Uninvited

by kindle@abovethetreeline. com

  “Davy,” she says my name on a breath, staring at me in an intense, devouring way that makes me want to touch my face and check that I haven’t broken out in a rash suddenly.

  Her gaze skitters to Zac. She nods at him. “Thanks for dropping her off.” The translation is clear: leave. My parents adore Zac. If I didn’t already know something is wrong, then I do now.

  Zac gives my hand a squeeze and locks his impossibly green eyes on me. The concern is there—the love. I’d seen it before but now it has a name. Now I know. “Call me.”

  I nod.

  With one last look, he walks back to his car.

  Then it’s just Mom and me. She looks over her shoulder and I can hear the voices drifting out from somewhere in the house. I recognize Dad’s baritone and not just because it’s familiar. It’s the loudest.

  “Mom? What’s going on?”

  She motions me inside.

  I drop my backpack inside the foyer. We walk across the dark wood floor into the living room. I inch inside warily, toeing the Oriental rug.

  Immediately, I see Dad, standing, pacing. His arms and hands are all movement as he talks. No Mitchell though. My gaze sweeps the cavernous room. I recognize my headmaster, Mr. Grayson. He rises when we enter. He’s never been to our house before, and it’s strange seeing him here and not on campus. As though the only place he belongs is at Everton.

  And there’s another man. I’ve never seen him before. He’s dressed in a cheap suit. The cuffs stop well before his hairy wrists and the fit is all wrong, too loose at the shoulders. I’ve been taught to appreciate good suits. Dad wears Caraceni and Gucci. The stranger stays sitting, looking almost bored.

  Mr. Grayson tucks one hand inside his suit pocket. He addresses Dad in a placating voice, “Patrick, listen to me. My hands are tied. There’s protocol—”

  “Wasn’t there protocol with Mitchell, too?”

  Mitchell graduated three years ago. He’s always been in trouble. Drugs. Failing grades. Nothing really improved when he started college, either. He came home first semester and currently lives in the guesthouse. Dad keeps pushing him to work at the bank. An “internship” he calls it. It sounds better than saying, “My son’s a teller at the bank I own.”

  Hamilton Bank has been in my family since my greatgrandfather founded it. It looks like that legacy would die with Dad. Mitchell’s not cut out for it, and I have other plans.

  Dad waves an arm wildly. “I wrote a check then. A fat donation and everything was fine. Why not this time? This is Davy! She’s a damned prodigy. She sings and has been playing God knows how many instruments since before kindergarten. . . . She even performed for the governor when she was nine!”

  I blink. Whatever this is, it’s about me.

  “This is beyond my control.” Mr. Grayson speaks evenly, like he’s rehearsed what to say.

  Dad storms from the living room, passing me without a word.

  Mr. Grayson notices me then. His entire demeanor changes. “Davy.” He claps his hand together in front of him. “How are you?” he asks slowly, like I might have trouble understanding.

  “Fine, Mr. Grayson. How are you?”

  “Good!” He nods enthusiastically, reminding me of a bobblehead. Weird.

  His eyes, however, convey none of this cheer. They flit nervously over me and then around the room—as if sizing up all possible escape routes. Marking the French doors leading outside, he shifts his gaze to the man on the couch.

  The headmaster motions to him. “This is Mr. Pollock.”

  “Hello,” I greet. “Nice to meet you.”

  He doesn’t even respond. He looks me over with small, dark eyes set deeply beneath his eyebrows. His mouth loosens, the moist top lip curling in a vaguely threatening way. The thought seizes me: he doesn’t like me.

  Ridiculous, of course. He doesn’t even know me. He’s a stranger. How could he have formed any opinion of me at all?

  In the distance, I hear the slap of Dad’s returning footsteps. He enters the room breathlessly even though he didn’t walk far. Even though he plays raquetball every week and is in great shape. His face is flushed like he’s been out in the sun.

  He brandishes his checkbook as he sinks into a chair. With his pen poised, he demands: “How much?”

  Grayson exchanges a look with the stranger. He clears his throat, speaking almost gently now. “You don’t understand. She can’t come back tomorrow.”

  I cut in. “Come back where? What’s going on?”

  I move farther into the room. Grayson takes a notable step back, his gaze flying almost desperately to Pollock.

  Staring down at his checkbook with fixed focus, Dad shouts, “How much?!”

  I jump, my chest tight and uncomfortable. Prickles wash over the skin at the back of my neck. Dad never yells. He’s too dignified for that. Everything about this is wrong.

  My stomach churns. I look at Mom. She hovers at the edge of the room, her face pale. Her mouth parts and she moistens her lips as though she’s going to speak, but nothing comes out.

  Mr. Pollock rises from the couch, and I see just how short he is. His legs and torso appear almost the same length. His square hands brush over his bad suit. He takes a long, measuring look around our living room, his gaze skimming the furniture, the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the heavy drapes, and grand piano in the corner that I’ve played ever since I sat down in front of it at age three.

  Dad lifts his gaze now, watching Pollock with almost hatred. And something that resembles fear. Although obviously not. Patrick Hamilton fears nothing and no one. Certainly not this man with his beady eyes and ill-fitting suit.

  Watching Dad, I marvel at the harsh glitter of his gaze . . . the heavy crash of his breath. A part of me wants to go to him and place a hand on his tightly bunched shoulder. For whatever reason. Maybe to just make me feel better. Because Dad like this freaks me out.

  Mr. Pollock stops before Dad and looks down at him. My father rises, still clutching his checkbook in his hand, crushing it.

  Pollock jerks his head in my direction. “You can’t buy her way out of this.”

  I stare, at a total loss. What did I do? Fear crawls up my throat in hot prickles, and I fight to swallow.

  “Dad?” My voice is a dry croak.

  He turns to me, the whites of his eyes suddenly pink, shot with emotion.

  Mr. Grayson moves to leave. He gives me a small, sympathetic smile as he passes, lifting a hand as though to pat my shoulder and then drops it, changing his mind.

  Then it’s Mr. Pollock before me, so close I can smell his sour coffee breath. He flips out a small card. “I’ll be your caseworker. I won’t come here again. From now on, we meet at my office. Be there tomorrow at ten sharp.”

  The unspoken words or else hang in the air.

  My thoughts jumble together. I glance down at the card but can’t focus on the words.

  Then the men are gone. It’s just me and my parents.

  I spin to face Mom. “Why do I have to see him tomorrow? I have school—”

  “No,” Dad announces, slowly sinking down into a chair. “You don’t.”

  Mom moves inside the living room, her hand gliding along the back of the couch as though she needs the support of something solid under her fingers.

  Dad drags a hand over his face, muffling his words, but I still hear them: “Oh, my God.”

  Those barely there words shudder through me.

  I wet my dry lips. “Someone please tell me what’s going on? What did that man mean when he said he’s my caseworker?”

  Mom doesn’t look at me. She fixes her stare on Dad. He drops his hand from his face and exhales deeply, shaking his head. “They can’t do this.”

  “Oh, Patrick.” She shakes her head as if he just uttered something absurd. “They’ve been doing it all over the country. What can we do?”

  “Something,” he snaps. “This isn’t happening. Not to my daughter!” He slams his fist down on the desk and I flinch.


  My eyes start to burn as apprehension curls through me sickly. Part of me feels the irrational urge to run. To flee from whatever horrible truth has my parents acting this way. Find Zac and hold him, bury my face in his chest and listen to him tell me he loves me again.

  Mom looks at me finally. Her lips compress and flatten like it’s hard for her to even look at me. “You can’t go back to school.”

  “What? I don’t—”

  “Let me finish.” She takes a breath like she’s preparing to dive into deep waters. “You’ve been uninvited.” Her lip curls at this last bit. Everton Academy never expels students. They “uninvite.” As though the gentle euphemism could mask the reality of what being uninvited means.

  I slide a step back. My hip bumps into a table holding an assortment of framed family photos. One hits the floor with a loud crack. I don’t even move to pick it up. Shaking my head, I whisper, “Why?”

  It’s Dad who responds, his voice biting deep with the words that will change everything forever. “You have the kill gene.”

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  * * *

  U.S. Department of Justice * The Federal Bureau of Investigation * Criminal Justice Information Reporting Division

  *HTS testing yet to become protocol in many state-level jurisdictions

  **HTS testing fully realized at every state-level jurisdiction

  TWO

  I CAN BARELY RECALL WHEN THEY TESTED US FOR HTS at school. It was at the start of the year. Before the leaves started to fall and calculus made my head hurt. Before Homecoming. Before Zac asked me out.

  The Everton Board of Trustees decreed that all students needed testing. Not such a surprise. Everyone in the country is being tested these days. Dad even started requiring it of all employees at the bank. That’s some bitter irony now.

  All advisory periods were sent to the nurse’s clinic. For me that meant leaving the orchestra hall and missing practice time. I think I remember that the most. Being mad about that.

  One quick cotton swab in the mouth and it was done. My DNA stuck in a tube.

  I think someone joked about Albert Adolfson obviously being a carrier. The Swedish kid is the star of our wrestling team and has serious anger issues. I always suspected steroids, but then the joke became HTS.

  Now the joke is me.

  Once everyone finds out. That bit of realization makes it hard to breathe. I don’t stay long in the living room with Mom and Dad. I can’t. Dad’s anger. The weird way Mom looks at me. It makes terrible sense now.

  And Mr. Pollock with those small, mean eyes . . .

  He makes sense, too. He’s part of my life now.

  Images fire across my mind. One after another. An endless flash of killers in their prison jumpsuits. And the victims, the grieving people left behind. The media loves to zoom in on them. I never turn on the television anymore.

  I flee to the sanctuary of my room and stare at the pictures of Zac and my friends all over my dresser mirror, wondering how they’ll react. Of course, I’ll have Zac and Tori, but what about the others? Will they still be my friends? I pace, humming an aimless tune, searching for my peace, my solace. Ever since I was a child, I’ve heard music inside my head. It lulls me to sleep at nights and calms me whenever I feel anxious. Lyrics and notes trip through my head as I wait for the terrible tightness in my chest to go away. For the calm to come. For the panic to fade.

  But no matter how much I hum, no matter how much the music plays in my head, it doesn’t happen.

  I open my laptop and search HTS.

  I can’t ignore it. I can’t ignore me. NO. Not me.

  Not me, whatever some stupid DNA test says. My stomach rolls, rebelling at the idea. They might say I am. But it’s not true. It’s not.

  It can’t be.

  My search lasts only a few minutes. The first thing that pops up is footage from the 20/20 feature on HTS. Death row inmates are interviewed by Dr. Wainwright. I listen as they share the horrific accounts of their crimes with the stoic-faced man. Some of them smile weirdly as they recount their transgressions. Those curving lips make my skin crawl. A breath shudders from my lips. I’m not them.

  I punch fiercely at the keyboard and move to another site. A video of some extremist group brutally assaulting three men . . . three HTS carriers. From the comment feed below, everyone thought they got just what they deserved.

  It’s too much. My already churning stomach pitches. The laptop falls from my lap as I dive for the bathroom, retching until my stomach is empty.

  After that, I stagger back into my room and pick my laptop off the floor. Logging off, I set it on my desk and drop back on my bed.

  Gradually, sunlight fades from behind my blinds. My phone rings and I glance at it. Zac. I can’t talk to him right now. Not yet.

  I roll on my side and close my eyes, pressing a hand to my lips, smothering the cry that rises up in my throat and seeks escape. But there is no escape. No running from this.

  After a while, I breathe normally again and feel like I can face my parents. I have to. I can’t pretend nothing happened. I need them to tell me everything is going to be okay. I need to know the next step. The plan. Sucking in a breath, I open the door. As I descend the stairs, I stop at the sound of Dad’s voice.

  “She’s not a carrier. We would know something like that! You’ve seen those monsters all over the TV. The Minneapolis Bomber . . . the Atlanta Day-care Shooter. We’d know if our daughter is like them!”

  I flinch and ease down one more step.

  “The kill gene,” Mom says. “That’s what they call it. It can be dormant until something triggers it. They don’t all start out as monsters. . . .”

  I sink down on the step and hug my knees, unable to face them after all.

  It sounds like Mom believes I’m this . . . thing. A monster waiting for darkness to come so that I can leap out.

  I bury my face in my knees. My shoulders shake but I don’t cry. Don’t make a sound. I’m not a killer. Although I’m going to become one. It’s just a matter of time. That’s what being an HTS carrier means. At least that’s what everyone says. Apparently, even what my parents believe. Or at least Mom.

  “No. It has to be a mistake.” Yes! I latch on to these words. It is a mistake. It is. I hear the clink of glass and guess that Dad is pouring himself a drink.

  “Patrick.” Mom says his name sharply. “You heard the headmaster. He had them double-check the DNA. That’s why it took so long to get the results from the fall. We can’t live in denial. We have to deal with this.”

  Dad doesn’t respond. After a few moments, Mom adds, her voice clipped and efficient, “I’ll take her to her appointment with the caseworker tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, you do that.” Even from where I huddle on the step, I don’t miss the bite in his voice.

  Mom didn’t miss it, either. “You blame me? Is that it?”

  “She certainly didn’t get this damned gene from my side of the family.”

  “So this is my fault?” Mom’s voice is a snarl. “It’s recessive. It took both of us for this to happen! You always have to blame someone anytime anything goes wrong. You blame me for Mitchell and you might as well blame me for our daughter turning out to be a sociopath.”

  I gasp.

  There’s a loud crash. Dad’s glass hitting the wall or floor.

  My hands grip the edge of the step, needing something to hang on to, something to keep me from splintering apart. A fingernail cracks under the pressure.

  In the distance, I hear the faint ring of my cell phone in my room. Zac calling again. Or maybe Tori.

  Mom’s raspy voice drifts to me, quieter now, subdued. “Feel better?”

  “No. I’ll never feel better again, Caitlyn. Should I? I just lost my daughter.”

  I bow over, clutching my waist, the words a painful blow. I cover my mouth so that no so
und escapes. I want to shout that I haven’t gone anywhere. I’m the same girl I was yesterday. I’m no different. But somehow I am. To them, I am. I’m lost. Tomorrow the world will know that, too.

  I hear the creak of the French doors followed by my brother’s voice. “Hey, what’s for dinner? I’m starved.”

  “We haven’t cooked,” Mom snaps. No. No dinner. We forgot about food. “There are leftovers from last night.” I hear glass rattle and guess that she’s digging through the fridge. “Lasagna. Some garlic bread. I’ll warm some up. Sit down. We need to talk. . . .”

  I rise and lightly tiptoe back to my room, not wanting to hear the inevitable conversation.

  When they tell Mitchell that his sister’s not who they thought she was. That girl is gone and never coming back.

  Sleep eludes me. Zac stops calling around midnight. I lie in bed, a song whispering through my head, fingers laced over my stomach as I stare up at the ceiling. My eyes are dry as bone. Strangely, I haven’t cried even though it feels like I lost everything. My head spins against the backdrop of an aria, thoughts racing through everything that’s happened, everything that’s going to happen. Zac will still be there. My real friends. They won’t change because they’ll understand that I haven’t.

  Anxiety gnaws at me as I try to process how everyone will react. I remind myself that it’s just a few months until graduation when everything is about to change anyway. But then that leads to thoughts of the future, college. I’ve been expelled. What now? Will my new HTS status prevent me from going to Juilliard? I groan and rub my hands over my face. I don’t know. Don’t know anything anymore. Except what I am. What I’m not. Not a killer.

  A knock sounds at my door and it pushes open. My brother stands there. “Hey.”

  He looks like Mom. Brown eyes and dark hair. I’ve got the eyes but lighter hair. Like Dad. My father is mostly gray now, but when he was younger he had blond hair. Mom met him when he was lifeguarding at the country club. She said he looked like a young Brad Pitt. Whoever that was.