by Ellery Kane
Edison cocooned her with his arm. “You don’t have to stay.”
“I’m fine.” She shrugged him off, her voice resolute. “I want to help.”
“Alright.” Edison backed away, but kept his eyes on Elana. She walked toward me, as I combed through Shelly’s clothing. In the pocket of her cutoffs were two bobby pins, a tube of lip gloss, and a wad of bubble gum wrapped in paper. Mere trinkets, they seemed essential somehow. These were Shelly’s artifacts. I secreted them in my jumpsuit.
Edison cleared his throat. “Quin, I’m sorry, but we have to leave soon. Those officers are lazy, but they’re not dumb. They’re going to get suspicious.”
Frustrated, Quin groaned.
“We have to think like your dad,” I said. “Where would he hide something?”
“I don’t know.” Quin sighed. “He hasn’t exactly been out long enough to learn his hiding places.”
Prison, I thought to myself. My mother told me countless stories about the ingenuity of inmates, secreting contraband in their cells.
“Did you check the toilet?” I asked.
Quin nodded.
“Under the mattress?”
“Yep.”
“What about the doors?”
Quin looked at me quizzically, as I carried the footstool to the bedroom door. Standing on it, I peered at the top of the doorframe. “There’s something here.” Quin’s face brightened. “Edison, do you have a screwdriver?”
As Edison searched through his bag of tools, I directed my gaze to Quin. “I think you should do it. Whatever is here, it’s meant for you to find.”
We watched, while Quin unscrewed the small metal cap in the middle of the doorframe. He withdrew a small roll of paper. As he read it, his expression was still as stone.
“What is it?” Edison finally demanded.
Quin exhaled. “My father’s alibi.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MILLIE
BACK AT THE VAN, my father wasn’t alone. A woman, with a shock of unruly white hair and skin like crinkled wax paper, sat in the passenger seat.
“I see you’ve met Millie,” Quin said to my father, as we climbed inside. Mildred—she insisted on Millie—lived next to George and Shelly.
“There’s my handsome grandson,” Millie croaked, latching on to Quin’s cheek with her bird-like fingers. “Isn’t he just the sweetest thing?”
Edison twittered under his breath. “There are so many things I could say right now.” With a finger to her lips and a scolding glance, Elana shushed him.
“Millie, I’m not your grandson,” Quin reminded her softly. “I’m Quin. Remember? From next door.” From our first meeting, Mildred had insisted Quin was her grandson, Michael, an Army veteran killed five years ago in the bombings in Chicago.
Mildred closed her eyes for a moment, as if she was waiting for her memory to return. “Oh yes. Quin McAllister. I was looking for you.”
“While I was waiting, Millie wandered over,” my father explained. “She saw my press pass—”
“A reporter!” Mildred interrupted. “I said to myself, ‘Millie, that’s who you need to talk to. A reporter will listen. A reporter you can trust, like that SFTV lady, Barbara Blake.’” Inwardly, I groaned.
“So what did you want to tell me?” my father encouraged.
Mildred sighed, exasperated. “About the murder, of course. What else?”
Eyebrows raised, I turned to Quin. He was laser-focused on Mildred’s face.
“Have you talked to the police?” Edison asked her.
“The police?” Mildred tapped Edison firmly on the head with her knuckles. “Knock, knock. Is anybody in there?”
“I don’t think anyone’s home right now, Millie,” Quin teased. We all laughed, except for Edison, of course. He smoothed his hair back into place, his pride not so easily repaired. “She doesn’t trust the police,” Quin told him.
“I certainly don’t. Not after the things I’ve seen around here. I’d sooner trust those dirty scoundrel lawyers who come snooping around looking for business.” Edison collapsed back against the back seat, conceding defeat. “So you want to know what I saw, right?” We all leaned toward Mildred, perched in the passenger seat, proud as a peacock. “I saw … a man.”
“Well, that’s earth-shattering,” Edison muttered. “Clearly, a smoking gun.” Elana elbowed him sharply in the side.
“What did this man look like?” my father asked, as he took notes on his computer tablet.
“He was a good-looking fellow. Tall, dark, and handsome like my grandson. He walked by my window, and, well, I thought he was my Michael, so I went after him. He knocked on the door to George and Shelly’s apartment. I thought he was confused. I heard something. It didn’t sound right, so I ran back inside. A little while later, the sirens came, but I was so scared, I just hid in my room until the morning.”
“Do you think you could pick him out if you saw him again?” Edison wondered.
Mildred nodded her head enthusiastically. “Definitely. Do you think it was my Michael?” she asked. “He’ll be back any day now.”
Edison and my father exchanged a disheartened look. “Millie, let’s get you back to your apartment,” Quin said. I carried Mildred’s purse, while she clutched Quin’s arm for support. She mounted each stair with obvious effort, as if scaling small, successive mountains.
Officer Jenkins followed us with his eyes but said nothing. I tried to preempt his suspicion with an explanation. “Just helping her back to her apartment.”
“Are—you—okay, ma’am?” Officer Lawson enunciated each word, as if Mildred couldn’t hear him.
“I’m just fine,” she snapped. “Certainly not deaf.” Officer Lawson slunk back to his position near his partner.
At the door, Mildred pinched Quin’s cheek again, leaving two small prints that faded from pink to white. “My Michael, he didn’t have any tattoos,” she remarked, grabbing hold of Quin’s forearm. “Not like you, not like that man.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HYPOCRITE
“QUIN, ARE YOU SURE this is his alibi?” My father asked, as we neared home. The word Macbeth was written in unfamiliar handwriting on a torn piece of stationery. Only a fragment of a name—the letters en—remained at the top.
“It has to be,” Quin replied. He folded the paper and returned it to his pocket.
Edison eyed Quin in the rearview mirror. “I’m sure my dad will get to the bottom of all of this. You should probably catch up with him later.”
Quin nodded.
I stared out the window, watching life roll by us: a bicyclist whizzing past, a woman pushing a stroller, a squirrel scampering into the street then back again. As SFTV continued to insist a return to normalcy was imminent, the streets in my neighborhood grew busier. Still, much like that undecided squirrel, most people seemed tentative, leery. So was I. At that moment, everything in my life seemed to be balanced precariously on the edge of disaster.
“We should talk to Max today,” Quin said.
“Okay.” Reluctantly, I agreed, worried that confronting Max would only send him further away from us.
After saying good-bye to Edison and Elana, the three of us walked inside, each lost in our own thoughts. I was surprised to see Max sitting at the kitchen table eating a sandwich. Quin and I exchanged a glance—now was our chance.
“Mr. Knightley,” Max began, his voice resolute, “I want to apologize for my behavior yesterday. It won’t happen again.”
My father sat down at the table across from Max. “I’m worried about you, Max. We all are. I can’t allow you to stay here if you continue to act this way. You’re putting us all at risk.”
I cringed with embarrassment for Max. I hadn’t intended on including my father in this conversation.
“Dad, could we talk to Max alone for a minute?”
“I’ll be in the backyard if you need me.” He gave Max a tentative pat on the shoulder, a gesture that seemed to convey my father’s ambivalence
.
I waited for Quin to begin. When he said nothing, I sat down in the chair my father had vacated.
“I don’t need a lecture.” Though I was looking right at him, Max addressed Quin.
“You don’t?” Quin asked, his voice biting.
“We want to help you, Max. We know what you’ve been doing.” I kept my voice neutral, trying to ease the tension between them.
“And what is that?” Max asked, still looking at Quin. For a moment, I just watched him, suddenly aware of how not himself he was. Even though it was marketed as harmless, the latest research suggested Euphoractamine withdrawals were the worst, causing rapid mood swings and irritability.
“Well?” Max scowled with contempt. “I’m waiting. Please tell me. What have I been doing?” Eupho withdrawal: Exhibit A.
“Don’t make me say it, Max.” My eyes pleaded with his, searching for any trace of the Max that I knew. There was none, only steel blue glaring back at me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Quin frowned at Max. “You’re not fooling anyone with all your secrets.”
I never saw Max and Quin argue, but Elana said that once, just after they met, Max punched him in the jaw. Now that Quin was practiced in the role of older brother, it seemed unimaginable. The fight was about the way Quin carelessly broke Elana’s heart. With a busted lip, Quin grinned at Max, asking, “Is that all you’ve got?” After that fight, Max and Quin were fast friends.
Fathoms between them now, Max stood up from the table and began walking toward the door, ending our conversation. He paused for a moment then turned to Quin.
“You’re such a hypocrite.”
His words were laced with venom and intended to hurt, but it seemed they stung me more than Quin. I awaited Quin’s reaction, his vehement denial, but there was none. Max descended the porch stairs as I watched, helpless.
“Bye, Lex.” He addressed the empty space in front of him, while walking briskly away from me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CLASS A
WHEN I TURNED BACK, Quin was gathering his things, ignoring me.
“Quin.”
He raised his eyes.
“What was that about?”
Quin shrugged. “He’s just trying to hurt me.”
“Why did he call you a hypocrite?” My voice sounded condemning.
Sitting on the edge of the sofa, Quin patted the spot next to him.
I rolled my eyes, annoyed, but joined him there anyway.
“I have to go see Edison’s dad now, but when I get back …” He paused and took a breath. “We’ll talk. I promise.”
“Okay,” I conceded, barely letting him kiss me on the cheek before he left.
Alone, I felt restless but exhausted—my body on autopilot, while my mind ran in circles. I set the contents of Shelly’s pockets on the coffee table, carefully arranging them like an altar. Now that I had seen the place where she died, I couldn’t stop seeing it. Every conversation between us replayed itself like a cruel rerun.
The second time we met, again at Dellencourt, Shelly asked about my mother.
“So your mom knew George?” she asked, leaning in so close I could smell her strawberry bubble gum. “Before?”
“Mmhmm,” I mumbled, uncertain where her question was leading.
“What did she say about him? Like, in her expert opinion?”
“Um …” I tried to think of a vague answer that would still satisfy her.
“C’mon, you can tell me. I’m a big girl—I can take it.” She flashed her tiny bicep at me, grinning. “You know, my dad had so many psych reports. I wish they would’ve just asked me. I could’ve given the diagnosis: Class A jerk.”
“I haven’t really read her reports,” I lied.
I was grateful she seemed content with my non-answer. “Just as well,” she said, practically glowing. “I don’t need a fancy degree to tell me what’s in my heart. Do you believe in destiny?” She didn’t require a reply. “Because that man is the one for me.”
“Class A … soul mate?” I offered. Shelly erupted in hysterical laughter. I smiled in spite of myself, even as the humorless guard shushed us with her eyes.
My father tapped me on the shoulder, and I jumped, shaking off the memory.
Handing me my mother’s old Zenigenic badge, he asked, “Anything look familiar?”
I studied it. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw it. “Should it?”
A sly smile crept at the corners of his mouth, as he pointed to the logo. Our eyes met, opened wide in realization.
George McAllister’s alibi was written on Zenigenic stationery.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
GOOD NEWS
I COULDN’T WAIT TO TELL QUIN about my father’s discovery. I sat at the kitchen table, waiting, drumming its surface with my fingers. As soon as the door shut behind him, we both spoke at once.
“Zenigenic,” I announced, displaying my mother’s badge.
“It’s not his alibi.” Quin’s voice covered mine.
“What do you mean?” I asked, momentarily tabling my news.
“My dad told Mr. Van Sant the same thing he told us. He doesn’t know how he got home that night. The last thing he remembers is meeting up with this guy at a coffee shop in Oakland. The guy was acting funny, like he thought they were being watched, and passed him the paper we found.”
I nodded, taking in Quin’s news. Then I pointed to the badge. “That paper—it was Zenigenic stationery. The letters from the logos match. My dad figured it out.”
“Weird,” Quin said, although he didn’t seem as surprised as I expected. Almost a year ago, Zenigenic announced they were on the verge of bankruptcy, the Guardian Force scandal and the government ban on Emovere too much to overcome. But in the last few months, Zenigenic showed signs of life, appointing Xander Steele, son of the company’s founder, to head rebuilding efforts.
“So did your dad know this guy?” I asked.
Quin paused. “He met him once … at this … thing.” I watched his face as he chose his words. I couldn’t shake the feeling he was hiding something. “He didn’t know his name.”
“Which coffee shop? Can we try to find him?” My mind was racing with questions, but Quin seemed calm.
He shook his head in dismay. “Mr. Van Sant already found him.”
“Isn’t that good news?”
Reaching into his pocket, Quin handed me a folded piece of paper. It was a news article from the day prior, October 10, printed from the Internet: Oakland Man Killed In One Vehicle Accident.
Oakland resident Paul Grimley has died following a single-vehicle car accident. According to police responding to the scene, the accident occurred just after midnight on Redwood Road in the Oakland Hills. Grimley, age 45, ran off the road and was ejected from his vehicle, after his car collided with a tree. Alcohol, excessive speed, and vehicle malfunction are being investigated as possible contributing factors.
Though I already knew it, hearing Quin say it aloud wrenched my stomach. “He’s dead.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
NO ANGEL
AFTER A BRIEF DISCUSSION—where he skirted most of my questions—Quin said he was taking Artos for a run, the talk he promised postponed again. I went into the lab to try and study—try was the operative word.
I considered the first problem of my calculus homework, but I couldn’t stop the chatter in my mind.
I need to study. Use the limit definition …
Quin is lying to me.
Quin is a hypocrite.
Max is on Eupho.
Augustus … the drug czar?
What is Prophecy?
Study! To compute the derivative f(x) …
Shelly is dead.
Quin’s dad is guilty.
Quin’s dad is innocent.
I need to study.
After a few minutes of my repeat exercise in futility, I shut the tablet and turned to my mother’s laptop. Opening the Internet to SF
TV’s home page, I immediately noticed an article about Augustus’ new career endeavor, Porter Named Drug Czar. I scanned the story, looking for a quote from his recent press conference.
Porter acknowledged that his appointment to the position was unexpected but welcomed. “I certainly never imagined I’d be fighting these drugs again,” he admitted. “But it is a cause I feel strongly about, one I know is important to Mayor Riley and the people of the Bay Area. I’ve come to define myself as a jack-of-all-trades, a bit of a Renaissance man to use an old-fashioned term. It’s what made me successful as the leader of the Resistance. I hope to bring those experiences to bear in this challenge. I am aware there has been a recent grassroots resurgence of the Resistance, led by those deeply affected by emotion-altering drugs. I welcome their support.”
Typical Augustus—a needle of truth buried in a haystack of lies, though I was intrigued by his mention of the Resistance.
Closing the article, I opened a search engine and typed: George McAllister and prophecy. My index finger hovered above the enter key, as I contemplated my next move. I’ll probably find nothing, I assured myself, sealing my fate with a final click.
It was the first result—a video—dated October 4, 2042, just a few days before Shelly was killed. An unfamiliar man was standing behind a podium, addressing a large crowd of people. I pressed play.
“Before I turn things over to our first speaker, George McAllister, I want to say a few words about control. Five years ago, with the Chicago bombings and everything that came after, I started using Emovere. I wanted control of my fear. I wanted to squash it like a bug. And that’s what Zenigenic promised all of us … control. But to be frank, I’ve never felt more out of control. When I was using Emovere, I did things—reckless things—things I’m not proud of. When the government stepped in and banned it a year later, I was relieved. It meant I had to quit, and I did.”
He nodded humbly at the crowd’s raucous applause.
“I should’ve known it was all about control—the government’s control. They only wanted Emovere for themselves, for the Guardian Force.”
