by J. D. Dexter
“Why wouldn’t you want me to know? That’s the part I’m struggling with the most. Well, and the slavering, the slavering made me feel like piece of science meat. I do forgive you though,” I tell him.
“Thank you, truly. As to not wanting you to know about this, I never wanted anyone to know. I pride myself on being a person of integrity, trustworthiness, and honesty. Having now told all of you means I’m none of those things.” His voice gets gruff. He sounds like he’s swallowing back some tears. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want you to know, specifically. I simply shouldn’t have shared it with anyone. I would’ve loved to have been able to tell you. I think we can learn a lot from each other.”
“Okay. I…I just don’t know what to say right now.” I sit there in the sunlight and feel like I’m in the middle of a bad thunderstorm: dark skies, swirling clouds, battering rain. My emotions are all over the place. I’ve felt this way before, after a particularly bad incident in college, but I try not to think about that time too often. Having these feelings resurface isn’t the best thing to happen at this particular moment. I try to shove those particular thoughts and feelings back in the deep box where I keep them locked away.
“Is it okay if we just bring the boys back in? I’m sure they can ask some of the questions I should be asking.” I plead with him.
“Of course. I’ll just go…”
“We’re here.” Josh says as he steps into the room. Obviously, Mark was right that the boys were huddled outside, ears plastered to the door.
“Okay, Finley-babe?” Brian asks.
“Yeah. Just muddle-headed. Can you guys ask your dad questions, and I’ll just sit and listen for a while? I have questions, but can’t really get them from my brain out of my mouth.” Making vague motions between my mouth and head, I try to get my point across.
“Of course. I’ve written down a number of questions I think we should be asking.” Brent’s preparedness makes me smile.
“I’ll answer what I can, but you have to realize, there are certain things I still can’t share with you. I’m trying to uphold my own ethics here while still helping Finley understand more about herself.” Mark warns us all, a curious blend of pleased and reticent on his face.
“We understand. I’ll try to keep us on questions that concern Finley directly,” Brent amends. “First off, what is the adaptation you’ve been working on that Finley has been identified in?”
“I call it ANK-23. This is the twenty-third cycle of testing we’ve done that positively holds for all of the subjects we have available to us.”
“Is this ANK-23 widely known, or even known to anyone outside of your project?”
“I can’t answer that,” Mark states firmly.
“Okay.” Brent nods his head, looks down at his notes again. “How about answering this one? Does ANK-23 have any harmful concerns for which Finley should take precautions?”
“Not that I know of presently,” Mark answers. “This is the first positive cycle we’ve gotten on the subject population, so we don’t really know what’s harmful or helpful at this point.”
“Will you be contacting any of the other—how did you put it?—subject population to determine if they’re exhibiting any extraordinary phenomenon?” Brent is taking his position as inquirer very seriously. I’m really impressed by the questions he’s come up with. Not to mention his no-nonsense tone of voice.
“Finley is the only subject with which I am personally familiar, and her abilities are unsubstantiated at this point. I would have no reason to contact the others at this point in time.” Mark’s demeanor is very professional and distant. A good professional witness on the stand for his lawyer son.
“Do you know how Finley came to have ANK-23?” This is something I wouldn’t have thought to ask, so I’m doubly grateful to have Brent here acting as my proxy.
“Adaptations are successful genetic mutations that help the organism work most efficiently in its environment. I would assume that George or Alice also have this genetic adaptation. I would like to ask them for a sample to confirm. Any other relatives of Finley’s would also be good test subjects as genes are passed generationally among relatives.”
Brent turns to me. “Would you be able to get a sample from your mom and dad for Dad to work with?”
“I can certainly try. Mom and Dad are having fun in the Caribbean, but they both have privileges at the hospital, so I can ask them to go give a sample and have it shipped to Mark.” I get up and move to go get my phone out of my purse in the foyer.
“Wait.” Mark holds up his hand in a stop motion. “It might be better received from me to George. If you guys can hang on a second, I’ll get him on the phone and discuss the particulars with him. I’ll figure something out about the cover story and how the samples fit into my study. I’m only supposed to be using the genealogy registries.”
“Could you do it on the side? Not make it part of your official study, but just something you can run against the data you already have?” I don’t want my parents involved in whatever shady things are going on at his lab, but I want to make sure my mom and dad are safe too. Bit of a sticky wicket all the way around.
“That might be best.” Mark nods his head and turns to his computer. “I have a colleague at a different lab who would be able to run the tests outside of my purview, so their information wouldn’t be associated with the project at all.”
Everyone in agreement, I make my way out to the foyer where my purse is on the entryway table. The foyer is done in pale blues and grays with accents in bright white. All of the wood furniture matches the dark cherry of the wainscoting and the original doors of the home. Cynthia really has a good interior designer.
As I move into the little niche that has my purse, I catch Cynthia with her back to me, rifling through my purse.
What the heck?
“Can I help you find something, Cynthia?” My tone could freeze dry ice.
“Oh goodness!” She whips around, my phone in her hand. “You frightened me, Finley.” Her tone is accusatory.
She’s honestly trying to scold me, when she’s the one invading my privacy? This lady…sometimes—well, most of the time really—I want to punch her right in the face.
“Yeah, walking to my purse across hardwood floors in heels is definitely sneaking. What are you doing with my phone and going through my purse, Cynthia?”
“Well, it was ringing and I wanted to take a message for you, in case it was important.” I don’t need the Spectrum to tell me she’s lying. She looks guilty enough a blind man could see it.
What is it, Lie to Finley Day?
“Considering I have it on silent, like I always do when I come to your house, I find that difficult to believe. Could I please have my phone and purse?” I ask, my tone barely civil.
“There’s no reason to get testy.” She tries looking down her nose at me.
It doesn’t work.
“I put up with a lot of your coldness to me, Cynthia. I have no idea why you treat me the way you do, but I can also see you love your boys, Mark, and Josh. If we have issues, that’s fine. I can handle them. However, I will not tolerate being treated like I’m the one in the wrong on this matter, especially since you are the one invading my privacy and lying about it to my face.” I invade her personal space, something she is always very careful to maintain around me.
“Please step back, Finley.” She’s stretching back away from me as if I’m carrying some transmittable disease and purposely trying to infect her. When she steps back, I don’t get any closer.
“I’m just getting my phone and purse, Cynthia. If you would hand them to me, I’ll get out of your way,” I tell her simply.
She almost throws them in her haste to have me out of her proximity.
I barely catch my phone before it crashes to the floor. As I turn it over, I see that she forgot to clear the screen. I also see that she’s been looking at my location data.
“Why are you so interested in where I’ve been
?” I’m truly puzzled.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Please step back.” I look at the handful of feet separating us. She looks frightened, but I can’t figure out why. I’ve never raised a hand or struck out in violence in my life—well, other than the boys when they annoy me. But even then, it’s more playing than anger. Why she thinks I would start with her is beyond me.
“I can see what you’re looking for on my phone; you didn’t clear the screen.” I hold it up to show her. “Now stop lying right to my face, and tell me what you’re looking for.” I’ve about had it with this family today.
“I will do no such thing, nor am I lying to you,” she maintains, her voice could teach the tundra how to be cold.
I nod, sick and tired of being treated like crap by the older Hastings in this house. Stuffing my phone back into my cavernous purse, I spin on my heel and head back to the study.
I almost run into Brian around the corner of the niche’s wall. His face is livid.
“Mother! Get out here.” His face is red, and the rage in his voice is volcanic—like if one more thing goes wrong, he is going to erupt. I’m not sure Cynthia is ready for that.
“Brian Markus Hastings, you don’t speak to me that way!” She fires back. She fails at putting steel in her voice, missing the mark by a long shot.
“Why are you lying to Finley? If she said you’re lying, then you are. And why, for heaven’s sake, are you going through her purse and phone?”
“As I told Finley, I wasn’t lying to her.” She’s moved out into the hall and seems to be looking for someone to come save her.
“And I just told you, Finley knows when someone is lying. Call it her super power, if you want,” he explains, his jaw clenched. “Now, again, why are you lying to her about her phone and purse?” His voice sounds like he’s nearing the end of his patience.
“Why do you always take her side? Super power?!?! She’s nothing but a little hangers-on!” Her voice, and the vitriol, explode from her body. Her shaking finger stabbed in my direction.
I can feel my mouth hanging open; I’m completely lost as to what’s happening now.
“What the fuck are you talking about, mom?” Uh oh. Brian just dropped the F-bomb on his mom. Brian only drops that particular bomb if he’s reached his threshold for crap, which doesn’t happen very often considering how laid back he is.
“She’s nothing, a nobody, and everyone in this house, including your cousin, treat her as if she’s a queen. Finley wants to do this—everyone does it. Finley says to scratch your ass—everyone gets to scratching. Finley’s upset—everyone goes out of their way to fix her little boo-boos. I’m sick of it. Sick of her!” Her eyes are blazing fire, her breathing quick and shallow, her hands clenched like she’s imagining them around my throat.
I pull the Spectrum, allowing it to fill my vision. All I see are reds, yellows, oranges, and a sickly green engulfing her entire body. Not only is she infuriated, she’s hateful with it. She not only wants me gone—she wants me to never have been. I blink to bring my regular vision back.
This woman has gone to crazy-town on a one-way ticket.
“Cynthia Annette!” Mark’s roar fills the foyer. His face is a combination of enraged and embarrassed. “What are you talking about? Finley’s part of our family.”
Some noise escapes Cynthia’s mouth: part insane laugh, part snort. I’ve never seen or heard her do anything less ladylike in my whole seventeen years of knowing her than this entire conversation.
“She’s not part of my family,” she screeches. Spittle flying from her sneered lips. Her eyes widen so much you can see white all the way around her iris. “I tolerate her, barely, in my home because you men are enamored of her. She’s been grasping onto the coattails of the men in this family for far too long. I’m going to stop this.” She makes a slashing motion with her hand.
“I heard you in the study, Mark. You think she’s wonderfully unique. I’m here to tell you she’s nothing but something to be exterminated from our lives.” She whips around, striding across the polished floor, her feet landing with heavy staccato thumps. We all follow behind her.
For myself, I’m a little scared of what she’s going to do either to herself, or to me, if left to her own devices for too long.
Taking a sharp left into her own office, she moves to her writing desk, and flings open a drawer. Tossing a thick file onto the sheened surface of her vintage desk, she looks triumphant. Done in soft peaches and cream, the room is as personal as a doctor’s exam room. No hint of the personality of the inhabitant. Although, to be honest, I’m not sure how you would decorate an iceberg.
“What’s this?” Brent questions, his hands moving to file on her desk. “I can’t believe you’re acting like this, Mom. Finley’s already been mistreated by Dad today, I can only imagine how she feels about our entire family right now.” His tone is hard.
He opens the file and a blizzard of pictures fall out, dotting the floor and desk like new snowfall. Various pictures of me with clients, bankers, friends, at the grocery store, buying supplies, at the movies, and working out. Some of the pictures look like they were taken between ten and fifteen years ago.
I have no idea why she has all of this, or what she thinks this explains. I’m more confused now than I was when talking to Mark. I had no idea she hated me so much.
I still have no idea why.
“Have you been following Finley, Mom?” Brent’s voice is aghast, the incredulity in his eyes is reflected in his face.
“Of course not. I’m not so crass,” she replies haughtily. If only her nose could go higher in the air. “I hired a private investigator.” If the situation wasn’t so dire, I would laugh at that one. It’s crass for her to follow me, but not crass at all for her to hire someone to follow me. This woman is bat-crap crazy.
“Since when? And why didn’t you tell me?” Mark sounds as confused as the rest of us.
“Since she graduated high school. And I didn’t tell you because you worship her, just like all of the rest of them.”
“Rest of whom?” Mark asks.
“Everyone! She has everyone under her spell. I’m the only one she hasn’t gotten to; I’m the only one who isn’t affected.” She looks at me like I’m Satan Incarnate.
This woman has lost her bloody mind.
Using the Spectrum, I take a closer look at her. The sickly, green-tinged bonfire is still aflame. I feel Josh’s arms come around me from behind and lean against him. I find myself wanting some comfort in the midst of the craziness that has taken over the Hastings’ household. Still focusing on Cynthia, I can barely see a hint of soot-black smoke emanating from the center of her body.
She’s been hiding her bone-deep hate from everyone for a very long time. It’s eaten away at her core. I can see the black smoke begin to absorb the other colors on her emotional plane. She’s feeding the obsidian hatred, funneling everything she is into this black abscess.
I still can’t understand what she’s rambling on about. Shifting to my normal eyesight, I focus back into the conversation erupting around me.
“She’s been this way since she was little. I once saw her in the bathroom after she had fallen off the treehouse rope swing. She had a huge gash on her lower leg, the blood was everywhere and ruined two perfectly good hand towels.” Her glare could start a bonfire.
“She sat down on the counter, put both of her hands around her battered and bleeding leg. She bowed her head and then her hands lit up, and the next thing I know, her leg is unblemished, not even a scar or red mark left behind.” She’s ranting, spittle flying from her mouth in her desire to share the dastardly deeds of my youth, her eyes crazy.
“Finley! You can heal yourself?” Mark’s excitement briefly covers the hatred spewing from Cynthia.
If her eyes could shoot laser beams, I’m pretty sure that would have been the end of Uncle Mark. A wordless scream erupts from Cynthia’s throat, her eyes wheeling around in her head at the excitement
in Mark’s voice.
“Do not look at her like that! She is a freak, a demon!” Her shriek fills the room, almost shattering my eardrums.
“I knew then that she was an abomination. I’ve been watching her since she graduated high school to make sure she didn’t do anything else abhorrent to the general populace. I was waiting for her to do something heinous, so she could be locked away.”
“My PI never saw anything suspicious, but I knew she was just better at hiding it all. He’s been sending me reports monthly since graduation.”
I’ve had someone following me for years now and had no idea. The idea makes me feel squicky and I feel the distant need to upchuck. This day is one for the crapper.
“I was going to bring it up with you, Mark, but every time she was here, I could see her hooks getting deeper and deeper inside you. You could only see the surface, the part she wanted you to see. The Wonder Child, the Daughter of the Year. She is evil, and needs to be taken care of.” Her face shuts down like a switch was thrown.
Whoa. My brain stutters to a stop momentarily. That just happened. She literally just said that I should be killed. This day just goes from good to better.
Right now, I’m not even mad at her. I’m more worried than anything else. She’s freaking me out, so I can only assume how her family is feeling about everything right now.
“Cynthia, control yourself!” Mark’s deep voice covers the shrillness of Cynthia’s spewing.
She gives one last shake of her head, her hand slashing through the air to deny Mark’s words. “No. I’ve had enough of this, of her. I’m going to end her hold on my family.” She rips open another drawer, and pulls out a gun.
Her eyes are ice cold and there’s a small, satisfied smile on her thin mouth. Before I can draw another breath, she has it aimed directly at me.
She pulls the trigger.
Chapter Five
The shot echoes in the small room, beating at my ears. I feel a blazing, torturous burn in my side. Looking down, crimson rains over my spring floral maxi dress, blurring the flowers under a wave of red. The supporting arms of Josh are now tugging me down towards the floor, a weight around my hips.
