatly hung collared shirts, four sweatshirts, and two pairs of jeans, folded on the top shelf. Only three pairs of shoes total, lined up against the far wall. An odd wave of familiarity cascaded over me as I searched pockets, under jeans, and inside shoes for any hidden papers or weapons. Nothing, and no secret panels as far as I could tell.
I stepped back and did one more quick inspection, and the reason for the familiarity hit me. The closet, the barren room, were familiar because they reminded me of Clearwater. How Mom and I had lived, back at the ranch’s guesthouse. It made sense. Back then, I’d thought we’d had so few possessions because we’d lost everything in a fire.
In reality, it’d been because we were on the run—hiding from the government. Just like Jensen was in hiding.
Jensen. The fire. Another wave crashed over me, this one full of remembered emotion, of the searing pain and sorrow that had ripped my chest when I’d thought I’d lost my dad. I’d ev
entually come to terms with the memories once Mom had told me they were all imaginary—a virtual reality she’d programmed me with to hide my past.
The photo on the refrigerator flashed through my mind and my throat seized. Except, it wasn’t all imaginary, because the Dad from those memories actually existed. So how could I possibly know what was real and what wasn’t anymore?
Shaking my head, I whirled and did a quick sweep of the master bath. Similarly tidy and with just the simple necessities in terms of toiletries—toothbrush, deodorant, shampoo, lotion—nothing at all to indicate Jensen was anything other than a very neat minimalist. I swept back the brown fabric curtain to reveal the tub—nothing.
A familiar scent teased my nose, making me spin back around to the toiletries. I scanned them again and locked in on a tiny bottle of lotion. I should have noticed it right away—the slight pink color didn’t really fit in with the rest of the greens and blues.
With trepidation, I lifted the bottle until I could see the lettering clearly.
Rosemary.
My fingers unscrewed the lid and before I could stop myself, I bent over and inhaled. The sweet herbal scent engulfed me, sweeping me away in a sea of memories. Mom, showing me how to brush Maisey. Mom, sitting behind me while clumps of my hair fell to the floor. Mom, trying to protect me with her very last breath. Her skin still thick with this same exact scent.
I closed my eyes, allowed myself a few desperate moments to sink into the past. To live once again in a world where Mom was alive. Then, with effort, I tore myself free of the fiction and replaced the bottle where I’d found it. Regretfully, I turned away, mind whirling.
He kept her scent with him. Their relationship hadn’t been confined to just business.
Who was this man?
Master bedroom—finished. Time to get to the other rooms. I could only hope—and fear—that Hunter fared better in his search.
When I returned to the landing I heard the distant rumble of an engine and froze.
Was it the SUV?
Below me, I could hear the click of wood against wood—Hunter, closing a cabinet?—while the car noise grew louder and louder. Doubtful that Hunter could hear it yet, though. I rushed into the empty guestroom, over to the blinds-covered window that faced the street. Where the blinds met the edge there was a thin slit of visibility, and I peered through.
My faux heart hammered when I spotted an SUV, headed toward the house—a green one, just like Jensen’s.
Human threat detected.
Incoming: Mercury Mountaineer, license plate DVU234.
A Mercury, not a Ford. And then the car cruised past, allowing my pulse to return to a normal rate.
I reentered the hallway. The study was tempting, with its desktop computer and antique wooden armoire, which probably didn’t hold clothes. But above my head, the outline of a square beckoned. An attic.
“Mila?” Hunter whispered harshly.
I rushed over to the stairs. He was standing there looking up.
“It’s been a while. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he said.
“I’m fine. Just a little more to explore. How about you? Any luck?”
“Not so far. It’s kinda creepy that the guy has so little here.”
“I know, but keep looking.”
He gave a brusque nod before heading off to the right.
I hurried back down the hallway where I’d spotted the attic door. I sprung up from my toes and grabbed the thin string that dangled about a quarter of the way from the ceiling, and the square slid away to reveal a hole.
Soundlessly, without any of the groaning or creaking you might expect from a rusty or unused hinge. Which meant someone kept it well oiled.
Of course, the hole was probably at least eight feet overhead—
Distance: 7.90 ft.
I scowled—was that really necessary?
—and there was no ladder in sight.
Glancing quickly down the stairs, to make sure Hunter wasn’t watching, I dropped into a crouch. Then I pushed hard off my feet and sprang up, clearing the distance with ease. My fingers curled around the edge of the ceiling, and I hoisted myself up and over.
I was inside the attic.
I’d expected a musty, moldy scent, but instead, caught a hint of cinnamon spice. The area was warmer than the rest of the house, though, for sure—much warmer.
Ambient temperature: 78.2 degrees F.
I’d barely noted the dimness when—
Night vision activated.
Immediately, I saw the source of the cinnamon—two air fresheners, shaped like cones, sitting against the closest wooden slat. Next to it? A flashlight. My fingers twitched with excitement. Oh, someone had definitely been up here recently—multiple times, from the looks of it. Now, to find out why.
The first room, if you could call it that, was empty—just wooden slats, thankfully devoid of spiderwebs—and a puffy mass of insulation. Beyond the insulation, a narrow rectangular space beckoned, so I hurried over to the doorway. I pushed into the tiny square of a room, and . . . empty.
I returned to the main part of the attic, turning around to catch what I might have missed. Air fresheners, flashlight. Boards. Insulation.
Wait.
I zeroed in on the insulation. There, at the bottom near the corner, was a barely noticeable slit. I walked over to it, eased it apart . . . and there they were.
Boxes, six of them. The smallish kind with lids—the ones I’d seen teachers in my classrooms use to store papers.
I whipped through the first two in record time—all old paperwork on houses, cars, bills, etc.—all made out to Daniel Lusk. A chill snaked through my gut when I saw where he used to live—Philadelphia. The same place I’d supposedly moved from.
The same place where my dad—Lusk, Jensen—whoever—had supposedly died in a fire.
I shook off the eerie tingle and thrust the papers back into the box, replacing the lid. Interesting, but not relevant, not right now.
The following box was similarly devoid of useful info, and disappointment started to tug at me. But when I pulled the lid off the next box, my hands stilled and I just stared.
A laptop. I lifted it out of the box and opened the black lid. I punched the start button and nothing happened.
Dead. Of course. I rifled through the box for the power cord, but none surfaced. Now what?
Charge battery?
Of course. Who needed a cord, when I was a portable power source, all on my own?
Yes.
Universal adapter: Ejecting.
Before I could register that part of my body housed a universal adapter, I felt something beneath the skin of my right thumb catch. With a springlike motion, a small metal tube ejected from the very tip.
Whoa.
Insert into device.
I traced the metal rod with my index finger, entranced by its smoothness, waiting for that gut-stab of otherness to attack me. The self-hate that had traditionally accompanied such discoveries in the past. It never came. Instead, I inspected the tip with a sort of dazed wonder, all the while, a steady feed of energy blooming in my core.
I had the power to charge things. In a way, I was bringing inanimate objects to life.
Awestruck, I located the hole on the laptop, held it level with my finger, and fitted the tube inside. I expected a jolt, or a huge rush, streaming away from my head. Instead, all I felt was a gentle, steady suction. Pleasant, relaxing. Like I was feeding the machine.
It only needed a small charge to boot up. I just hoped it wouldn’t take very long—
Charge complete. Adapter retracted.
The suction cut off, and my thumb detached from the laptop. Okay, I had to admit—that was trippy. Setting the computer back on the ground, I pushed the power button and waited. Within moments, the blue welcome screen greeted me.
I reached out with my mind and issued the familiar set of commands and smashed right into a brick wall.
The rejection felt physical, so
much so that I swayed on my feet.
Password?
Of course. Someone like Jensen would keep his files protected.
But I didn’t really have time to hack my way in. Luckily I didn’t think I’d have to.
I issued the command, and the adaptor ejected out of my thumb, and I shoved it back inside the machine.
The connection was instant, complete. Now I could sense every bit of the computer, all around me. I could feel it shimmer in the air, sensing my every movement, my every breath. Bending to my will as the sole provider of its energy.
Password override.
The brick wall disintegrated like it’d never even existed, and a moment later, thumb back to normal, I was in. Rows of squares shimmered before me, green and chest-high. Files. They were illuminated with the usual ethereal glow, but appeared more translucent than normal, less substantial. Tiny little boxes that I could almost see through. Something about them bothered me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
I went ahead and scrolled through them, moving them with my mind. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. A brief glance at the files yielded the same disappointing results. Only seven, and they felt . . . intentional. Like they were placed there to look pretty and tempting in order to serve as a distraction.
I mean, this last one? A child’s essay on the African cheetah.
Totally worthless.
Even as I expressed the thought, a strange flash of recognition pulsed through me as I skimmed the text. Before I scrolled to the next page, I knew what I’d see. A crude crayon drawing of a mother cheetah and her cub.
I stared at the picture as more questions pulsed through my head. How had I known? How could I have possibly seen this report before? I wondered if maybe somehow my computer brain had skimmed ahead and seen the picture before my eyes had.
But no. I didn’t believe that. And the déjà vu might be gone, but the feeling left behind an echo, a residue, an eerie, visceral clench that I had experienced that report before, someway, somehow. But . . . could androids really experience déjà vu? And if so, how?
I continued to search, to no avail, and was just about to give up when I noticed letters, floating in the bottom right corner of my field of vision.
