The ground is suddenly pulled from under him.
The sky is moving.
Please, his heart sinks. Please don’t.
And a wet grunt escapes him as the cadets drop him into the coffin, knocking every wisp of air from his lungs. Upon impact, one of Dylan’s cracked ribs dislodges, scraping at his insides. And his howls of agony become deafening as the cadets slam the lid shut, eradicating all light.
Dylan’s strangled voice, his labored breaths, and even the drumming of his heart bounce off the walls, their echo saturating the tight space.
He prays for an end to his misery—for his body to go into shock, for him to pass out—but his stubborn mind hangs onto consciousness as he splinters from within. And despite his best efforts, he breaks down and starts to sob as they lower him into the ground.
The darkness becomes even darker. The stuffy air becomes thicker, and the inevitability of his doom, bitterly real. Tonight has deteriorated into a waking nightmare, and he doesn’t know what terrifies him more—dying from the pain, or surviving to feel it.
σ
~Today~
Claustrophobia is a state of mind, Dylan repeats to himself within the confines of the trunk. All suffering is a state of mind.
He has survived worse than this. Much worse.
Upon hearing what sounded like a gunshot, he is thrust towards the deep end of the trunk. The squeal of skidding tires fill his ears, his balance shifting as the car swerves from side to side.
Dylan recoils as more gunshots follow, convinced with each blast that the next bullet will be the one that gets him.
But instead, he once again collides with the deep end of the trunk as the car crashes into something.
The whiplash vibrates through his skull, fogging up his mind. But having survived thus far, already feels like a miracle.
His vision is flooded with light as the hood of the trunk is flung open.
A man wearing a black ski-mask reaches in, grabs Dylan by the collar, and drags him closer. He then pulls a syringe containing a blue serum and plunges it into Dylan’s neck.
The prick stings sourly, but the liquid flowing into his veins is sweet and calming. And within seconds, the hauntingly familiar eyes of his captor begin to shift out of focus.
All boundaries blur into abstract patches of color.
All sound is fading away.
Dylan’s muscles relax, and with a heavy body, he sinks into a peaceful abyss.
Chapter 22
Leeway
The dark seems endless like a starless sky. But Neve can barely move an inch in the confines of the dryer. With each breath, her limited supply of oxygen depletes even further, and she’s too afraid to crack the door open. Good luck can only stretch so far, and a part of her is just waiting for an onslaught of bad luck to restore the balance.
She wonders what her mug-shot would look like. What it would be like to have her fingerprints taken. But that’s all assuming the men in her pursuit really were the cops.
There was just something about them. Something about the way they carried themselves. About their demanding attitudes and entitled behavior. They just seemed dirty. The dangerous kind of dirty. The kind that has law-enforcement in its pockets.
But regardless of their true identities, what were they planning on arresting her for? Theft?
The man who took The Fray Theory was treating it like a precious artifact. But the book is far from a priceless antique that needs to be handled with care. It’s practically still a manuscript—with sketches and formulas sprinkled throughout.
So its value can only lie in its content.
Since Neve keeps arriving at dead-ends, she puts her reservations on hold—just for a moment—and decides to look at this whole thing from an entirely new perspective: for argument’s sake, she assumes the theories are not philosophical conjecture. That they’re not science fiction teetering on the verge of being science fact. She assumes that they are, beyond a shadow of a doubt, one-hundred percent true.
And with the shift in her perspective, her mind is inundated with countless peculiar instances that she could never before explain. Things she brushed off, or told herself she was imagining. Subtle things. So subtle and seemingly insignificant that their mention to others sparked little to no interest.
Things like having the feeling that you’re going to run into someone today, and then do. An unfounded rush of stress, which days later you realize coincided with a tragic car accident in a different city. Dreams, déjà vu, and other bizarre experiences alike.
And it suddenly dawns on Neve that she isn’t just privy to the theories, she embodies them. She, Dylan and Romer are living proof that not only do Proxy dimensions exist, but that they’re also accessible.
But even if Neve’s brazen new assumptions have merit, then how come she has never met anyone else with similar abilities? The three of them can’t be the only people in the world who can gain access to their Proxies.
If cross-dimensional Syncing is the next stage in human evolution, why haven’t there been reports of other people with paranormal abilities?
Are they all locked up in madhouses? Paid off? Killed off? That sure would explain why the incident at the cemetery never made the news. It should have at least stirred up some concern amongst the locals.
And nothing.
She was smart to fear those men in black. If they are powerful enough to influence law-enforcement and the media, they’re the last people on earth she’d want to mess with.
She can’t stay here. She needs to get as far away from Dylan’s as she can. Regardless of what Romer said, there is no reason to assume those men won’t return to search the premises a second time.
She gradually increases the pressure on the dryer door, and with a soft click, it swings open, wrinkled clothes spilling out. She shoves the rest of them out and inhales as big a breath as she can manage in her uncomfortable position.
With aching limbs and stiff joints, she cautiously struggles out of the dryer onto all fours.
So far, so good.
With nothing in particular alerting her to trouble, she begins to erase all evidence of her intrusion. She shoves the wrinkled clothes back into the dryer and repositions the hamper back to where she found it.
She listens once more for approaching footsteps, and then walks to the back of the room with her eyes on the rooftop hatch.
From down here, there’s no way to know whether the coast is clear up on the roof. So with a giant leap of faith, she climbs the metal ladder, and carefully unlocks the hatch.
She pushes up against the glass door and ascends very slowly, peeking over the rim in all directions.
They’re gone.
She emerges onto the rooftop and rests the hatch door onto its retaining arm, just in case.
The late afternoon sky is a soft shade of blue, but every breeze that swooshes past lifts her body heat.
Neve keeps low on her way over to the rooftop ledge. Hiding behind it, she scans the balconies and roofs of adjacent buildings, half-expecting a sniper to have her in his crosshairs. But beside a few balcony-dwellers, little else commands her attention.
She diverts her gaze down onto the street below.
The traffic isn’t unusual for this time of day, and the people strike her as the typical Yaletown crowd.
Good, she nods to herself. With so many potential eye-witnesses around, she can cause a big scene if it ever comes to it.
Now or never.
She dashes to the rooftop exit and bursts through the door, ready to fly down the stairwell. But before taking the first step, a man’s hand clasps onto her mouth and pulls her back behind the door.
Darkness swallows the space as the door swings shut. Pinned to her captor, Neve kicks and screams into his hand, trying to rip his grip from her waist.
But it’s no use. He’s too strong.
She goes to grab Dylan’s blade from her pocket, but the numbness overtaking her is making it nearly impossible to mo
ve. Numbness that’s paving the way for the peppery sensation of pins and needles.
It’s happening again—an encore of the cemetery.
Her captor seems to be saying something, but she can’t hear him over her chaotic thoughts—over the dissonant voices of her Proxies.
It’s like listening to white noise.
To nothing.
And then, she hears her name as though from the bottom of the ocean.
A man’s voice. A familiar voice.
The excruciating prickliness is slowly waning, the thoughts in her head are fading, and the voice of the man speaking in her ear is becoming clearer.
Closer.
Neve’s eyes flicker open, and from the corner of her vision, she catches a glimpse of a swatch of gold.
The grip on her mouth softens, and as she turns her head, a lock of silky blonde hair brushes against her cheek.
Romer.
Chapter 23
Full Circle
On her way down the stairwell, all Neve can think of is Dylan, and whether or not he’s okay. Because if anything were to happen to him, she’d never be able to live with herself.
With Romer a couple of steps ahead, they reach the bottom of the stairwell.
Romer walks up to the door and pushes onto it, scanning the surroundings through the narrow gap.
“Are you sure you weren’t tailed?” Neve whispers, then follows him out into the building’s side alley.
“They were too busy tossing my shop,” he looks over his shoulder down the alley, and then turns to Neve. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”
“I will,” she nods. “Once we’re safe.”
Romer exhales a frustrated sigh through his nose.
“Fine. Come on,” he turns and starts towards the laneway lining the back of the building.
Neve follows suit with a surprising degree of faith in his judgement. If he was able to sneak in and out of Dylan’s building without being noticed, then it’s probably safe to assume he knows what he’s doing.
Nearing the end, Romer slows down and inches towards the edge of the wall.
“So, what’s the plan?” she asks as Romer sneaks a peek down both sides of the laneway.
“First, we need to find somewhere to hide.”
Great. As long as it’s not inside a home appliance. “What are our options?” she asks.
Romer licks his lower lip, deep in thought. “We really should call his dad.”
He’s right, Neve thinks. It’s naïve of her to have assumed that because Dylan was ‘arrested’, he would be entitled to a phone call.
“Okay,” she nods as Romer pops the battery back into his phone. “But make it quick.”
“Yep,” Romer turns his phone back on, but instead of pulling up his contacts, he opens his browser.
“What are you doing?” Neve asks.
“I don’t have his dad’s number,” he says as though stating the obvious.
Right. Why would he?
Neve glances behind her towards the main street, wondering if it would be safer for them to be out in the open.
She turns to run the idea by Romer, and catches a glimpse of his screen as he inputs in the search bar.
“Um—why are you typing that?”
“Typing what?”
“Marcus Holt.”
“Because that’s—his name?” he looks up at Neve, a confused frown twisting his brows.
Copper beard. Pale skin. GQ style.
Neve banishes the thought. Especially since—
“No. No, Dylan’s last name is Sterling,” she objects.
Romer rolls his eyes.
“Sterling is his mother’s last name,” he says, and then drops his gaze back onto his phone, mouthing ‘typical Dylan’.
Tongue-tied. Dumb-struck. Nauseous.
“Why?” she asks. “Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. Calm your tits.”
She stares at Romer, at a complete loss for words. The thought of Dylan and Holt sharing blood—
“Look—don’t take it personal,” Romer says.
“Personal?” she asks, still reeling from the shock.
“It’s just his way of honoring his mom’s memory.”
Neve says nothing.
“She died giving birth to him—”
“Yeah—I know,” she interrupts, shaking her head out of frustration.
“The hell is wrong with you?” Romer frowns.
“Nothing—” she says a bit too hastily. “Nothing. I just didn’t know. About his dad, I mean. Dylan never introduced us.”
“Then he really does love you, ‘cause his dad is a raging asshole.”
Neve sinks into thought.
Holt is a raging asshole, no doubt about it. But she always felt like he has some sort of vendetta against her—as though his distaste for her was personal.
Is it because of Dylan? But that would mean Holt has known about her long before she became one of his students. As far back as three years ago, when she and Dylan were in the thick of it.
Oh God…
Neve closes her eyes, but the humiliating reality of her situation is practically burnt in her mind: Holt must’ve been laughing up a storm in his head when she lied about living with her boyfriend in the condo they own.
The condo Holt owns.
“LOAD, BITCH!” Romer barks at his phone.
Neve jolts at his eruption, and then the futility of what they’re trying to do starts to sink in.
“Turn it off,” she says. “It’s been too long.”
“Let me try one more time.”
“Forget about Holt. It’s Galen we need.”
σ
Neve follows Romer through a network of laneways and alleys—through the tight capillaries of the city’s circulation. And in no time, she is back in the same walkway she emerged into from Galen’s building.
“Now what?” Romer asks as they reach the same door Neve burst through mere hours ago.
“Guess we’re going to have to wait for someone to leave.”
“That’s your plan?”
“What? You said it’s risky to be out in the open. If we’re not going to press his buzzer, and we can’t call him, this is pretty much our only option.”
“Or is it..?” Romer turns his head with a broad and boyish grin, then reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out a Swiss Army Knife.”
“Um, what are you doing?” Neve asks as he kneels down in front of the exit.
“I’m going to carve ‘Neve & Dylan 4 ever’ on the door,” he fans out the knife and starts to size up his options. “Inside of a heart.”
“Romer, if we’re caught breaking in—”
“Relax…” he slips a wavy metal extension into the keyhole. “I got this.”
“I think I still have Galen’s number stored on my phone.”
“No—” Romer dismisses with a small shake of his head. “All things electronic tend to leave a trace. Last thing we want is to drag more people into this.”
He peeks into the keyhole, twists his wrist up and a bit to the side, and then Neve hears a soft click.
“Boom.”
σ
Neve and Romer run up the stairwell to Galen’s floor, but upon entering the hallway, Romer’s hand springs up against Neve’s belly, holding her back.
The front door to Galen’s unit is ajar, but there is no indication of people coming or going.
Romer draws out his knife’s top blade. It’s short and fat, but seems to be sharp enough to inflict some serious damage.
He sets out towards Galen’s unit with his weapon gripped firmly in his fist. And although Neve knows he’d disapprove, she follows him nonetheless.
He peeks into the loft, and then his hand flies up again, holding Neve back at arm’s length.
“What is it?” she whispers.
“Head back into the stairwell,” he whispers back. “Wait for me there.”
“What ar
e you going to do?”
“Can you please just do as I say?” he turns to Neve with an agitated glare.
Though Neve can’t see into Galen’s unit, the alarm registered on Romer’s face ignites her anxiety.
She shifts her weight back onto the balls of her feet, but can’t bring herself to walk away from him.
“I’ll wait for you here,” she says.
Romer parts his lips to say something—to object, most likely—but instead, he just stares at Neve, his wide gaze darting between her eyes.
Before Neve can break the silence, Romer huffs an agitated sigh and sneaks another glance into Galen’s loft. “You still got D’s switchblade?”
“Yeah,” she nods, her frown deepening. “Why?”
Chapter 24
Entropy
Leaving Neve behind in the hallway, Romer cautiously enters Galen’s loft. The place is completely ransacked. All the furniture has been gutted, the stuffing spewing out like entrails of road-kill. Tables have been flipped over, drawers, boxes, and containers have been purged of their contents, and broken pieces of antique artifacts are scattered all over the floor.
This was not a burglary.
The culprits must’ve been looking for something specific. Could it have been the book Neve said the cops took from Dylan’s?
But this doesn’t look like a police raid either. If it was, the place would’ve been sealed off.
Neither a burglary, nor a raid. And yet, it is both.
Stepping over and around the ravaged remains, Romer crosses the living area and enters the kitchen in the back.
It’s more or less in the same shape as the rest of the loft. And there’s still no sign of Galen.
Was he even here when all of this happened?
Romer retracts his steps to be on his way, but a small noise draws his attention towards the far end of the kitchen.
Is it Galen? Is he in hiding?
Romer cautiously approaches what he assumes to be the pantry, tiptoeing around the broken shards of glass and porcelain. He tightens his grip on his knife, just in case his hunch proves to be horribly wrong.