My curiosity gets the best of me, so after I delete the email, treating it like trash for anyone who might be reading over my metaphorical shoulder, I turn on the television.
The remote was on the armchair of one of those industrial, bland pieces of furniture, all stiff fabric and wooden arms.
It takes me several buttons to find a clear news channel with no static. I turn up the volume until a row of green bars show across the bottom of the screen. But no one is talking. There’s only the swell of thousands of voices rising from the crowd and the whir of helicopter blades.
I watch the flashing fragments of a story, trying to piece together whatever I’ve stumbled in on.
Whatever has happened, it must be horrible. Thousands are marching in the streets of Chicago, a wall of bodies so massive that the police stand on top of their vehicles and shout orders over the crowds with their red and white megaphones. It’s unclear if the orders are being followed.
When the footage isn’t being fed from circling helicopters, offering the widest view of the sheer numbers of people, it shows close-ups of men and women and children. Some are crying. Others are shouting, furious.
My stomach sours as suspicion creeps in.
Finally, the aerial montage of the swarm ends and a reporter is holding the microphone close to the mouth of a man in a suit. The interviewee looks pristine but solemn. I turn up the volume in time to hear him say, “These folks have peaceably assembled here today to mourn the loss of our great leader, Timothy Caldwell, and his cherished wife, Georgia Caldwell. These are dark times, when terrorists can get close enough to our beacons of hope and life and extinguish them.”
The reporter, a woman in a white dress shirt and beige pencil skirt, asks, “What of Maisie Caldwell, their daughter?”
My heart speeds up.
“We have been told she is safe and is being cared for. Her whereabouts will remain undisclosed at this time in order to prevent the attackers from locating her.”
“Understandable,” the reporter replies. “And what do we know about these terrorists? What are their demands?”
“Our sources have informed us that the death of the Caldwells was the primary objective of this anti-religious cell, and now that it has been accomplished, they have gone underground. But we do not intend to let them get away that easily.”
A wave of nausea sweeps over me. Without thinking, I sit down. I don’t even know what I’m sitting on, but it’s sturdy and it holds.
“We will find them, and we will bring them to justice,” the man says, staring straight into the camera. “There is nowhere on this earth they can hide from our vast resources. We will find them.”
“And do you currently know the location of the terrorists?” the reporter urges.
“We have a lead on Jesse Sullivan, the mastermind. She will lead us to the others.”
“Do we have a sense of how large this cell is or how many are involved? Previous reports named five suspects.”
“One of those named is confirmed dead: Rachel Wright. Captain Gloria Jackson and Alice Gallagher have been cleared of all charges. It has been revealed that they were hostages, like Miss Caldwell, rather than suspects. Jesse Sullivan and the unnamed British citizen are our primary targets.”
“Is this connected to the attack in Antarctica? Is the same group responsible?”
“I’m sorry, but I cannot answer any more questions at this time,” the pristine man says, and with a tight smile dismisses the reporter, throws one last wave at the crowd, and disappears through the grand archway and heavy doors of the government building behind him.
The news report starts over from the top again, as news is wont to do, and begins with the mourners, the announcement of Caldwell’s and Georgia’s deaths and the vow to hunt down those responsible.
Jesse Sullivan. Mastermind.
I laugh. It’s a hard, bitter sound. Mastermind? How ridiculous!
I turn off the television.
I replay the news in my mind, being as repetitious as the news channels themselves. But I’m scouring for clues, trying to piece together what they didn’t say as much as what they did.
They blame Jesse for everything. I suspected this is where it was heading when a diplomat from every nation came to speak to Jeremiah. But I had no idea…the fury on their faces. The utter hate.
They want to string her up. They want to burn her at the stake.
She’s the only name they have. They cleared us—why? Was that Jeremiah’s doing? Nikki’s? And if it is true, then isn’t Jeremiah also to blame for her guilt? Because if he could clear our names, then why wouldn’t he clear Jesse too?
And Gideon was never named. Why? If Jeremiah is protecting Gloria, Maisie, and I, who is protecting him?
Maybe he is protecting himself. Maybe the urgent business he rushed off to handle was blackmailing or strong-arming someone into keeping his name out of it.
I fall back against the chair and put my face in my hands. I massage my temples until the pounding tension releases a little, but my heart and stomach remain in turmoil. I’m seized by the horrible foreboding that one has when they are in a bad, bad situation. My limbs feel heavy. I’m more than a little nauseous. I’m exhausted but also feel like I will never sleep again.
Any lingering hope that I had about clearing Jesse’s name or resuming some kind of quiet life with her somewhere vanishes. I saw the masses myself. They will want someone to blame. They will never accept her name being cleared, not now that she is a target.
I’m glad that someone—anyone—is working to keep Maisie out of it. It’s a small blessing.
“And it isn’t just Jesse,” I whisper, to no one in particular. I’m alone in the vast, empty rec room. Garrison gave me the impression they were trying to keep the public from making the connection between Jesse’s job as a death replacement agent and the attack. But how can they? Surely one of her replacements will come forward, or a reporter will resurface the story from Eve’s attack. It wasn’t that long ago. And when they make the connections, it will certainly be enough to reignite the inflamed tensions between the Church and the Necronites.
What will happen when they discover a Necronite killed their beloved Church leader? I’m almost certain there will be a spike in hate crimes against them. If their condition isn’t public, they may be safe. But others won’t be so lucky. I’m suddenly so grateful that the bill forcing mandatory registration of all persons with NRD never passed.
I shudder and rise from my seat.
I need to speak to Maisie. But I don’t want to arrive empty-handed, with no way to break into this awkward news. So I wander the rec room, tracing its outermost walls. They’re lined with bookshelves. No real organization that I can tell, so I survey them in order.
I select five that I recognize, including one of our favorites—Jesse’s and mine—from high school.
With the stack of books cradled across my chest, I take the elevator down. I feel like a ghost, sick and hollowed out with worry as I walk to our closed chamber. I balance the books on one arm and knock before entering. I could use the bracelet in my pocket, but this is better just in case Maisie isn’t ready for company.
“Come in,” she says, with a voice thick from crying.
I step into the cramped room and the lights come on with my movement. Winston raises his head and thumps his tail against the blanket upon seeing me. He’s under her legs, using her bent knees like a tent as they snuggle into the blankets.
Maisie sniffs, looking up from her pillow. Blond strands of hair are plastered to her face, and her eyes are puffy and red.
“Books,” I say. “If you want to go to school next year, you’ll need to catch up.”
She blinks at me, sniffling again. “No school will ever take me. And if they did, I’m not sure a few books is all it will take to get me in.”
“A public school would,” I say. “They have to. And it isn’t like you can’t read or write. You just don’t have any transcripts. But storie
s can be made up for that. Schools burn down. Parents divorce. People are moved around. You’re smart enough to test into junior year at least, if not senior. I thought you wanted to go to school?”
It occurs to me that maybe I got that wrong. Maybe my desperate attempt to force some stability on her in order to lessen my own sense of helplessness and grief may have found the wrong target.
“You don’t have to go,” I add quickly.
“I want to,” Maisie says, sitting up and rubbing her eyes with her hands. “I just never thought it’d be possible. I figured I’d get my GED or something. Then go to a community college or something.”
“And miss prom and bullies, and smelly lockers and gym class? No way!” I smile. It’s tight and forced on my face.
But she mirrors it with her own weak smile. She takes the books and shuffles through the titles. She settles on a red hardback with gold embossing. “The Way Home,” she reads aloud. She looks up at me expectantly.
My heart clenches. “That was Jesse’s favorite book when she was your age.” A million years ago, it feels like. Of course it hasn’t been a million—just ten.
Maisie waits for my explanation.
“I don’t want to spoil it!” I say.
“Just give me the teaser,” she says through her thick, clogged voice. “Like the back-cover version.”
Fair enough, since this hardback has no back-cover synopsis to speak of. “Okay, well. A boy named Andrew and a girl named Gipsy fall in love when they’re very young. An accident happens and one of them thinks the other is dead. Only they discover later that they survived. They reunite, but her head injury means she doesn’t remember him. So he has to win her back.”
I’m struck by the parallel.
Maisie puts a hand on her heart. “So romantic. Please tell me nothing horrible happens.”
“Plenty of horrible things happen,” I say. “But neither of them die, if that’s what you mean.”
“Do they end up together?”
My heart hitches. “War breaks out in the ‘20s and that tears them apart for a while. But yes, they reunite in the end. They have a beautiful house on the seaside, on an island just for the two of them—far away from the war and everything that happened. They’re able to live in peace for the rest of their lives. We have to assume they were happy because the author never wrote a sequel.”
Maisie pulls the book to her chest. “I’ll start with this one. I could use a happy ending.”
I force a smile. “Me too.”
“What did Jesse like about it?” Maisie asks, fingering the pages. “She doesn’t seem like the soppy romantic type?”
I scratch at the chipped gold letters with my fingernail. “I think she liked the woman’s foul mouth, actually. She was a bit of a handful.”
Maisie grins. The first genuine smile I’ve seen on her face in days. “She would. What did you like about it?”
“It’s been ten years since I read it,” I say.
This doesn’t seem to matter to Maisie. She waits for a real answer.
I can remember one scene very clearly. There are certain scenes that just stay with you, even if it’s been years since you’ve read a book you love. For me, I can smell the ocean and practically see the gray waves lapping at a soft shore, white foam rising over Gipsy’s ankles and calves as she looks out over the sea. I can see the beautiful A-frame house with its glorious windows up on its stilts, tucked on the grassy dune. Two Adirondack chairs that Andrew, the hero, had built for her on the porch so they can sit in the evenings and watch the sun go down over the water. And that’s how the book ends. The two of them on the porch of their house, together at last, watching the sun go down with only peace and gratitude in their hearts.
“The ending,” I say finally feeling tears rise up in the corners of my eyes. “I love the ending. They paid the price for their happiness—but they got it in the end.”
Maisie takes my hand and squeezes it. “I hope you and Jesse get your happy ending.”
Me too, I think. But I know that it doesn’t always work out that way. After all, there are always tragedies aren’t there? Didn’t Shakespeare write tragedies as well as comedies? Why should I get a happy ending, but not someone else? What have I ever done to deserve to be happy?
Maisie’s lip trembles and fresh tears stand out in her bright blue eyes.
“I just feel so guilty,” she says, finally lifting her head and dragging her nose across the sleeve of her shirt.
“What in the world for?”
“For letting them die! I’m the worst daughter in the world! Yes, Dad was evil, and no one could’ve changed that. But I feel like I should have said something, done something, anything different, and Mom would’ve changed her mind. She would’ve come around eventually. They would’ve stopped fighting, and the three of us could work together rather than fight. I screwed up!”
I reach out to stroke her hair, but she shies away from me. I let my hand fall to the coverlet. “Your mother loved your father. Because she loved him, she would choose him, no matter what you said, Maze. Her death was her choice. It wasn’t your fault.”
And Jesse’s death will be her choice—that cold voice mimics. Will you be so enlightened and reasonable when you lose her for the second time?
I feel as though someone has kicked me in the throat. I swallow.
“I know you’re right.” She taps the side of her head. “Up here, I get it.” She taps her heart. “But in here, I’m just all torn up.”
I nod, still unable to find the words. I think of when Jesse died the first time. I was supposed to help her escape, and when I didn’t show, she took her own life rather than go another day facing Eddie, her step-father.
I hadn’t been there to help her out of it like I promised I would be, and she thought killing herself was her only other option.
For many long, terrible years I lived with the pain of believing that if I’d only been there, if I hadn’t blown a tire and hit a mailbox. If the owner hadn’t called the police, and if my parents hadn’t come, discovered my plan and forced me home under lock and key. If only I’d recognized what danger Jesse was in—and how much harder I needed to try to save her—that I could have prevented it.
And when I heard she was alive by rumor and chance, I spent another year or so searching for her, and at last my search was rewarded—I found her alive and well. Even better, not the haunted, hollow girl I’d known in her last year, when things were the worst.
She was happy. She was smiling. And she didn’t recognize me at all.
It isn’t so different from Gipsy’s story after all, I guess.
I took her forgetting as my punishment. I deserved this pain because I had failed her. She’d been in pain for a long time and so now it was my turn—and the hurt at being forgotten wouldn’t even compare, would it? It would never come close to what she endured.
My brain knows better, of course. Through years of therapy I’ve come to terms with the fact that I couldn’t have done anything differently. That so much of what happened was well out of my control. But on the hard days, when I wake up in darkness and cold, the voice of reason is far, far away.
I squeeze Maisie’s hand. “I hope, one day, you’ll learn to forgive yourself for what’s happened.”
“Why should I?” she asks, in her small tremulous voice.
“Because it’s no way to live.”
Chapter 12
Jesse
Time slips again. The only blessing is that this time at least I recognize the shift for what it is. I lean against a bedroom doorway and watch two girls giggling on the bed. The wood frame pressing into my upper arm feels so real that I am sure I can convince myself that I smell the paint on the wall, and feel the bass from the stereo on my chest. The laughter, high and tinny, vibrates in my ears.
Ally, fifteen or sixteen, lays on top of her pink quilt with blue stars sewn in alternating patterns. She’s furiously twirling a piece of hair around and around her finger, winding it u
p only to release it again. I’d forgotten she did that.
Jesse—me—lays on her stomach beside her, flipping through a copy of Teen Vogue and drawing devil horns on this person, a mustache on another. She gives a third a dragon tail. I give the boy in denim and cross trainers, holding a basketball under one arm, a dragon tail.
I recognize the room. It’s Ally’s, looking just the way I last remember it. Neither of our younger counterparts seem to know I’m here.
And as much as my mind struggles with the duality, the scene itself keeps drawing me in. I don’t know if it’s the intimacy of the bedroom, the fading afternoon light coming through the window, or the quiet house that tells me they’re alone. Or maybe even the way Ally keeps watching me—teen me—without my realizing it. And when I lift my gaze, her eyes flick quickly away.
Or is it simply the fact I can’t remember this? I’d forgotten almost everything from my life before my suicide because of the damage NRD causes to the brain with each death. Gabriel restored part of those lost memories shortly after he started appearing to me, but he never showed me this.
And there’s the question: Did Gabriel keep this memory secret because it didn’t matter? Or is this not a memory at all, but another of one those time-slipping possibilities?
“Why did Mrs. Poltaski call you to her office?” Ally asks, her finger twirling and twirling around her hair. She’s nervous, I realize, and she’s been working herself up to ask whatever she’s about to ask.
The Jesse scribbling in the magazine turns the word HELP to HELL with a few strokes of her felt tip marker. Her marker hovers for a moment. “She just likes to talk to me about my dad sometimes. More are-you-sad-your-dad-is-dead bullshit. I hate it. So what if he died? People lose parents all the time.”
She sounds careless, but I see the tremor in her jaw before it clenches.
Ally bites her lip. I think she knows the other Jesse is lying as well as I do. “I thought she talked to you about that on Thursdays.”
Jesse pauses again.
“Would you tell me if something was going on?”
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