by Leigh Tudor
Living Wilder
Wilder Series, #1
Lēigh Tudor
Copyright © 2021 Lēigh Tudor
www.leightudor.com
Living Wilder
Wilder Series, #1
Cover design by Damonza
Copy editor: Theodora Bryant
ISBN: 978-1-7367915-0-9 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-1-7367915-1-6 (paperback)
* * *
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
* * *
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book is dedicated to my girlfriends, aka,
Dirty Girls Reading Books
(you know who you are).
I made sure my heroines capture those
things I love the most about all of you;
they’re fun, flirty and fierce.
But more importantly, they love one another unconditionally
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
“Math is sometimes called the science of patterns.”
—Ronald Graham
Credited as one of the principal architects of the rapid worldwide development of discrete mathematics
* * *
Findling, Utah
Division of Child and Family Services [DCFS]
“When did the drawings begin?” Dr Halstead asked. Hands behind his back and eyes narrowed, he regarded the agitated fourteen-year-old girl through the observation window.
The teenager slumped in her chair with her skinny arms crossed, a perpetual grimace on her face. Her knee bounced up and down with the uncontrolled energy of a drug addict.
“We’re not sure. She’s been less than cooperative,” Dr. Bancroft said. “We ran the tests you ordered. Which by the way, thank you for the funding. Never would’ve been approved by the state.”
Dr. Halstead ignored the platitude. “Head trauma from the accident?”
“Confirmed.”
“Damage to the left hemisphere?”
“Affirmative.”
“Latest brain scans?”
They appeared before him. He turned to shove the scans into the lit monitor next to the window. He viewed the mid-sectional MRI images of the teenager’s brain in the sagittal, coronal, and axial planes. He had reviewed previous scans, but these were the last to come through. All looked highly promising.
Conclusive.
“Drawings?”
Bancroft handed those over, too.
After a quick perusal, Halstead turned slightly toward the third man in the room, standing quietly by the door. Without a word, the man moved to his side.
Halstead didn’t bother to make polite introductions or explain the man’s role to Dr. Bancroft. Information was to be shared on a need-to-know basis. As it stood, he was the only one who needed to know that this man was a Mensa elite with a documented IQ of over one hundred and sixty.
A renowned mathematical prodigy.
The man viewed the drawings one-by-one, which to Dr. Halstead resembled nothing more than a Spirograph drawing, a game he used to play as a child.
“Assessment?”
“Fractals,” the man said without taking his eyes off the page in front of him. “Meticulously drafted.” He pointed at one of the patterns. “Here she’s illustrated mathematical roulette curves. And here she’s drawn hypotrochoids, and epitrochoids, among other highly complex geometric patterns.”
Halstead’s focus turned to Bancroft. “Math scores, prior to the accident?”
Bancroft opened a folder and referred to the contents. “Algebra one. She barely skated by with a D,” the psychiatrist said, and then hesitated before adding, “then failed geometry.”
The Mensa member holding the drawings looked up at Dr. Bancroft with wide eyes. “Extraordinary.”
Halstead continued. “The sisters? Still not exhibiting similar results from the accident?”
Dr. Bancroft shook his head. “No signs of brain trauma.”
Halstead contemplated that fact. No problem. He would create the trauma, which would make for a far more interesting study.
He held out his hand toward the drawings, which were reluctantly returned by the mathematical genius who cost a fortune to fly from his remote home in Copenhagen to the equally remote town of Findling, Utah. A costly endeavor for only a few moments of his expertise.
Nonetheless, worth every penny.
It was time to initiate a human connection.
Without a word, he walked through the door and into the room on the other side of the observation window.
The agitated teenager sat up, and as expected, she did her best to exhibit bravado as opposed to fear.
He approached the table slowly. “Good morning. I’m Dr. Halstead.” He reached out his hand.
She glared, unmoved, at his outstretched hand.
“Come now, what is it you young people say these days?” He softened his tone alongside a warm smile. “You’re not going to leave me hanging?”
After some hesitation, she reached out. “Ava,” she whispered. After a quick shake, her arms re-crossed but with less overt agitation. “And nobody says that anymore, unless they’re old or lame.”
He nodded with a smile at her slight, and pulled out the chair across from her to sit down. “Can I ask you a couple questions about these drawings, Ava?”
“I’ve already answered a billion stupid questions. Ask Mr. Bancroft.”
“Dr. Bancroft is a psychiatrist. I’m a neuroscientist.”
She shrugged as if unimpressed. “What do they do?”
“That’s a great question, Miss Ava. Neuroscientists study the development and function of the nervous system, which includes the brain—the area in which I specialize.”
He fanned her drawings on the table facing her, pointing at the one in the middle. “Would you mind telling me what this is?”
She looked over her crossed arms, exerting as little effort as possible. “That’s a fern.”
“This is what you see when you see a fern?”
She nodded.
“Can you explain what you see? Like this table. What do you see when you look at this table?”
She shrugged one
shoulder, glancing down. “It’s hard to explain.”
“Can you try? With more information, I can better understand and then I can help you to understand.”
Eyebrows drew together as she chewed on her bottom lip.
He tilted his head. “Do you want to understand, Ava?”
Once again, she shrugged, looking away from the drawings and fixating on the window, which was too high to view anything of consequence.
Halstead stroked his chin, deciding to redirect his questioning strategy. “I hear you’ve caused quite a stir at your foster home.”
Her crossed arms visibly tightened. “They won’t let me see my sisters.”
He pulled another folder out on the table and opened it, repositioning his bifocals. “Your foster parents claim they separated you from your sisters because you disobeyed one of the house rules. No food after hours.” He looked at her, over his bifocals. “You were caught stealing food out of the refrigerator around midnight.”
Her eyes turned to the color of a dark storm. “The food was for Mara and Charlotte.”
He looked back down at the contents of the folder. “They also claim to be feeding you and your sisters three adequate meals a day.”
She snorted. “That’s a lie. They don’t cook enough food for everyone. The other cretins grab it right off your plate before you even have a chance to sit down.”
“I take it the ‘cretins’ are the other foster children?”
She nodded, her knee back to bouncing.
Very good. It was easier to work through irritation than distrust. “So, they separated you as punishment?”
She nodded again, her eyes filling. “Charlotte’s only five. They just sit her in a chair and expect her to fend for herself. I have to help her, and by the time I’m done all the food’s gone. Mara’s so scared, she just hands her food over to the older kids.” She swiped at her eyes with a quick hand.
Despite her level of agitation, he found it promising that she was confiding in him. He needed to position himself as an ally as opposed to another obstacle in her life.
“Deplorable,” he said. Shaking his head, he pulled off his bifocals, and rubbed his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Ava.”
She shrugged, looking to the side. “I’ve told our social worker. She’s useless.”
He remained quiet, his elbows on the table and his hands clasped at his mouth. He allowed some time to transpire as if contemplating the circumstances. “I’d like to propose something.”
She fidgeted in her chair, and then looked up, but only as far as his chin.
“I’d like you and your sisters to live with me.”
Her eyes moved to his. “You mean, like, adopt us?”
He nodded his head once. “That’s right.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not some creepy old perv that likes little girls, are you?”
He chuckled. “No, Miss Ava. I’m just a lonely old man who doesn’t have any children, or a family for that matter, and would very much like to have one with you and your sisters.”
She continued to stare, expressionless.
Processing, undoubtedly.
“I’d also like to help you to better understand your visions. The way you see things. I can help you understand what’s happening up here.” He patted his forefinger to his own temple.
“No funny stuff?”
“Well, I hope you and your sisters will be happy and have fun living with me, but only the appropriate kind between a father and his daughters.”
He watched her mind at work, hope clashing with distrust. He understood the source. Dr. Bancroft had told him that the girls’ foster parents were rather suspect, at best; the wife, an unscrupulous woman whose primary source of income was from a disability claim and a husband who had been questioned in the past for inappropriate touching of some of the older girls under his care.
And then, as if hope won out, she whispered. “I see shapes and angles in everything.”
He tapped the middle drawing with his finger. “Even with a fern?”
“Yes. It’s like I see everything different from before.”
“Before?”
Her lips rubbed together and her eyes squeezed shut and reopened. “Before the accident.”
“I see.” He allowed that significant piece of information to sink in.
Picking at a loose string on the cuff of her sweatshirt, she asked, “Can I think about it?”
He raised one eyebrow.
“The whole living with you thing.”
“Of course. Take all the time you need. I won’t do anything until I hear from you.” He stood. “This is your decision, Ava. Your protective instincts are strong. But you don’t have to do this alone. I know you’ll do what’s best for you and your sisters.”
He stood and walked around the table, pausing at her side. “You let your case-worker know, and I will move heaven and earth to get you and your sisters under my care. Your sisters will never have to worry about having enough food. And I’ll help you to better understand this.” His hand touched the drawings.
She looked up and nodded, her expression now a mixture of skepticism and hope.
“Goodbye, Ava.” He turned and walked out of the room.
Bancroft instantly sidled up next to him as he stepped into the observation room. “Would you like me to start the adoption paperwork for Ava?”
“Yes,” he replied, walking past him, ready to make his way back to the research facility. “But I’ll be taking all three. Make sure everything’s in place as quickly as possible.”
The psychiatrist nodded, taking notes.
“There’s no distant relatives who might disrupt our plans?”
“None,” Bancroft assured him. “The parents died on impact and were both only children; their own parents were deceased. Despite a lengthy search, no relatives were found to assume custody of the girls.”
Halstead then addressed the Mensa member in the room, who was no longer of need to him. “Dr. Bancroft, please see that our guest gets a ride back to the airport.” He stopped before exiting. “One last thing. You’ve been submitting your résumé for a number of positions at the research facility.”
Dr. Bancroft’s eyes widened. “Yes, sir, and if I may say—”
“No,” the doctor interrupted, “you may not. Once the children are legally under my care, you may join my staff. Do we understand each other?”
He nodded, standing tall. “Absolutely. Consider it done.”
Chapter One
“If people do not believe that mathematics is simple, it is only because they do not realize how complicated life is.”
—John von Neumann
Theory of Games and Economic Behavior, 1944
* * *
Findling, Utah
Halstead Research Center
Eight Years Later
Ava lay on her bed, her arms behind her head, waiting for the sealed door to her suite to open. She and her sisters were usually given free access to certain rooms within the Center, but today they were in lockdown.
She didn’t mind.
Totally worth it.
The first thing that morning, she’d been informed by her digital calendar that the day’s agenda had changed. Rather than a full day of tutors, sparring, and assignment debriefing, she’d be meeting up with her sisters to view their so-called father’s funeral.
Remotely, of course.
She smiled.
And then fear crept in, like an unanticipated uppercut to her good mood.
Rubbing her temples, she did her best to fight back the fear, uncertainty, and doubt that had plagued her since that fateful night.
She kept reminding herself that everything was going according to plan.
She so needed a distraction. Something to pass the time and to dampen the anxiety that bubbled inside her head.
She glanced at the folder on the side table and considered running through the pre-approved daily brain teasers. She looked inside the folder, saw
that the theme for today covered topological vector spaces.
She rolled her eyes.
So freakin’ easy and so not feeling it.
As she paced back and forth in her closet-sized room, her eyes crept toward the door, wondering what she would find when it finally opened.
Heavily armed security guards, ready to escort her outside the Center and into a waiting police car?
Stop it. No one was taking her anywhere.
Not without a fight and a considerable amount of damage, anyway.
She sighed and then considered watching one of the DVDs she’d picked up in a back alley in Hong Kong while on a job last spring, but with not enough time to get through an entire movie, she deferred to a more physical distraction.
Dropping to the floor, she did twenty sets of fifteen push-ups. Some one-handed, others with intermittent claps as she pushed off the floor with her hands.
She sat on the cold floor tiles and leaned against the bed to allow her heart rate to settle and noticed the stack of books on the side table next to the folder. She had been reading one of the books to Charlotte a few nights ago.
With a mixture of nostalgia and nerves, she was inexplicably drawn toward the contraband Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder and sifted through the pages. She loved the story of an American Midwest family undergoing hardships, with a Ma and Pa who loved them unconditionally.
