“And maybe bug her house in the process?”
“Maybe,” Megan agrees. “Which is how they knew that it didn’t work.”
“And why they were still following her that night.”
“Conveniently.”
“Too conveniently,” I mutter.
“Then there’s a crash, either accidental or intentional,” Megan continues piecing it together. “If it was accidental, then the agents jumped on the chance; if it was intentional, then—”
“The program is jacked up.”
“Yes,” Megan says. “Okay, so either way, what, the agents go to Nora’s parents like they did with the bus kids and say that we’ll try to bring her back if you agree to a relo?”
“And they agree, but they decide to lie to Nora about why they’re really there?”
“But they didn’t make up that story on their own,” Megan says. “The agents had to have fed it to them.”
“Why not just tell them about the program, now that they’re in it?” I ask.
“That’s the million-dollar question,” Megan says. “Maybe they were still concerned that Nora would tell, so they didn’t fully pull back the curtain. Maybe they are keeping them in the dark, forcing them to lie to Nora so she’s really in the dark and can’t do more damage.”
Neither of us speaks for a few moments as we collect our thoughts.
“I guess it works,” I say. “I guess I understand why they’d want to keep Nora clueless. But I still feel sorry for her. Unlike us, she has no network.”
“Except you, her fellow wit-pro buddy.” Megan laughs.
“Funny,” I say without laughing.
“Stop obsessing,” Megan says.
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are,” she says. “You want to know whether it was an accident or not.”
“Don’t you?”
“Honestly? Not really. I already think the program is a little dark side as it is; I don’t need to be spooked about killer agents.”
“Dark side?”
“Of course, Daisy,” Megan says. “You know it better than anyone.”
“I know,” I say. I guess I am obsessing.
“All I’m saying is that if you decide to go digging in the cemetery,” Megan says, “be careful.”
Casually, over bacon-wrapped meat loaf and garlic mashed potatoes, I ask Mason what ended up happening with Nora. He looks at me funny at first, then remembers what I’m talking about.
“Oh, nothing,” he says, setting down his fork and taking a drink of water. “If I remember correctly, the briefing said that she let it go, so we did, too. The agents were pulled out and reassigned.”
“Oh,” I say, pushing my food around on my plate with my fork.
“Sorry I forgot to circle back on that one,” Mason says.
“No problem,” I say as lightly as I can, knowing that even though Megan’s not up for digging, I’m going to need a shovel.
thirty-five
Matt comes back to school on a Thursday.
I only find out he’s coming back when he walks through the door to our English classroom. It stings a bit that he didn’t tell me—that he didn’t want to ride together or meet up before class—but I knew things would be different.
I just hope they’re not different forever.
In the halls, people look from me to Matt and back again with funny expressions that I can’t read. It feels like we broke up even though we were never official, except that when we catch each other’s eyes, we talk without speaking.
I wish they’d stop staring.
Everything’s going to be okay.
I still care about you.
We’re only a few feet apart, but there’s a wall between us, both of us unable to deal with the enormity of our feelings toward each other right now. Somehow I know that eventually we’ll fall back into step, so the pain is the low hum of detachment rather than the screaming stab of the end.
I try to busy myself with other things, namely Nora.
After Matt’s first day back, I call her like I have three other nights this week, but I need it more this time. We chat about school, she buzzes about boys. It’s like we’re old friends, except that we aren’t. Not really. Talking with Nora makes me miss my real friends. Megan. Matt.
Audrey.
When it approaches bedtime, I decide to try again on the whole accident thing.
“A girl at my school got into a car accident,” I lie. “She said it was the scariest thing that’s ever happened to her.”
“I can relate,” Nora says. “I thought I was going to die.”
“You did?”
“Of course,” Nora says. “I was already creeped out by the dark road—the streetlamps were out in a couple of places because there was an electrical storm earlier in the day. Then when the truck came around the bend with its high beams on, I got this sinking feeling, like I knew it was going to swerve into my lane before it actually lost control.”
I hold my breath; this is more than she’s shared in any of our conversations. I don’t want to call attention to her story by speaking, in the hope that she’ll keep going. For now, it works.
“I cranked the wheel to get out of the truck’s way. Half of my car went off the pavement onto the gravel, so when I braked, the loose, wet gravel sort of grabbed the car and pulled it more off the road, but my wheel was still turned so the car…” Pause. “It flipped.”
“Oh, Nora,” I say quietly. “That’s horrible.”
“Yeah,” she says.
I get the sense that she’s going to change the subject, so I ask a question to stay on topic.
“What was it like?” I ask, cringing for making her relive it.
There’s another pause, when I wonder if I’ve pushed too hard. But then…
“Loud,” she says. “It happened really quickly, but I remember it like I was in slow motion. I had this CD case on the seat next to me, and I remember watching it float around the car like there was no gravity or something. My water spilled all over me. I hit my head, but I didn’t feel any pain. Then the car landed upside down. I was still strapped in, so I was just hanging there. Bleeding.”
“That must have been so insanely terrifying,” I say honestly. “I mean, to be out there all by yourself, thinking you’re going to die.”
“Except that I wasn’t by myself,” Nora says. “I saw the truck driver before I passed out. He was the Good Samaritan. He walked in front of my headlights, and then crouched down next to my window. It was open because all the glass was broken.”
“And he pulled you out?”
“Yes,” Nora says. “But not right away. At first he checked on me. Then he called someone.”
“Nine-one-one?”
“I guess, but it sounded more like a normal conversation. Maybe he was asking a friend what to do. I’m sure he didn’t know whether he should move me or not.”
“I’m sure,” I echo, wanting to shake her for being so clueless. “What did he look like?” I ask, channeling Mason and Cassie.
“Uh…” Nora says, warily. “Just normal,” she says, and I don’t press it. In fact, I don’t say anything at all. “Anyway, then he came back over and said, ‘Help is coming,’ and I passed out a couple seconds after that.”
It hits me again that Nora doesn’t know she died.
“Wow,” I say, because it seems safe.
Nora’s quiet, except I can hear her inhale and exhale like she’s breathing through the trauma. Finally, she laughs a little.
“What’s funny?” I ask.
“It’s just weird what you remember.”
“Like what?”
“Like the guy,” Nora says. “It’s mean, because he saved me and all, but he reminded me a little of Daffy Duck.”
“Huh?” I ask. “He looked like a duck?”
“No,” Nora clarifies. “He reminded me of him. It was his voice. He had a lisp. It wasn’t as pronounced as Daffy’s, but…”
Nora keeps talking a
bout cartoon characters, but I don’t hear her. I’m lost in thought, time-traveling back to when we first came to Omaha and I visited the aquarium. I remember the unsettling stranger who talked to me and then disappeared.
The otherwise nondescript stranger with a lisp.
Even though lisps are incredibly common, I feel it in my bones that this is more than a coincidence. But why would the same agent who was there to Revive Nora—who possibly caused her death—be at the aquarium? And why would an agent be so covert while speaking with me? We’re one big network, all working together. Everyone knows one another. Everyone except…
The hairs on my arms stand up; a shiver dances down my spine.
“Are you there, Daisy?” Nora asks.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’ve got to go.”
I end the call before she says goodbye, and then I sit in shock.
Finally, because I’ve got to tell someone, I dial Megan. The second she picks up, before she has the chance to say anything, I spill.
“Megs,” I say, fear in my voice, “I’m pretty sure I saw God.”
The floorboards creak outside my door and I stop talking for a minute to listen. When no one comes in, I continue in a whisper.
“Even though Nora hasn’t confirmed that someone had her killed, I know it’s true,” I say. “And that is just… off-the-rails crazy. And then they hid her, but didn’t tell her about the program, and now they’re Reviving new Converts? It’s all too much. If this is how things are going, I’m even more worried about Matt. I’m going to pull together notes on everything I know and share them with Mason tomorrow,” I say. “He’ll know what to do.”
“I think it’s the right move,” Megan says. “You’re taking control.”
“Love you, Megs,” I say.
“Love you more.”
When I finally go to bed, I imagine Matt’s car being driven off the road and have to shake my head to fight off the thought. I toss and turn for hours, thinking of one gruesome scenario after another. I lie on my left side and the thoughts are there. I switch to my right—no escape.
Finally, I force myself to remember that Matt isn’t Nora: He won’t tell.
Then again, I think as I flip to my stomach, it seems that God paid me a visit, so maybe he’s watching me. And if he’s watching, then maybe he already knows, anyway.
thirty-six
In the morning, anxiety slams into me. Then I think of Audrey singing to Matt and me at the breakfast table and I smile. I climb out of bed, shower, and go to find Mason before school.
Unfortunately, he and Cassie are on their way out.
“We need supplies,” he says. “We’re headed to the store. Want to come?”
“Not really,” I admit.
“I’ll let you drive,” he offers.
“Sold.”
Cassie sits in the back and I buckle into the driver’s seat. I’ve only had two lessons, but I have my learner’s permit now, so I sort of know what I’m doing. Even so, easing the tank out of the driveway is no easy task: I run over a patch of yard in the process.
I do better on the main roads, and somehow I manage to get us to the supermarket in one piece. Mason and Cassie put on parent faces as we walk inside, and I bounce along after them, giddy from driving.
The store is unusually busy and the lines are so long that I start to worry that I’ll be late for school. We split up to shop and manage to do it pretty quickly. Then, even though we’re pressed for time and it would be faster if Mason drove back to the house, I don’t pass up the opportunity to pilot the return trip, too.
More confident this time, I have no trouble at all, not even with the sharp turn onto our street. But just when I blinker to pull into the driveway, Mason’s hand flies to my knee.
“Stop,” he commands.
“What?” I say, slamming on the brakes. I look at the street in front of me and behind. I’m afraid I’ve run over something or someone.
“Shh,” he hisses.
Confused, I look at Mason’s face. And that’s when I want to scream.
Mason is a different person, one I’ve never seen before. Every muscle in his body is tense. His eyes are narrow, piercing. His jaw is clenched. And even though I didn’t see him grab it—didn’t know he had it on him—he’s holding his gun.
“Back down the street,” Mason says. Suddenly, I can’t remember how to put the car in reverse. I fumble with a few things before Cassie pops up from the backseat and pulls the gearshift down to R. Slowly, I manage to creep backward a few dozen feet away from the house.
“I’ll go,” Cassie says to Mason. “You stay with her.”
“No, I’ll do it,” Mason says. “Drive away. Check in ten.”
Cassie nods once.
In seconds, Mason is inside the house, I’m ducked down in the back, and Cassie is driving a little too fast for residential streets. Only when I peek out the window at the house as we’re speeding away do I realize what freaked Mason out in the first place.
The front door is wide open.
thirty-seven
“Are we moving here?”
“No, it’s just a safe house,” Mason says.
I’m standing in a dirty living room in Hayes, Texas, frowning at my surroundings in disbelief. I feel like I was teleported here when, really, it took thirteen hours by car. And still, I know nothing. Mason and Cassie were engrossed in their too-quiet conversation or calls from other Disciples the whole way. And with no one to talk to, the weight of too many nights with too little sleep got to me. The only scenery I saw was the backs of my closed eyelids.
“Why would God tell us to come here?” I ask, feeling the need to cough because of the thick layer of dust in the house.
“He didn’t,” Mason admits. I spin around. Cassie glances up from her tiny computer, then looks down again.
“Mason, what are we doing here?” I ask, starting to get anxious.
“We’re retreating into the shadows,” Mason says. “We’re not sure what happened today—who broke in and why they did it—so we’re taking a step back for a while. We’re going to watch and wait.”
“But… didn’t that directive come from God?”
“No, it came from me,” Mason says, standing tall. “God is acting out of character lately. We don’t know who broke in. It could have been him.”
“WHAT?” I ask. “You think God broke in to our house?”
“It’s possible,” Mason says. “But it’s just as possible that someone completely unassociated with the program did it. That’s why we’re stepping back.”
“And watching,” I say.
“Yes.”
It reminds me of the approach God recommended for Nora. Even if Mason doesn’t, I know how well that worked out.
“So, how are we watching?” I ask.
“Several ways,” Mason says as he removes his computer from its case. “James and David are flying to Omaha as we speak to do a sweep for bugging devices and to conduct a more thorough check for missing items. As you know, I was in a bit of a rush.”
“Speaking of which, where’s my book bag?” I ask. “You got it, right?”
My notes on Case 22 are in my backpack, tucked inside my math textbook.
“I’m sorry, Daisy—I only packed your clothes and your computer. I didn’t get your schoolwork.”
I shake my head at him. “Will you ask someone to send it overnight?”
“You want a government agent to FedEx your backpack?” Mason asks, a smirk on his face.
“Yes,” I say flatly.
“Maybe,” he replies. “We’ll see if one of them can get it out.”
Instead of making a snide remark, I change the subject. “How long are we staying here?” I ask.
“A week,” Mason says. “Probably no more.”
“Probably?” I ask. “What about school? I’ll be held back for all I’ve missed between Audrey and this.” The mention of Audrey’s name slugs me in the side.
Mason pauses and eyes me in
a way that makes me nervous. He shifts his shoulders so he’s fully facing me; his expression is somber but sympathetic. It’s the mask you’d wear while breaking the news about Santa’s existence to a hopeful child. I half expect him to crouch down to eye level.
“I wanted to talk to you about that,” he says quietly. And then, he deals me yet another of many blows today: “We’re thinking of homeschooling you for a while.”
Instantly on fire, I open my mouth to protest, but Mason’s phone rings again. He holds up his left index finger—just a minute—while he answers with his right hand. Deflated, I blow out my air and run both hands through my hair, pausing in the middle of the movement to consider ripping some out. I look at Cassie, who’s still typing away. Then I look at Mason, who, seemingly energized by his conversation, is talking loudly, offering opinions, and arguing with animated gestures that the person on the other end of the line can’t even see.
And me?
I stand here in the middle of a strange living room, wishing I could go back two months and start all over again in Omaha.
But would I be able to change anything at all?
When he feels me staring at him, Mason covers the phone with his hand and whispers to me.
“Go start getting settled,” he says. “It’s only temporary, but you can still arrange the bedroom how you like.”
He winks at me then, like this is some big joke. It only makes me more irate; there’s no one to listen to how I feel about homeschooling or safe houses or any of the rest. I storm out of the room. And as I walk down the hallway in search of a bedroom, the kind of pissed that slamming doors and screaming doesn’t even help, I realize that for the first time in my life, I feel like giving my dad the finger.
In the morning, we go out for supplies. Residual anger still stuck in my teeth, I don’t speak to Mason unless I absolutely have to. Instead, I check out our temporary hometown.
As it turns out, there’s nothing nice, appealing, or even remotely interesting about Hayes, Texas. Even in November, it’s hot. It’s small. It makes you feel like you sprinkled dirt on your cereal, then ate more for dessert. Women wearing curlers in public look at us funny at the hardware store. They cluck at Cassie because she’s beautiful and they’re in housecoats. The man at the grocery store asks where we’re headed, as if there’s a NO VACANCY sign at the edge of town and he’d like us to move along as soon as possible.