by Dan Rix
The sun struck my hair, making the strands burn against my face. I flicked them off. “When did he die?”
“Sometime between three-thirty and four-thirty in the morning.”
In other words, right after the dream. My unease rushed back. While the officer took down my name and phone number, Josh strolled up behind us but kept his distance. He bounced his ball.
At the sound, and the officer’s gaze flicked to him. “Hold the ball, son.”
“Sorry.”
“Josh, you should just go,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Blaire, could you describe your last interaction with Doctor Benjamin?” said the detective.
“I just saw him out my window. I didn’t talk to him or anything.”
“What time would you say that was?”
I hesitated, not sure how incriminating it would sound to admit to spying on my neighbor at three in the morning. If you want the truth, Blaire, you must speak the truth.
That’s what my dad would have said.
“Three-thirty in the morning,” I answered. “A bad dream woke me up, and I noticed he was standing out on the porch.”
“Doing what?”
“I don’t know, just thinking.” I nodded to the group of white coats. “What are all the doctors for?”
“They’re lab technicians from Scripps,” he said. “Colleagues.”
“Your colleagues?”
“His. He was a director, headed one of their divisions. Been doing stuff with the Army.”
“Inside the quarantine zone?”
“I take it he kept to himself?” he said, trying to steer us back on topic. “Private sort of fellow?”
“Were his colleagues surprised by his suicide?” I said.
“That’s how it usually is with these guys, high profile and all that. No one sees it coming. It’s the stress that does it.”
“But the whole quarantine is just a drill, right?”
“Sure, these guys get to go home at night, but word on the street is they’re running that place like a concentration camp. Can hardly blame the guy.”
“So you’ve ruled out murder?”
“We’re sure it’s suicide.”
I glanced at Dr. Benjamin’s lawn, where I had seen the parked Mustang. No tire tracks. And on the house, no evidence of fire.
Duh, Blaire, it was just a coincidence.
I was not capable of prophetic dreams.
My eyes carried up the street, over the baked, shimmering asphalt, and suddenly I caught a wave of déjà vu. Like this one was a fake, and somewhere else someone was living my real life. Despite the heat, I shivered.
After the ambulance departed, the cops took their tape down and followed suit. The scientists lingered, talking in low, hushed voices. Worried voices.
Their director had just committed suicide.
***
After my conversation with the detective, there was no way I could focus on my AP U.S. History essay. Feeling antsy, I closed my laptop and stuffed it into my backpack, confident I could hammer something out tomorrow before class.
Instead, I decided to make amends with Joe. He was right, after all. He did need me on his side. And I needed him on my side. First priority: apologize to him for being a punk sixteen-year-old.
Later that afternoon, I climbed the steps to the police station with a skip in my step, feeling like I was doing the right thing for once, and found him in his office.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said gruffly.
I was about to speak when I noticed his walls had been completely stripped bare. He had two Bankers Boxes open on his desk which he was jamming full of picture frames and stacks of paper. He wore a stoic frown.
“What’s going on?” I said quietly.
“I’m off the case, Blaire. That’s what’s going on.” His moved in jerks, barely containing his fury.
“No, you can’t be.”
“My wife thinks I’m having an affair with you,” he said.
“What?” My jaw fell open. “Why?”
He spun to face me, temples pulsing. “Now let’s see, Blaire . . . she calls my office at two in the morning and hears you. Later, you call her and whine that I’m not giving you what you want. Finally you show up to my house dressed like a prostitute and beg to see me. Does that answer your question?”
“You mean this . . . this is because of me?” I whispered, horrified.
“And now there’s no one on your dad’s case,” he said. “So I hope it solves itself.”
“You got fired?”
“No, I got demoted to patrol.”
“But we’re not having an affair!”
“No shit, Sherlock. You’re way too needy, obnoxious, and irresponsible for my taste.”
“Then why are you off the case?”
“Because cops can’t have affairs with sixteen-year-old girls,” he shouted. “They can’t even be accused of having affairs with sixteen-year-old girls.”
“All I wanted was the diary,” I said. “Can I at least have it now?”
“Blaire—” Joe slammed one of the boxes onto a cart. “There’s nothing in the diary.”
“Yes there is,” I said, heat rushing to my face. “He wrote it all down; you just hold it up to a mirror—”
“We reversed the copy like you said. It doesn’t mean anything, it’s crap. Because that’s what insane people do. They write gibberish.”
“No,” I breathed, “that’s not true . . . he wrote it all down.”
“Not in the diary, he didn’t.” Joe smashed the second box onto the cart. “Your father’s case is closed until further notice. If you have any questions you’ll have to take them up with my sergeant.”
***
Shame.
Utter shame. For the rest of the day and throughout school on Tuesday, self-loathing burned my cheeks. An affair with Joe Paretti.
God, how stupid could I be? I wanted to crawl out of my own skin.
Because of me, the police had abandoned the case. I had failed my father and ruined a marriage. Great job, Blaire.
Real smooth.
And what had I accomplished? I barely even knew the cause of death.
The police could give up—they had a body, after all—but I couldn’t. Something or someone had taken my father away from me, and I had to know what. It wasn’t a choice; if I didn’t, the mystery of his disappearance would fester in me until the day I died. I needed closure. I needed something to blame.
I knew he would have done the same for me. It’s just what you do when you love someone so completely. You never give up.
On Tuesday, I entered the hospital for the third time in two weeks, still disgusted with myself. My eyes stayed glued to the floor.
“We’ve got your father’s karyotype,” Dr. Johnson said to me once inside her office. “And yours . . . are you okay?”
“Yeah, sorry. I’m fine.”
“These tests were carried out by the UCSD Cytogenetics Laboratory.” She brought up a pair of slides on her computer screen depicting a bunch of pairs of what looked like gummy worms. “It turns out you both have abnormal karyotypes—and don’t worry, these aren’t their actual colors.”
“What do you mean, abnormal?”
“Let’s start with your father’s karyotype,” she said, tapping the screen. “Right now, you’re looking at twenty-three pairs of normal chromosomes.”
“Okay.”
“Notice anything else?”
I mentally checked off each pair. Then I saw it. “The last one . . . it’s missing one.”
“Are you sure?” she said. “Count them again.”
I counted. “Forty-seven.”
“Right,” she said. “This is known as aneuploidy, or an abnormal number of chromosomes. Most humans have forty-six chromosomes, which means your dad had an extra one. Believe me, that’s loads better than missing one, and probably much more common than most people think. Now here’s your karyotype. Let’s see if you can spot what’s different.”
I scanned the new slide, but couldn’t locate the straggler. “It looks normal,” I said.
“Did you count them?”
After a moment, I answered. “Forty-eight.”
“That’s right,” she said with a smile. “That means you inherited the extra chromosome from your father, and one from your mother—who I’m guessing also had forty-seven.”
“Does that mean I’m mentally retarded or something?”
“Considering your personality, I think it’s safe to say it hasn’t affected your intelligence.” She must have picked up on my skepticism, though, because she continued to explain. “Think of DNA as a complicated computer program. While most people have certain instructions in their DNA, you have those same instructions but you also have an additional program installed.”
“A program for what?”
“It’s just an analogy. Most likely the genes in those extra chromosomes are just junk. I doubt they’ll ever open up and express themselves.”
“So they’re shy?”
She laughed. “Exactly, and since they don’t interfere with the rest of your DNA, you’ll never notice them. However, I should mention one thing.”
I swallowed. “What?”
“As we grow older, genes can—and do—express themselves differently. It’s possible your dad’s extra chromosome woke up and started doing something to him. Earlier, I said medication was responsible for his injuries. Now, I’m thinking it could be this.”
“So I’m going to die young, like my father?” And my mother.
“Not necessarily,” she said. “You have two extra chromosomes, while he had one. Duplicity usually provides a measure of protection from these kinds of defects, but it’s something I want you to be aware of.”
I nodded.
She pulled out a pad and scribbled out a name. “I’d like to refer you to a specialist. I’m afraid in two minutes I’ve just about exhausted my knowledge. I guarantee he’ll know a lot more than I do about this type of Aneuploidy-47.”
It was on my way out of the hospital while wondering if I was even human that I managed to read her chicken scratch, and my heart froze. The sheet read simply:
Charles Donovan
963-0369
***
For the third time, the mystery led back to Charles Donovan: my father’s former employer, the primary suspect in his case, and now a specialist in a chromosomal disorder that he and I both had.
I should have sought him out first.
So there was something else hanging out in our DNA, an extra pair of dormant chromosomes. What the hell?
My first thought was to take the development to Joe, see what he had to offer. But with a pang of guilt, I remembered Joe was off the case.
Because of me.
I would have to visit Charles myself, whether or not he was responsible for my father’s death.
I spent that afternoon scanning the internet for his address. Though I had his phone number, I wanted to show up in person. I found the location of his office, just off the Interstate 5. 1066 Cudahy Place.
I grabbed my keys and ran to my car. I could catch them before they closed.
I passed into the seedy, industrial district, with low-rise office buildings packed between ominous warehouses with busted out windows. Dark alleys slunk by, and I was sure I could see figures loitering in the shadows.
I shivered at the thought of being stuck here after dark. That’s when it got scary.
I pulled up to an unimpressive-looking low rise industrial office building, mostly reflective glass and cheap fake stone façade. The letters ISDI protruded from the wall in green block letters, and below them, in smaller blue letters, Intelligent Symmetry.
What was this, a software company?
ISDI. I muttered the letters out loud. They sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place them.
I took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
Chapter 5
The office had hit bad times.
Stacks of plump, used-up looking files smothered every inch of useable space, and the office’s sole desktop computer whirred at an empty cubicle, abandoned like the rest of the room.
A guy, a high school senior no doubt, lay sprawled out on a couch, a Samsung laptop perched on his stomach and punk rock blaring through his headphones. His army boots took up half the coffee table, crumpling what looked like unfinished homework. He didn’t look up at me.
But I kind of wished he would.
It was hard to miss his lush, perfectly gelled hair, brooding eyebrows, and soaring cheekbones. And lips that made Cupid’s bow look like a kindergarten art project.
He was not from my school. If he was from my school, I would have noticed him.
A throat clearing behind me snapped me out of my daze. I whipped around and faced the office’s other employee, a blonde receptionist I’d somehow missed, glaring at me through slitted eyes.
In other words, Mr. GQ’s girlfriend.
“Can I help you?” she practically snarled, making it clear she intended to do no such thing.
I pretended I didn’t catch her tone, refusing her the pleasure of intimidating me. “I was referred to Mister Donovan.”
The receptionist bit down on her gum and stretched it over her tongue. “Do you have a name?”
“Blaire Adams.”
She blew a bubble and lifted the phone on her desk. “Dad, someone’s here to see you . . . Blaire Adams . . . uh-huh.” She hung up. “He’s coming down.”
Dad, huh?
She continued to scrutinize me, and only seemed satisfied when I chose an armchair farthest from the boy.
I didn’t like it one bit. My dad had worked here too, so why hadn’t he introduced me around the office? I’d assumed his work was unfit for kids. Clearly not.
I sat down and continued to survey the place, my eyes returning to the boy more often than I could help. Lining the walls, I noted the framed glossy photos of commercial interiors, pristine-looking laboratories, and a photo taken inside the white house.
High-end interior design and construction. My father’s work.
I glanced back at the secretary. Formidable as these two were, I had a hard time believing they were actually designers. Interns, probably.
“So is he coming down or what?”
“Be patient,” she said, reclining in her seat again and popping her gum. “He’ll come when he’s ready.”
“Today? Or next week?”
“Ah, Miss Adams,” said a smooth, deep voice from the bottom of the stairs, “how can I help you?”
I faced a handsome guy in his fifties with a full head of curly gray hair and warm eyes tucked behind frameless glasses.
Charles Donovan.
Sort of not who I expected
I stood up. “I’m here about—”
“I must say,” he said with a warm, firm handshake, “you’re a bit early, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Early? It’s five o’clock. Why does that matter?”
“No. But your internship doesn’t start for another three months.”
Oh.
That’s where I had seen ISDI. My acceptance letter. Intelligent Symmetry Design & Interiors. Whoops. I could already see my internship and my admission to Harvard flying out the door.
But as I studied Charles, a few things clicked into place. Somehow, without knowing it, I had applied to an internship at
my father’s company. An odd coincidence, considering I had sought out this internship on my own.
No, not a coincidence.
I had been recruited. My biology teacher had announced the internship opportunity to the whole class; thinking back, I realized the whole thing was a setup. I was the only one qualified.
Charles had recruited me because I was my father’s daughter, not because I scored in the ninety-ninth percentile on the PSAT.
“So we’ll see you in three months?” said Charles, walking forward and holding the door open for me.
I didn’t budge. “I think we better have a talk right now.”
***
“Don’t worry,” he said, all smiles. “We’ll have time to cover everything when you start.”
“I haven’t accepted the internship yet,” I warned.
“Shall I consider this your acceptance?”
“Can I talk to you first?”
“I’m busy at the moment, but I’d be happy to set up something later,” he said.
I was not going home empty handed. “The doctor said I had an extra . . .” I glanced between the boy and the secretary, whose steely eyes targeted me once again. I changed my tone. “Can we talk in private?”
“Let’s do that.” Charles let the door shut and touched his daughter’s shoulder. “Amy-baby, check my calendar and see when I have a free hour. We’ll do her orientation early.”
“I’m not here for an orientation, Mister Donovan—”
“Please, call me Charles.” He beamed at me and headed for the stairs. “Amy will get you all set up.”
“Mister Donovan, what happened to my dad?” I called, halting him halfway up the stairs. “Where’s he been the last eleven months and why’d he show up last Thursday with no memory of me?”
Charles swiveled and regarded me with knitted eyebrows. He rubbed his chin, and finally let out a sigh and waved that I follow him.
About time.
At the top of the stairs, he led me down a hallway and past two steel doors, marked simply A and B. On the right, more photos of labs. But no more employees.
