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  A cold finger of fear stabs my chest. “Who told you about my mother?”

  “I did.” Jordan steps up behind me. “Hello, Emma.”

  Leaning past me, he kisses Dr. Walsh’s cheek. I recoil at seeing them together—an image somehow not unfamiliar to me. My brain ransacks Jordan’s jumbled memories and finds what I failed to notice before: a business card, phone calls, discussions about me. I see other things, too, impressions too strange to be real. Dreams maybe—or nightmares?

  “Mira—” Dr. Walsh’s voice slices through Jordan’s psyche, bringing me back to the present. “Mira, are you okay? I know losing your mother is a horrible tragedy, but it isn’t your fault,” she says. “Mr. Cummings called me because he’s worried about you. He’s afraid you might be having another breakdown.”

  “I’m not having a breakdown! Dr. Walsh, please listen to me. Jordan is not who you think he is.”

  “Why don’t you just calm down, Mira.” Jordan’s voice is now calm, filled with fake concern. “Do you see what I mean, Emma?”

  “He’s a murderer!” I shout. “People have died!”

  Dr. Walsh’s eyes narrow, studying mine. She believed me once. Would she believe me now?

  Jordan snatches my arm in a vise-like grip. “I think you need to sit down, Mira. We can talk about this in private, all right?”

  “Let me go!”

  He turns me back toward the conference room and practically drags me down the corridor. His hold on me is so tight that my fingers throb from the constriction of blood flow.

  “Please, Dr. Walsh!” I try to jerk myself free to no avail.

  “Stop wriggling!” Jordan snaps.

  Through the closed conference room doors I hear a man’s voice over the PA system declaring what everyone has already heard: Alberto Ortiz has been cleared of all charges.

  When we reach the elevator, Jordan presses the recall button. A bell sounds as the elevator doors slide open, and he shoves me inside.

  “Wait!” Dr. Walsh slips into the elevator after us. She gives Jordan a cautious, chastising glance. “I’ll go with you, if you don’t mind,” she says.

  When the doors close, Jordan lets go of me. I rub my arm to get the circulation flowing again.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  His glare is cold. “Up,” he says.

  I’m pretty sure this elevator is the one I’ve seen leading to the upper levels of the Rawley wing of the hospital. The numbers near the elevator ceiling light up one at a time. We reach the fifth floor, one of the partially completed levels of the building. The moment the doors open, Jordan shoves me out onto the bare concrete floor. I land on my hands and knees, reopening several of the cuts on both palms.

  “Jordan, please!” says Dr. Walsh. “There’s no need to treat her this way.” She kneels beside me to inspect my hands, but despite her kindness, fear bubbles up inside me.

  We’re surrounded by stacks of drywall and rolls of insulation that look like cotton candy wrapped in silver paper. Wooden wall frames have been erected, making the area look like a three dimensional labyrinth. PVC and copper piping are visible in some of the framework, plumbing for future installations of bathrooms and drinking fountains. Bouquets of colored electrical wires sprout from the ceiling and walls.

  Dr. Walsh forages in her purse and pulls out a clean white tissue, dabbing at my cuts. “Jordan, you asked me to come here to help you with Mira. We’re all here now, so we might as well get this settled.”

  Over Dr. Walsh’s shoulder I watch as Jordan looks around, paying no heed to her words. His gaze stops on a coil of electrical wire tossed haphazardly nearby. He picks it up and unwinds about a yard of it, then turns toward us with a jerk.

  “Dr. Walsh, look out!”

  But it’s too late. Before either of us can do anything to stop him, Jordan slips the wire over Dr. Walsh’s head, tightening it around her neck. She doesn’t even have time to scream. She struggles futilely for breath as the wire cuts into her skin.

  “What are you doing?” I scream. “Stop!”

  I lunge at him. My nails dig into the flesh of his hands as I try to pry open his fingers. He lets go only long enough to push me off. My back hits the floor, sending a shudder of pain down my spine. I roll to my side, ready to pounce on him again, but Dr. Walsh’s body convulses and goes limp. Collapsing to the floor, her face lobs to the side, eyes open wide and unfocused. A thin, crimson line encircles her throat like a discolored necklace.

  Panic claws inside me and escapes in a blood curdling scream. “You killed her! My God! Somebody help us! Please help—”

  My pleas come to an abrupt end as Jordan’s shoe hammers into my gut.

  “Shut up!” he shouts. “No one can hear you!”

  I curl my knees into my chest, trying to shield myself from any more kicks that might come my way. I’m not screaming now, but a few silent tears slide down my cheeks—not for me; for Dr. Walsh. I understood her better than anyone ever did. From the moment she touched me in the ER, I knew her deepest regrets and pain, and I knew how much she wanted to help me.

  Jordan glares at me, wrapping the ends of the wires around his hands. He takes a step toward me. I sit up, holding my stomach, and scoot backward until a wooden wall frame and some plumbing block my retreat. I feel behind me and find a thick pipe with a valve on it. Wrapping my fingers around it I try to twist, but it’s on too tight.

  “Don’t do this,” I say, attempting to stall Jordan long enough to figure out what to do next. “Everyone in that room saw us leave together. If I turn up missing they’ll know you’re responsible.”

  Jordan takes another step towards me. “Those reporters were focused on one thing and one thing only—your father.” He pulls the wire taut between his hands. “And he’s too busy saving his own skin to worry about you right now.”

  “But I thought the charges against him were dropped.”

  “They were, but these sorts of scandals have residual effects. He may have convinced the D.A. that he’s innocent, but now he’s got an entire state full of voters to convince. Though I’m thinking news of his wife’s death will prompt a wave of support. Everyone loves an underdog.”

  I struggle to loosen the valve, but I just can’t get enough torque with my hand behind my back.

  “What about me?” I continue talking, wondering if there’s any chance I can reason with him. “I want Papa to win the election as much as you do, Jordan. Let me go, and I won’t tell him what you’ve done. I swear it.”

  “What about you? You’re my secret weapon, Sunshine. You are the proof that Gaudium can be administered in the fetal stages of development.”

  To my surprise, the valve gives a little in my hand. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

  “We gave your mother, your real mother, Gaudium during her first trimester,” he explains. “I didn’t think much of it at first—until you started in with that no contact thing. Beto thought you were nuts, just like Jackie. But I knew better. I knew Gaudium had changed you, made you special. Imagine what we could accomplish if we gave it to every pregnant woman. Gaudium may actually alter the genetic codes linked to all those illnesses we’re trying to eradicate. That is the ultimate cure, isn’t it? The genes for Autism, Alzheimer’s, or Bipolar would simply cease to exist. They would be completely wiped out in a single generation.”

  “But Gaudium didn’t work that way with me,” I tell him. “It screwed up my brain.”

  “Well, that’s why we call them early testing trials. Sometimes they succeed, and sometimes they fail. But research will go forward, new vaccinations will be perfected. Of course, it will all take a great deal of money, which is precisely why your father needs to win this election. With him as Governor, continued funding for Gaudium research is all but guaranteed.”

  “If I’m your secret weapon, why did you follow me to Bakersfield to try and run me down?”

  Jordan squats in front of me and runs a glove-clad finger along my jaw. The wire in his hand
s brushes my skin, leaving behind a smear of Dr. Walsh’s blood. I draw back in disgust, but he just smirks at me.

  “I wasn’t sure how much your mother really knew,” he tells me. “I couldn’t take the risk of you reading her mind and discovering that I was the one responsible for killing Jackie and Gregory Stark.”

  “If you want me dead, why don’t you just shoot me?”

  Jordan’s eyebrows arch as if considering the suggestion, but then he shakes his head. “Too messy. How would I hide all the blood?”

  Before I can react, Jordan drives the wire against my throat, strangling me. The wire presses into my esophagus, slicing into my skin. My lungs burn from lack of air. Blackness swirls around me.

  They say at that moment just before death your whole life passes before your eyes. I see my life and many others—Craig, Dr. Walsh, Mama, Jordan, David. Countless random memories zip through my brain, some popping up and bursting like bubbles, other fading in and out so fast I can hardly keep up. The images are distorted, the emotions and recollections all jumbled together in a tangled mess. The pressure builds as if heading toward an inevitable climax.

  And then…

  Whack!

  I smash the heavy copper valve against the side of Jordan’s skull. The skin instantly splits, creating a deep red canyon. A thick river of blood gushes down his face, and he reels backward, crashing through a sheet of drywall. My body reacts on instinct, gulping for air, but I don’t wait for Jordan to regain his footing. I sprint for the elevator and pound my fist against the button, recalling it to this floor. I don’t have the seconds it will take for it to arrive. Standing here waiting for it, I’m like a deer in a meadow on the first day of hunting season.

  I listen for the bell, signaling the elevator’s arrival. I steal a glance behind me to look for Jordan, but I don’t see him. Maybe I hit him harder than I thought. Maybe I knocked him out.

  Then I hear it. The bell—followed by the slow swoosh of the elevator doors sliding open. I jump inside and turn to push the button—any button that will take me down. I look for Jordan again, but still nothing. As the doors start to close, I allow myself to feel a moment of relief. But then, just as the doors are about to seal shut, a hand slips in between them. The doors make contact with it and retreat again. Jordan steps inside, a depraved grin on his face. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out his Colt pistol.

  As he takes aim, his words are clear, “Damn the blood.”

  Without thinking, I throw my full weight against Jordan. My assault surprises him and he teeters off balance just long enough for me to push past him out of the elevator. I run at full speed, darting back and forth between two-by-fours and pipes. Two shots ring out, but I don’t stop until I’ve buried myself deep in the maze of half-built walls and unfinished plumbing. Reaching the far wall of the vast space, I slide down to the floor, gasping for air. I need a moment to breathe, to think, to get my bearings.

  What have I gotten myself into? How could I have been so wrong about Jordan? I berate myself for being so naïve and for thinking all along that Papa was to blame. If I get out of this, I tell myself, I swear I’ll make it up to him—somehow.

  I try to slow my breathing a little, forcing my desperation and panic to subside. I need to think clearly. All I have to do is find some other way down. The stairwell must be around here somewhere.

  Behind me, from the direction of the elevator, Jordan’s voice taunts me. “Mira! Come out, come out wherever you are!”

  I squat on the concrete floor with my back braced against a two-by-four, hoping I’ve put enough space, enough wall frames behind me to block Jordan’s view. I just need some time to figure this out, but time is the one thing I don’t have.

  I listen for his approach but hear nothing. Where the hell is he?

  Scattered all around me is an array of small discarded objects: bent nails, stripped screws, fragments of wire and metal tape. I gingerly pick up a handful of the ones I can reach and weigh them in my palm. I glance to my right, to the vast vertical forest of lumber growing in this cavernous fifth floor. Maybe I’ll take another shot at the elevator. No, I’ll never have enough time to get in before he reaches it. It’s the stairwell or nothing. I peer through the wooden maze and spot a door in the far left corner about twenty yards away. That’s got to be it.

  The absence of sound is maddening. For all I know he might be standing right behind me. He’s near; I can feel it. Any second he’ll see me, if he hasn’t already. I chuck the scrap metal toward the far right wall. The items land with a light clatter. Then there’s the faint scraping sound of footsteps abruptly changing directions, rubbing against the grit on the floor, heading to the right.

  Scrambling on all fours and staying low to the ground, I scurry through the skeletal walls toward the door. Behind me, I hear an angry grunt and a loud clang. He’s thrown something to the floor, a box of tools maybe.

  “I’ve had enough of your games, Mira!” Jordan’s voice is taut with frustration. A moment later, the air all around me comes alive with the music of hundreds of nails colliding with the concrete, the wood, the pipes. Several land on me before dropping to the floor. Next, a white plastic bucket flies past me and hits the wall. It drops with a loud thud and rolls to a stop at my feet.

  “Where are you, Mira?”

  His voice is closer now. I’m on my knees, crawling through the mess of nails around me, not caring how they cut into my hands. Ten yards away, the door beckons to me.

  And then, close enough to hear his breath, I hear—

  “Peek-a-boo! I see you!”

  I spring for the door like a sprinter at the start of a race, but then suddenly, I hit the floor. The impact knocks the wind right out of me. Jordan’s got me by the ankle.

  I look down and see his black-gloved hand wrapped around my leg. His expression is rabid.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Sunshine?” he says, leering at me.

  I don’t think. I just kick as hard as I can with my free foot and hit him square in the nose. I hear the sickening sound of cartilage breaking and feel his grip on me loosen. Lurching forward, I slam my body against the door’s metal bar and throw myself into the stairwell. Getting to my feet, I leap over the first few steps. Then I stumble, half-tripping, half-sliding down the rest.

  On the very last step I feel a sharp stabbing pain as my left ankle twists beneath me. I scream out, but I remain standing. Getting down the next four flights of stairs like this will be impossible. So instead, I pull open the door on this landing, the fourth floor of the Rawley Wing, and slip inside.

  As I step through the door, lights flicker on in succession overhead illuminating a massive warehouse-sized laboratory. Stacks of crates and wooden pallets occupy the wall beside the door. Also nearby are several large cardboard boxes marked with colored labels and words that are foreign to me. Certain that Jordan will come looking for me, I push my weight against the pallets and slowly slide them in front of the door, effectively blocking the entrance. Jordan will have to either move them out of the way one at a time, or climb over them to get in. If I’m lucky, he’ll assume I continued down to the first floor and skip the lab altogether. Either way, I’ve bought myself a few extra seconds.

  Turning, I quickly take in the room. In the center are a dozen wide, flat tables decorated with microscopes, computers, and other complicated looking apparatus. The lab’s walls are smooth and white with dark gray tiles on the floor and ceiling. At the far end of the room, near the elevator, are eight or nine blue cylinders reaching from floor to ceiling, each about a foot in diameter. Metal pipes run from each cylinder across the ceiling to the workstations. More pipes extend from the bottoms of the cylinders through the wall behind them. I wonder if these are gas tanks of some kind.

  This is the floor I noticed that day with Jordan, the one with covered windows. From in here I can see that all the windows have been blocked with dark plates to prevent sunlight from entering.

  The light isn’t good
for the specimens.

  The one thing I don’t see in here, however, is specimens, but I don’t really care about that. The only thing that concerns me now is whether or not I can reach the elevator. I lift up my pant leg to inspect my ankle, which is already starting to swell. Suddenly the distance between me and the elevator seems as wide as the Grand Canyon. I could try to hide or look for some way to call for help. Once again I berate myself for leaving my phone at home.

  I decide to search for somewhere to hide, though I know it’s futile. If Jordan does get into the lab he’s sure to find me, unless—

  Maybe I could fool him into thinking I’ve taken the elevator.

  I tear open one of the cardboard boxes. Inside are dozens of smaller white ones. I don’t care what’s inside. I remove two of the boxes, open them, and fling their contents in the direction of the elevator. Dozens of Petri dishes smash against the floor, glass shards scattering everywhere. At the very least, Jordan will have to go to that end of the room to inspect the mess.

  Next…a place to hide.

  There’s a narrow closet door at the back of the lab. I try to open it, but it’s secured by a coded key pad. Time is short, I know, but I punch in something anyway—Rawley. Nothing. I try Gaudium next, and Jordan . . .

  Jordan.

  A thought surfaces from the mess of Jordan’s memories swirling in my brain. My muscles tighten and my jaw clenches. I punch in Sunshine.

  The lock clicks open.

  When I slip inside, a fluorescent light automatically switches on overhead. Surprised, I spin around, searching for a button to turn off the damn light—but then I freeze.

  I’m not in a closet but another room, much smaller than the lab, maybe twenty-feet square. I realize I’ve seen it before in Jordan’s psyche. Glass cabinet fronts line the three walls opposite the door. Above each cabinet is a computer screen with a black background, numbers, and green peaked lines racing across them. And there are sounds—faint beeping sounds coming from the screens.