Then he left me and Tristen alone—really alone—for the first time since we’d been in Tristen’s bedroom kissing and confessing.
And the first thing Tristen did was lock the door from the inside, sealing us in the room.
Chapter 70
Jill
“TRISTEN?”
“Just being cautious, Jill,” he said, rejoining me at our station.
My heart crept into my throat. “You think your dad . . . ?”
“I doubt he’d come here,” Tristen reassured me. “He could easily kill me as I sleep in the house if he wanted. But I have a responsibility to look out for you.”
I didn’t know what to say to any of that, so I picked up Dr. Jekyll’s notes to start working again. “We’re on the experiment dated February eleventh. He starts with the base formula then adds two grams of magnesium.” I lowered the papers and ventured cautiously, “But maybe, since we’re alone, we should, um . . . jump ahead?”
Tristen measured out some magnesium and added it to the acidic mixture, then looked to me, eyebrows arched. “You mean . . . ?”
“Test the real formula, the final formula, on a rat. To see if it works.”
I got nervous as I suggested that, because a terrible little part of me was thinking, You could show me where you’ve been hiding your portion of the formula . . . Maybe I could steal just a little more if you turned your back . . .
But Tristen silenced that traitorous small voice by advising me, “I’ve already done that, Jill. And documented the results.”
I dropped the notes, and they fluttered to the desk. “What? When?” Without me?
“I came to school late last night and fed about an ounce to a rat,” he said. “You’ll be happy to know that the experiment was a complete success.”
I realized then that he had stopped mixing the latest solution and was holding out his hand. Looking down, I noticed that his fingers were covered with small, but angry-looking, red marks. Some had scabbed over. I met his eyes again, seeking explanation. “Tristen?”
“The animal went from docile to berserk,” he explained. “I have it all on video, so we can show it at the presentation.”
I shook my head, not believing him. “You’re kidding . . .”
But Tristen wasn’t smiling. “No. I’m very serious.”
“We should repeat the experiment,” I said, getting excited. We were on the brink of winning thirty thousand dollars. And we’d be working with the real formula . . . “If we keep getting the same result, we could do it on stage at the presentation!”
“No.” Tristen was firm, his jaw set. “I won’t do it again. And you don’t want to see what happens.”
“But—”
“No!” he insisted. He rubbed the back of his neck with his scratched-up hand and averted his eyes. “I had to put the rat down, Jill. It was attacking the others. I hated doing it, but I had to.”
Tristen was so obviously pained over killing the animal—or maybe admitting it to me—that I forgot my excitement.
“I—I understand,” I said, forcing myself not to imagine how he’d ended the rat’s life. I didn’t want to picture Tristen killing again, maybe snapping an animal’s neck with his bare hands, even to spare the other rats. Still, I glanced at his hands, his now literally bloodstained hands, and realized that the crude bandage on his wrist was getting really ragged. Without thinking, forgetting that we no longer touched each other, I reached for his arm. “I can fix that for you.”
He pulled away. “No. It’s fine.”
I grabbed for him again. “Tristen, just let me . . .”
When my fingers wrapped around his wrist, I felt something narrow and hard under the torn shirt, and I looked up at him, confused. “Tristen?”
“Let go, Jill,” he said, pulling back.
But I didn’t. I held on to him. “What is that?”
He yanked free of me. “That, Jill, is my best hope against the thing that is coming for me.”
I suspected then that Tristen was carrying a knife, and the thought made me sick. Only suddenly I wasn’t disgusted just because he might use it to kill again. As I looked at his brave, determined face, I was mostly terrified because the weapon seemed way too small to do any good against an enemy—especially one that had already shown such ruthless power.
“Tristen,” I said, all of the weak defenses I’d raised against him melting away, “did your father really say that he’ll hurt you again? You never told me what happened that night.”
He gave a short, rueful laugh. “No, you ran out, horrified by me, before I could tell you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” Tristen said with a shrug. He resumed mixing the solution, avoiding looking at me. “But to answer your question: yes, the beast that controls my father, completely now, vowed to return, and if I haven’t drunk the formula and restored disorder to the Hyde family, he will kill me.”
I had sort of pieced all that together, but to hear him say it out loud . . . I got hot and nauseous. I was petrified for him. And how could I have played around with the formula? “Do you know where your father is?”
“No.” Tristen finally met my eyes. “That phone call, when we were in bed . . .”
He said that casually, like that didn’t matter, either. And maybe it didn’t to him anymore. That made me sick, too.
“That was Dad’s department head, asking why he’d stopped coming to the university.” He tapped the stirring rod against the glass beaker, frowning even more deeply. “He doesn’t still see your mother, does he?”
“No,” I said. Not professionally. “The treatment’s over.”
“Good,” he said.
“Tristen?”
“Yes?”
I found myself staring at the spot where Tristen’s bandage bulged just slightly. “Will you be able to fight your dad to . . . ?” The end. That’s what I meant.
As always, Tristen was able to finish my thoughts. “I’ll do what I need to do, Jill,” he said. He stared into my eyes, and I saw the same resolution I’d seen just before he’d drunk the formula, convinced that he was committing suicide. “When the time comes, I will do what I need to do.”
“Tristen . . .” But what could I say?
“Let’s keep working,” he said, picking up an eyedropper. “Although we know how this story ends, we’ll want to show the judges that we followed Dr. Jekyll’s notes from start to finish.”
“Sure.”
But I didn’t move to help him. I just watched, sad and confused, as Tristen . . . doomed Tristen . . . bent and chose a rat from one of the cages, cradling it in the crook of his arm. “This won’t taste good,” he warned, raising the dropper to its mouth.
The rat squirmed, and Tristen spoke softly, “Come now. I don’t like doing this, either, but it’s in the interest of science and a scholarship—for the greater good.”
He managed to squeeze a few drops into the rat’s mouth before it writhed out of his hand, tumbling back into the cage. “Poor thing,” Tristen said, watching it run in circles. “I hope it’s not in pain.”
Poor, poor thing . . .
I didn’t know what came over me, but I started to cry then, and I moved close to Tristen and wrapped my arms around him, comforting myself and hoping that I comforted him a little, too. At first he stood rigidly, not accepting my embrace, but as I held him, I felt his muscles start to relax, and soon he wrapped his arms around me, cradling me against his chest, rubbing his cheek against the top of my head, soothing me, too. “It’s okay, Jill,” he promised. “Don’t cry for me.”
But I wasn’t crying just for him. I was crying for me, too. I was crying for us.
“Oh, Jill,” Tristen said, raising my face to his. “What am I going to do with you?”
I studied his warm, wonderful brown eyes, knowing what I wanted him to do. I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted him to tell me that he still loved me. Because I knew that he had. We’d both been close to saying it, that day
in Tristen’s bed . . .
He bent closer to me, resting his forehead against mine and closing his eyes, and I raised up on my tiptoes, thinking that I couldn’t wait one more second for him to kiss me. I would kiss him.
But before my lips could meet his, we both heard a sound and jerked apart, staring at the door as the knob twisted from outside.
Chapter 71
Jill
TRISTEN AND I stood locked together, eyes fixed on the twisting, rattling knob. “Tristen,” I whispered, fighting down fear, “who do you think—”
“Shhh, Jill,” he hushed me. “Quiet.”
My heart raced, but his remained steady. “It could be a custodian,” he suggested. “Or Darcy, returning.”
“A custodian would have keys, and Darcy would knock.” My eyes were locked on the knob, which rattled harder.
“True.” Tristen gently pried away from me—and removed the knife from its makeshift sheath. The blade, when he flicked it open, was thin, but looked reassuringly vicious.
The door began to shake—and then we heard a deep, growling, voice. “Tristen! Let me in!”
My entire body seemed to freeze at that terrible sound. It was Dr. Hyde’s voice—and yet not his voice at all. I edged closer to Tristen, terrified. “Tristen . . .”
He clasped my wrist with his free hand and began tugging. “Come on.”
I allowed myself to be dragged along, eyes darting around the room for a hiding place, although I knew hiding would be futile. “Where are we going?”
“You are leaving,” Tristen whispered, dropping the knife and raising a window.
“Not without you,” I objected, wriggling as he wrapped one arm around my waist, lifting me.
“Jill, stop fighting and go!”
I twisted against him. “Not without you!”
Across the room the door rattled on its hinges, and that terrible voice roared out Tristen’s name, summoning him. “Open this door now, son!”
“Jill.” Tristen spun me around to face himself. “This is inevitable for me. Allow it to happen.”
“Not tonight.” I shook my head. “I won’t go without you.”
We stayed deadlocked for just one more second, and then, just as the door shuddered again, struck from outside by a beast whose rage was palpable, Tristen agreed. He didn’t say anything, but somehow we both understood that we would go together.
“Run, Jill,” he said, pushing me out the window. I watched from outside as he snatched up the old notes, crammed them in the box, grabbed the knife, and followed, dropping to the ground and clasping my hand in his. “Just run.”
Tristen was one of the best runners in the state, and it seemed like I borrowed some of his power as we tore away from the school and into the darkness. I felt like we were both flying, like nothing could catch us, not even a monster as strong as the one I feared was on our heels.
But thinking back, I’m sure that Tristen slowed his pace to match mine.
That seemed like something Tristen Hyde would do, even if it put his own life at risk.
Chapter 72
Jill
“ARE YOU GOING TO BE OKAY?” Tristen asked, standing in the shadows behind my house.
“Yes,” I said. “Mom’s home tonight. I’ll be safe.”
“I’ll stay until you get inside. Then lock the door behind you.”
I started to step up onto the back porch. “Tristen . . . you’re not going back, are you?”
“No, Jill,” he promised. “He wouldn’t be there, anyway.”
“You could come inside.”
Tristen shook his head and shifted the box under his arm. “No. I’ll hide this and go home.”
“Home? But—”
“It’s too cold to sleep outside.” Tristen attempted a joke. “And I think, now, that he doesn’t plan to confront me in our house, anyhow.”
“Why,” I wondered aloud, “do you think he came to the school?”
“I’m sure he’s watching me, knows what we’re doing, and hoped to find me with the formula,” he said. “For, more than killing me, he wants me to drink and continue our legacy.”
A spark of hope flickered inside of me. “What if you did it?” I ventured. “You could always drink it and buy time, with the intention of changing back . . .”
But he was already shaking his head. “No. It’s too risky. Who knows what I might do under its influence?” He paused, and I could hear the reluctance in his voice as he added, “You know that my father likely killed yours, over the formula?”
I stood in silence, letting Tristen’s words sink in. And yet I knew that I wasn’t as shocked as I should have been by the suggestion.
Had a part of me guessed that Dr. Hyde was involved in Dad’s death? Had I pushed the clues and coincidences out of my mind as Mom had healed under his care—and as I’d come to love Tristen? Because to love the son of my father’s killer would be so wrong . . .
“I’m sorry,” Tristen said, hanging his head, like he really did share responsibility for Dr. Hyde’s crime.
“I wonder,” I mused with a bit of my old foolish hope for Dad’s redemption, “if maybe my dad was trying to help yours.”
“Yes, I believe so,” he said, looking at me again. “I found an unfinished document on my father’s computer in which he discussed working with an anonymous collaborator on a cure for the madness that he knew was overtaking him.”
My heart started to race. “My dad?”
“Yes,” he confirmed. “Our fathers were also excited about broader possibilities for the formula if they perfected it. They saw implications for opening whole new avenues of study in personality manipulation and social control.”
“You never told me that,” I said, stunned. “Why not?”
His brown eyes clouded with remorse. “I couldn’t bring myself to tell you. How could you look at me again, knowing what my father likely did to yours?” He gave a rueful laugh. “Not that my own sins weren’t enough to drive you away.”
A part of me still hadn’t accepted, or absolved, Tristen for killing. A part of me also knew that it was terrible to love the son of my dad’s murderer. But I loved him anyhow. “Forget that,” I urged. “You aren’t a monster—and we aren’t our parents. I don’t blame you for your father’s actions.”
“I think your dad really believed that he would restore your college fund and then some,” he added. “They had very high hopes for professional—and by extension, financial—gain.”
A huge lump grew in my throat. Tristen had largely just vindicated my father, like I’d hoped for. And yet Dad was still gone, Tristen’s father was maybe worse than dead, and Tristen and I . . . the future didn’t look good for us, either.
“Go inside, Jill,” he finally said. “I’ll be fine tonight.”
Tonight. But not for long.
I hesitated, one foot still on the step. “Tristen?”
“Yes?” He stepped closer and raised his hand, brushing my stray lock of hair behind my ear. “What is it?”
I caught his hand in mine and laced our fingers, squeezing our palms together. Although it was very dark, I saw what I wanted to see in his eyes. “Come over tomorrow night,” I offered. “You need something decent to eat, and you could rest.” I felt myself blush as I added, “Mom will be at the hospital almost all night . . .”
He hesitated. “I don’t know, Jill. It might not be safe for you.”
No. It wouldn’t be safe. Being with Tristen would be the riskiest thing I’d ever done, for my body and my soul and especially my heart, which would be shattered if anything really happened to him. But I was convinced that being with Tristen Hyde would be right. “Just come,” I said, rising on tiptoes to kiss his lips lightly. “For me.”
“Okay,” he agreed.
He waited while I went inside and locked the door behind me. Then I watched from a window while he disappeared into the night, praying that he hadn’t lied about going back to the school.
Chapter 73
&
nbsp; Jill
“JILL, I’M GOING TO WORK,” Mom said, poking her head into my room. “Don’t stay up too late painting, okay?”
“I won’t,” I promised, checking the clock. Tristen would arrive in about a half hour. “I’m wrapping up soon.”
She stepped into the room, joining me at my easel. She stared first at the painting and then at me, seeming confused. “I thought this portrait was due soon.”
“I’ll finish in time,” I said, with more conviction than I felt.
“You’d better add some eyes!” Mom teased with a grin. She was subtly pressuring me to finish my assignment, but I didn’t mind. I was just glad for the genuine smile.
“Do I ever let you down?” I asked—and pushed away a twinge of guilt. Mom would be very disappointed if she knew what I planned to do with Tristen that night. But we had to be together. It was like I didn’t have a choice. I checked the time again. “You should probably get going, huh?”
“Yes,” she agreed, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “Have a good night.”
I would. I definitely would. “You, too.”
I listened as she got her coat and keys, and when the back door shut behind her, I abandoned painting, too nervous and excited to work.
Was I ready?
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Did I look okay?
I straightened my back, checking myself in profile, then went to my dresser and reached into my drawer, feeling for the black bra, thinking that I would look better in that and that a guy would like it. But when my fingers touched the silky fabric I hesitated. I hadn’t chosen it, stolen it . . .
I shoved the bra farther back, thinking it felt tainted somehow, and wrong for the night I wanted to have. As wrong as the formula, which was also hidden in there.
I didn’t need that either, right?
But I could keep it in my nightstand, just in case I got nervous . . .