“Your mother and I. Bren will not take your phone calls until everyone’s safe and you’re doing better.”
“And you’ll be the one to judge ‘better,’ I guess?”
“I wish you wouldn’t see it quite like that, but yes.” Norcut crosses her legs and smoothes her skirt. “No one besides staff is allowed outside contact. No cell phones, no online chatting with friends, no distractions. Honestly, Wicket, you have a great deal more to worry about right now than keeping up with Lily’s homework and Lauren’s cheerleading schedule.”
I grit my teeth and concentrate on the office. Aside from the massive mahogany desk, there’s not much else to the room. In her other office, Norcut had couches, plants. I once spent two months pouring coffee into her orchids. If we’re going to continue this freaking joke, it’s kind of a shame I won’t be able to keep up the tradition.
Norcut leans forward. “I want to help you reach your potential. This is what we do. Your education will continue—both in academics and computer science. I won’t lie to you. It will be vigorous, but we wouldn’t have extended the offer to your mother if we didn’t think you were fully capable.”
“How do I know this is the real deal?” I ask. “You played me before, remember? You were supposed to be the therapist and I was supposed to be the patient?”
“Is it really so hard to believe? Young hackers are in the news all the time. They have to go somewhere when they’re picked up. Sometimes it’s here. Sometimes it’s not. I know we’re not starting on the right foot here, Wick, so I’d like to offer you a bit of truth to make things right. I knew who you were—or should I say what you were?—the moment you walked into my office a year ago.”
We stare at each other. I shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t—“Oh yeah? How’s that?”
“Because I worked with your father.”
I swallow, swallow again. “Where?”
“Here. It was a few months before your mother’s suicide. He was one of our first employees and probably our greatest failure. You have so much more to offer, Wick. It’s just a matter of giving you the opportunities . . . and the right guidance.”
“What happens after that?”
“It’s different for everyone, but ideally, you take a position with one of our clients. Looking Glass is a full-service technology firm. We do everything from product testing to denial-of-service attacks. In exchange for your expertise, you will build a formidable résumé by working with some of the best in the business—a résumé we are always happy to pass on to our clients when you’re ready to take a full-time position.”
Norcut tilts back, considering me. “It’s perfectly understandable for you to still be suspicious. But do you really think Bren would have sent you anywhere that’s less than superb? This is Bren we’re discussing.” Her lips twist in a little half smile, a wordless joke shared between two people who know Bren keeps Norcut on speed-dial “just in case.”
“I know you want to go home, Wick, but what’s waiting for you there? Is that really your future?”
“I love them. I want to be with my mom and sister.”
A muscle in Norcut’s cheek spasms. She caught how I called Bren my mom. No matter how smoothly I say it, the word sticks on my tongue. Not surprising. When your biological mother is murdered and your adoptive mother is afraid of you, “mom” is a complicated thing.
“You know, Wick, Bren says you’re prone to shaking, panic attacks, and have severe intimacy issues.” Norcut pauses, waiting for me to agree, and when I don’t, she soldiers on. “I don’t think you have any of those issues. You suffer from them, but not like other people suffer from them. Your anxiety is supposed to stem from stress, but you’re under stress now, Wick, and look at you. You’re not rattled at all.”
My sweaty palms beg to differ. I keep my hands clasped tight between my knees to stop them from shaking, but it’s funny because now . . . suddenly . . . I realize they’re not shaking at all. Have I used up all my fear?
Did I leave it in the woods with Ian Bay when he tried to kill me? Or was it later, when Carson said “they” were coming for me? Or was it when Hart arrived?
I push myself a little straighter as something that might be dread wraps around my bones. Only, is it dread? Because it feels like truth.
Norcut and I have never talked like this before, but there’s something so true, so honest . . . so right about what she’s saying that, for an instant, it’s lightning in the dark. I see a flash of myself, who I really am now, and I’m not sure I recognize her.
“You weren’t scarred by chasing down Todd.” Norcut tilts her head and a tendril of blond hair loosens from her slicked-down bun, brushes against the side of her neck. It makes her look soft. “I seriously doubt you’re that damaged from what you did. You’re broken, yes. But it’s nothing that can’t be healed.”
I swallow. “Not ‘scarred’? The night terrors kind of paint a different picture.”
“Wick.” Norcut leans forward and I get a whiff of perfume—roses and musk. It clogs my nose like it’s going to burrow into my brain. “Out there, no one understands you. They think you’re dangerous because computers and coding and viruses are magic they don’t understand, but you do. That doesn’t make you dangerous. That makes you special. Aren’t you tired of feeling like you don’t belong?”
I take so long to answer, Norcut should accuse me of stonewalling her. After all, that’s happened before. I was never her favorite client, and honestly, the feeling was pretty mutual, but this . . . we’ve never ever talked about anything like this before.
Maybe we should have. I would have liked her more.
“What are you offering me?” I ask, careful not to lean forward too, because I can feel how much I want the answer she’s going to give me and it scares me.
“I’m offering you the chance to fit in, to finally be safe. But most of all, I’m offering you the opportunity to belong to something. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? For once, Wicket, be honest. What would happen if you were on the inside instead of always sitting on the outside and wishing it were different?”
My smile is lopsided. “And Looking Glass can provide all that? Impressive.”
I sound like me and . . . not like me. Inside I’m struggling to hold up and Norcut smiles like she hears the wavering too.
It makes her tilt closer. “Forget the degree. Forget the job. Forget the safety we provide. I want you to think about the real opportunity I’m giving you. You’ll be with your own kind of people. Haven’t you always wanted to belong?”
I know my answer already and it isn’t for Bren—even though I want to go home and I want to make her proud. And it isn’t for Lily—even though I know she would want me to stay here until I’m safe. It’s for me. I look at her and say, “Yes.”
Norcut smiles. “Then let me show you how.”
7
I leave Norcut’s office with my own key card and a rough schedule for the next two weeks. I’ll have work, work, more work—oh, and school. The class work binder is filled with color-coded handouts and homework, most of it picking up right where I left off at home. Norcut and Bren must’ve coordinated with my teachers.
In the meantime, I’m supposed to take over some of Alex’s accounts until they see what I can do. I agreed, but it’s a weird feeling. I’ve spent so much time hiding what I can do; I have no idea how to show it to someone.
I shut the office door behind me and lean against the frame, turning the key card around and around in my hand. There’s a scuffing noise to my left and I jump. Alex. The Thief with Skills. Her hands are jammed in her hoodie again, but her eyes are watchful. Expectant.
“Well?” she prompts.
I don’t have any idea what to say. I shrug. “It’s not like I have a choice. If I want to go home—”
“You always have a choice.”
I pass Alex and stop, realizing that even though I know I need to go down one floor to get to my room, I have no idea which room is
actually mine.
Alex comes closer. We’re practically toe to toe now, staring at each other. “She thinks I belong here,” I say at last.
“Maybe you do. It wouldn’t be the worst thing, would it? To be able to do what you love?”
I start to say something about how I don’t love hacking. It wasn’t born out of love. I didn’t learn it out of love. It was survival. But that’s not really the point anymore, is it? Somewhere along the line, what I did for my dad and Joe became part of me. And now I have to do something with it.
I’m just not sure what that means.
“You want to see our room?” Alex asks.
“Yeah.” I rub my eyes. There’s a dull, unrelenting thump behind them, just enough to make me grouchy. Well, grouchier. “That would be great.”
We shuffle along in silence until we reach the elevator bank. The security cameras catch my attention again. I bump my chin toward the nearest one. “So the security camera thing . . . ?”
“Is to keep us safe.” Alex swipes her card and watches the lights above the elevator doors. “They’re on both floors and in all the common areas. Nothing near the work stations though and nothing in our rooms, of course.”
Of course. It still seems weird. Paranoid.
Then again, if I stuffed my office full of people like me, I’d be paranoid too.
“So the elevator can only be accessed by key cards?” I ask. The doors ding open and we step inside. Alex presses the down button.
“Yeah, but key cards can be stolen. Ask me how I know.” She turns to me, an enormous grin slung across her face. “No, really, ask me.”
Now I’m grinning. Norcut made the whole situation seem kind of life-and-death, but Alex makes it sound like fun. We bump to a stop and the doors reopen. Alex points to the left and we trail down the hallway.
The sun’s shifted in the sky, throwing light across the polished floor and along the walls. Funny how the white seemed so stark before. There’s something awfully clean about it now.
“This is us,” Alex says, stopping at a frosted glass door. There’s a security pad here too. She swipes and the light on the box turns green, buzzing us in. “I know what you’re thinking—it seems excessive—but seriously, would you want Kent going through our stuff?”
“God, no.”
“Exactly. Also? I went through your stuff.”
I stare at her.
Alex shrugs. If she’s trying for sorry, she’s missing it by a mile. “I think it’s important for us to be honest with each other.”
“I honestly want you to stay out of my things.”
She grins. “Fair enough. Also? I don’t sleep in the dark. Not anymore. You cool with that?”
“Extremely.”
“Awesome.” Alex jumps onto the closest bed, kicking both legs in front of her and watching me. My bag is at the foot of the other bed. It’s time to start unpacking, but I can’t stop looking at the door. If they can lock us outside, they can also lock us inside.
“I know what you’re thinking and it’s not like that. I’ve been here over a year. I know.” Alex props a pillow behind her and opens a Wired magazine. “Face it, Wick. You’re with your people now. You can be who you really are here. It’s going to be the best thing that ever happened to you.”
The old Wick would’ve had a field day with that one, but I’m . . . trying. The whole thing does sort of, kind of feel like the best thing ever. But my brain keeps snagging on how the entire place seems too good to be true. If we’re all one big happy family, what’s with the security? Why are they watching us? Why can’t we come and go as we please? I understand I’m in danger, but what about the others?
I pick at my lower lip. “Yeah, see the thing is . . . the bad stuff can’t get in, but how do we get out?”
“We don’t.” Alex returns to her magazine and flips a page.
“How can you be okay with that?”
“Because I know what’s on the other side of those walls.”
I swallow around the sudden knot in my throat as Alex flips another page. She’s trying to look busy and totally failing. Her eyes never move. She’s not reading. She’s stalling.
“And if I had to guess, you do too.”
I open my mouth, close it. Alex is staring hard at her magazine, pretending the conversation’s done. Maybe it is. In the end, does it matter? I told Norcut I’d play. I promised Bren I’d try.
“Don’t you owe it to the people who love you to stay safe?” Alex’s eyes still aren’t moving, but she flips another page. “If I had anyone left, I’d stay put for their sake. Now, I stay put for mine.”
I nod, turning my attention to unpacking. Bren has stuffed my bag with practically everything I own. On the one hand, it makes me smile because that’s so her. She prepares for everything. On the other, it makes my stomach squeeze tight. I’m not going home anytime soon. I’m not here because I won the sleepaway-camp lottery. I’m here because I’m supposed to be improving myself. I’m here because I’m being hunted—and yet those aren’t the only things filling my brain. It’s all the other stuff: how I won’t get to wake up to one of Bren’s early conference calls blaring down the hallway. How I won’t see Lauren at school or Lily at breakfast.
How I’ve never been away from my sister for longer than a week and now I don’t know when I’ll see her again.
I unfold two pairs of jeans and stare at them. It would sound so trivial to say how much I miss them already and yet it’s thumping in my head. There are things you lose that you will never get back, and right now I feel like they’re all standing in front of me.
“It gets better, you know,” Alex says. “Eventually, everything does.”
We look at each other, the silence stretching between us. “How long did it take for you?” I ask at last.
“About two minutes. I never had what you do.” She considers me, eyes so dark there’s no transition from pupil to iris. They’re just smudges of black. “So what’s with the Kool-Aid packets?”
Kool-Aid? I glance down, realize Bren packed all my jeans, all my sweatshirts, enough underwear to open a store . . . and single-serve packets of Kool-Aid—cherry, grape, lime, even blue raspberry.
I clear my throat and it catches. “I used to dye my hair. These were all the colors I used to use.”
“Oh.” Alex’s gaze lifts to the blond knot at the top of my head. “I thought parents hated it when their kids dyed their hair.”
“She did.” I put the packets on the table next to my bed, arranging them so the cherry flavor is on top. “She does. Bren likes my hair natural.”
“I’ll bet. You look like a poster child for the Aryan Nations. So why’d she send them?”
“No idea.” A lie. I do. Or, at least, I think I do. The Kool-Aid packets feel like an apology, like an attempt to make things up to me. It’s nowhere near enough, but still . . . she tried.
Alex snaps her magazine shut. “Security was increased before you arrived.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. So who’s hunting you?”
“I don’t know.” And there’s something about Alex’s question that stops me short. “And you? Are you being hunted or whatever too?”
“Pretty much.”
“What’d you do?”
“Got sloppy. Almost got caught. Hart saved me.” Alex smiles like it’s funny, but we both catch how practiced she sounds. It makes chills push across my skin. This place is not what they say it is and yet . . .
My eyes snag on the Kool-Aid packets again. You can be who you really are here and I think I’m going to be a redhead again.
“Can we use the kitchen?” I ask.
“Duh.” Alex sits up, eyes slitted. “Wait. Where are you going?”
I snag two towels from the bathroom and wiggle a Kool-Aid packet at her. “I’m going to dye my hair.”
8
Because the boys are finishing some project, Alex and I eat breakfast alone the next morning. Mrs. Bascombe—a soft-spoken woman fro
m South Africa who takes off as soon as we come in—has left us oatmeal, pancakes, and enough coffee to keep me going for days.
Which is probably just as well because the study guides for my upcoming classes are already waiting for me and they’re crazy thick.
I heft the history guide onto the table next to my oatmeal. “I thought online studying was supposed to reduce paper waste.”
Alex shrugs. “Wait until you see the homework assignments. If you’re even a couple hours late, they email Norcut.”
I groan and reach for the coffee, pour one for Alex and one for me. She dumps a metric ton of creamer into hers and downs half of it in a few swallows. I can’t really blame her. I don’t think either of us slept last night. From two a.m. to dawn, her breathing was as shallow as mine.
“Is it always this quiet?” I ask, and pop two of my pain pills.
“Nah. Most of the time it’s noisy as hell, but no one’s a huge fan of breakfast around here. We keep late hours.”
Suits me. I pick at my oatmeal while Alex chugs more coffee and stares at the street below. I should say “tries to stare.” The clouds curled closer during the night. I doubt she can see a thing, but it doesn’t seem to stop her from trying.
“You ready?” Alex asks at last.
“Sure.”
We go climb one floor and push through the glass doors just like we did yesterday, and just like yesterday, the boys are already there, leaning against their desks in a way that’s probably supposed to look nonchalant, but fails miserably. Connor’s eyes are too bright when we walk in. Something’s up.
“She’s kind of hot,” Connor says, leaning down to study Kent’s screen. I can’t tell what they’re looking at, but a few steps later, I see the video. Porn. Lovely.
“Looks like a girl I knew freshman year of college,” Jake says. “She used to shake her can of pepper spray every time we passed.”
“You went to college?” Kent tilts his chair from side to side. “That’s so lame.”
“Seriously?” Alex waves Jake and Connor to the side and thumps Kent’s chair. “That’s what you’re objecting to?”
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