On the other side of the bridge the vibrating ends. When we come around a bend along the water, a large, dark house is finally in the distance. The moon illuminates the bay and I can see that the house is perched high at the tip of the little island, stately and beautiful with a pillared porch. Leo cuts the headlights while we are still a ways off and pulls into a shadowy spot on the far side of the garage, where the car is out of sight.
“We have to go in the back,” Riel says. “And don’t turn on any lights. The neighbors will call the police if they think someone’s here. Especially if they think it’s me.”
“I thought you said this was your grandparents’ house.”
“My grandfather’s technically, and he hates me. My grandmother loves me,” she says. “But no one cares what she thinks anymore because she left him years ago. She lives in Scottsdale now. My grandfather lives in Arizona, too, during the winter, but they’ve spent summers at this house since my mom was a kid. The neighbors are obsessed with my grandfather. They love to report back anything he might want to know. Honestly, he’s an ass to them so I don’t get it. But then he’s a politician. They specialize in making people love them.”
INSIDE, THE HOUSE is even more beautiful. At least what I can see of it with the lights off. But it is surprisingly bright with the almost-full moon shining through the many windows. It’s everyone’s faces that stay mostly cast in shadow.
The kitchen is open and vast with white, polished cabinets, shiny stainless-steel appliances, and lots and lots of granite. There is a massive vase of white flowers in the center of an island, the bouquet carefully designed to appear gathered haphazardly. The flowers give the room a sweet, summery smell. Honeysuckle. I remember it from the little cottage we rented for years on the Cape back when my mom was alive.
“Why are there flowers if no one’s home?” I ask, glancing over at Jasper. I can feel how not sure he is about us being stuck out here in the middle of nowhere. And the truth is, I feel more nervous now that we’re in the house. Confined. “Are you sure somebody’s not here?”
“I’m going to run to the bathroom,” Leo says, excusing himself toward an even darker back hallway.
He has definitely been here before. He knows where to go even without lights, and as he brushes past me I feel a wave of disgust. He wishes we weren’t here, too. That I wasn’t, actually. He hasn’t made eye contact with me once since we left the bar, but even so, I have been able to feel how much he doesn’t like me. He doesn’t approve of Riel bringing us along.
He loves her. I can feel that, too. All he cares about is protecting her.
“Trust me, no one’s here,” Riel says. “My grandfather doesn’t come until summer break, which starts July fifteenth this year—I checked. Also, my grandfather’s secretary said he’s in all week. As for the flowers? Who knows? My grandfather’s third wife—the second one left him, too—is some twenty-five-year-old who he may have lobotomized. That’s the only explanation for how she can stay with him. She probably doesn’t even know why she keeps the flowers coming.” Riel tugs on the two tall refrigerator doors and stands in the glow of the stocked shelves. “I mean, look at all this food.” She picks up a decorative little jar of some kind of jam. “Fancy even when no one’s looking. Otherwise rich people dissolve into a puff of smoke.”
This “I hate rich people” thing is an act. Or no. Not an act. An effort. Riel believes it, but it takes work to distance herself from what must be partly her own history.
“So he doesn’t like what you do with Level99?” I ask, and I am not sure why—but this thing with her grandfather feels important to understand. No, he feels important to understand.
“That’s what he says. But really he hates that I have a vagina and, you know, opinions.” She shakes her head and I can feel how much she hates him. “My grandfather is all about ‘family values’ as long as you’re not talking about his family because how can he claim to be so moral when his wives are not much older than me. And he uses his money to control them, until they break free and run away. It’s gross. Really, he just hates all women because they keep dumping him. You remember that whole ‘genuine assault’ thing a few years ago?”
“Yeah, I think so.” I do have vague memories of some politician saying something horrible along those lines. “Didn’t that guy get impeached or whatever?”
“Nope. Alive and well and with a summerhouse on the Cape.”
“Your grandfather?”
“Yep, and wait until he gets wind that this whole Outlier thing is something only girls can do.” She whistles and shakes her head like she can’t wait for it. “He’ll make Quentin look totally reasonable. The idea that any woman could have something that makes her more powerful than him? It’ll make him totally crazy. I mean, even more crazy than he already is. And my grandfather has actual power, not to mention lots of people who agree with him. I think he might even try to run for president someday or something. And then, seriously, God help us all.” When Riel emerges from behind the refrigerator doors, she’s holding bread and peanut butter in her arms. She pushes the doors closed with a foot. “You guys want something to eat?”
My stomach is tight after all this talk of her maniacal grandfather. But I should probably eat something. Maybe it’s a good sign that Riel hasn’t lost her appetite. She hates her grandfather, there’s no doubt about that. But I don’t think she’s actually afraid of him.
“Yeah, thanks,” I say. And a second later she is handing me a sandwich. She hands one to Jasper, too, and when our eyes meet, his brow wrinkles: What are we doing here? That’s what he’s wondering. Are you sure we should stay? These are valid questions. Except I can’t possibly leave until Riel tells me everything. And watching her assemble her sandwich in the mostly dark, then push herself up onto the counter—her fuck-you to the rules of the house—I feel this twinge. There is something she has left out. Something important. Why did she have a change of heart? Why did she let us come along?
“Did you look into any of the stuff I told you about?” I ask, taking a stab in the dark. “The hospital and everything?”
Riel nods, then takes another bite of her sandwich. Finally, she pushes herself off the counter and pulls out her laptop. The screen glows brightly in the darkness when she open it on the counter.
“You wouldn’t be here if your story hadn’t checked out. It wasn’t easy to find, though, I’ll tell you that much. There was nothing on the Boston General Hospital servers. Like the whole thing doesn’t even exist.” She waves me over as she clicks through some screens. “I had to get to the Dr. Cornelia guy first through Metropolitan Hospital and then find my way to a totally sketchy Gmail he’s been using for this entire thing. By the way, no mention of the NIH anywhere. And then I searched for Alvarez like you said. And that’s when I found this.”
I step forward to the computer and begin to read an email open on the screen. It’s from Dr. Cornelia to Dr. Alvarez.
“Read it out loud,” Jasper calls from where he’s still leaning against the wall near the door, arms crossed, like he’s afraid of being blindsided by something if he commits to the center of the room.
“Thank you for your concern and your thoroughness, Dr. Alvarez,” I begin to read from her screen. “It is precisely this kind of dedication that makes me so glad that you are a part of our team. However, the issues you have presented have been assessed and determined to be without substantial merit or warranting further review. Do not raise them again or we will be forced to evaluate our future collaboration. Sincerely, Dr. Cornelia.”
“Well, actually, that was his reply,” Riel says, reaching over to scroll down to the original message.
I read on. “There is no medical justification for the hospitalization of these young women. Holding them at Boston General Hospital so that you can conduct some kind of investigation for personal gain is both immoral and unethical. There is insufficient scientific evidence of PANDAS infection or even underlying strep. If you do not inform their parents
immediately of your limited basis in fact and give them the option to leave, I will go directly to the press.”
“And then this last,” Riel says, scrolling some more.
“Dr. Alvarez, your contract as a research associate has been terminated effective immediately. You must report to hospital security upon receipt of this messasge. If we find you have breached your confidentiality agreement we will pursue legal action.”
So that was where Dr. Alvarez had gone, and why she’d been so upset—she’d been fired.
“So I kept looking and eventually I found this in Dr. Cornelia’s email contacts.”
With a few more keystrokes, an email address pops up. It ends in @dia.mil.
“What is that?” I ask.
“Someone at the Defense Intelligence Agency,” she says, tapping her keyboard once more. She stops and points at her screen. “Here’s their website.” And then she begins to read: “We provide military intelligence for warfighters, defense policymakers, and blah, blah. Warfighters? I mean, how is that even a word?”
“My dad thought the military had their own research project about the Outliers that was similar to his.”
“Looks like maybe they’re kind of territorial,” Riel says. “Oh, and speaking of your dad . . .”
She heads back to her bag and pulls out a sheet of paper, handing it to me.
“What is it?”
“It was attached to one of the first emails from Cornelia to Dr. Haddox,” she says. “Seems like that’s how they found all of you. Or, at least, all of them. Your dad has a serious knack for losing important shit.”
At the top there is a handwritten note: Phase II Outlier Exploratory, Not for Publication or Distribution. A note that is definitely in my dad’s handwriting. But it’s a photograph of the actual note, not a document.
“Somebody broke into our house,” I say. Though already I know the timing doesn’t make sense. We were all in the hospital by then. Whoever had the list had it much earlier than that.
But I know for sure my dad wouldn’t give them our names. And I am not going to get roped into being suspicious of him like I was back with Quentin and the camp. My dad is a victim here, like us.
“I thought maybe we were all Dr. Shepard’s patients?” I go on then, consider explaining who Dr. Shepard is before realizing that, of course, I don’t need to explain because Riel must already know. Also, I never even got proof that was true. Teresa was the only person who ever said anything about Dr. Shepard.
“Dr. Shepard?“ Riel asks. “I don’t know about her. But I know for sure your dad was also advertising on campus for volunteers for his follow-up studies.”
She looks away then, but if she actually feels ashamed of all the time she spent trolling around our private electronic lives, she hides it well.
“And none of this says what they are planning to do to the girls,” I press. “Or why they have them in the first place. Did you find anything else?”
“Hey, it wasn’t easy to figure out this much in a few hours,” Riel says, defensive. “These people don’t exactly hang out a sign. And then I got a call from Leo saying some random girl had Kelsey’s book, which was kind of distracting, you know.”
“Also, she doesn’t work for you,” Leo snaps as he comes back in. “If your dad hadn’t tried to cover everything up to begin with—”
“I know, he messed up!” I shout. “No one is saying he didn’t! But that doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
“And she doesn’t owe you anything,” Leo goes on. She’s not obligated.”
But all I can think is: yes. Yes, she is obligated. Being an Outlier makes her obligated to help other Outliers. I don’t say that, though. Maybe I’m wrong. And I’m afraid suggesting that will make Riel angry.
“Listen, my dad definitely made mistakes, and Quentin exploited them, and if you ever talk to my dad”—my voice catches on the if—“he will be the first to take full responsibility for all of it. But he was trying to protect me—and he thought he was protecting Kelsey and whoever the girl is who gave me your book. He was afraid of this, something like what’s happening right now, happening to the three of us. But he isn’t hiding anything anymore. He’s trying to get all of this out into the open. He went to DC to meet with the NIH to get public funding for his research and—”
The NIH. Dr. Frederick Mitchell. That was one lead I didn’t give Riel. One place she couldn’t have searched.
“What?” Riel asks when I stop talking midsentence.
“Dr. Frederick Mitchell from the NIH,” I say. “Can you try to find something between him and Dr. Cornelia? That’s who Kendall said he was. I think there might be a connection.”
It’s a feeling. An instinct. And luckily, that’s not something I have to explain to Riel.
She nods as her fingers move fast over the keys. “Getting into the NIH system is even harder than the Department of Defense,” she says. “And not because of security. Their system is so old it’s barely an actual computer. This might take a minute.”
I stand behind her as her fingers fly over the keys.
“How many are there? Outliers, I mean,” I ask after a few minutes. She pauses and looks up. She is not blocking me anymore. And what I feel from her is a mix of nerves and a tiny flicker of hope—hope that she might find something in me that she’s been looking for since she lost Kelsey. “I met someone at the gym and she made it sound like people came around looking for Leo all the time, which I’m guessing means they were looking for you. You’ve found other Outliers, right?”
Riel turns back to the computer.
“After I realized that Quentin was full of shit, but before we bailed from the camp, I grabbed as much of your dad’s stuff as I could—background research, copies of sample tests, that kind of thing. Enough so that with the help of a few psych geniuses on campus here that Leo knows, we were able to assemble a basic Outlier self-test. Not like official scientific or whatever—there’s a disclaimer. But so far it seems decently accurate.”
“And what did you do with it?”
“Posted it online.” She is proud of this fact, but also a little uneasy. “Now you can Google ‘Feel Test’ and find it.”
“What’s the point?”
“People have a right to know who they are,” she says, seeming appalled that I don’t realize that. But also I can feel her hesitation (despite her attempts to block me). Like she isn’t entirely sure about these things she’s already done. “Besides, if there’s going to be a war, I’m sure as hell going to be ready with an army.”
“A war,” I say. Not a question. More an idea I am trying on for size. And it fits in a way that I wish it did not. “Can I ask you something else?”
“I guess,” Riel says.
“Do you think being an Outlier is more than being able to read how people feel?”
“Definitely,” she says without hesitating. “A lot more.”
“Do you sometimes know that things are going to happen before they do?”
Riel turns and looks dead at me. “All the time.” And I feel it then: that thing I had so envied when I read the notes in 1984. What Riel and the real Kelsey had shared. An actual connection. “That’s the worst part of what happened to Kelsey. I think I kind of knew it was going to happen. And I should have stopped her.”
Outlier Rule #5: With enough practice we won’t just be able to know people’s feelings. We will know what’s going to happen.
“But knowing that something bad is going to happen isn’t the same thing as being able to stop it,” I say.
“But it should be,” Riel says. “It could be.”
I stand by her side for another few minutes, then a few minutes more as she winds her way through a maze of computer screens.
“Wait, hold up, I think I might have something,” she says finally, peering more closely at her screen.
“What is it?” Jasper asks, coming closer.
“I’ve found a Frederick Mitchell,” she says. “But not i
n the NIH system. It popped up in Cornelia’s Gmail. In an order for a shitload of morphine being sent to Boston General Hospital, Dwyer Wing,” she says. “For the Frederick Mitchell project.”
“The Dwyer Wing is where the girls are.”
“If none of them are sick,” Jasper asks, “why the hell do they need so much morphine?”
“Maybe so that the next time the hospital burns,” I say, “there won’t be anyone getting away.”
23
“CAN YOU GET ME BACK IN?” I ASK, MY EYES STILL ON THE COMPUTER.
“Back in?” Riel asks.
“To the hospital,” I say. “I’d need to go back in through the locked fire door. That Dwyer Wing is new and super high-tech, so the security probably is, too.”
“Hmm,” Riel says, narrowing her eyes at the screen as she begins to type. “Brand-new is actually better. The security might be online.” Her fingers pick up speed. Soon she’s found an article talking about all the building’s bells and whistles, including naming the “cutting-edge” company that handles the security. “It’ll take a while, but, yeah, I think I can probably hijack the system. Everyone thinks high-tech is better.” She shakes her head. “You know what’s better? A fucking combination lock.”
“So you can unlock the fire door to the outside? You’ll also have to get the door to the specific floor open. Those are locked, too.”
Riel nods. “It’ll take me a couple hours to get in, and I won’t be able to keep any of the doors unlocked for long. You’ll have to move fast.” She looks up at me, and I can feel her certainty. I can feel also how much she wants to help now. “But, yeah. I can do it. We should agree on a time now. Texting back and forth while we’re doing it is the easiest way to get busted.”
I look at the clock. It’s almost two. “How about four a.m.?” I ask. “That’ll give me time to get back to Boston. And it’ll be easier in the middle of the night.”
“And let’s go with four thirty a.m. exactly,” she says. “But that’ll be it. That will be your only chance.”