I wait for Rachel to say “no” or “what are you talking about?” Or to at least look confused. Instead her face stays frozen for an endless moment.
Then Rachel smiles at me. Hatefully. And it’s like a door has snapped open and bitter air has blown through. When my eyes go wide, Rachel starts shaking her head, silently. And just like that all of her hate disappears. And I can’t feel anything.
On and off, like a light switch. Just like Kelsey in the hospital.
“What the hell is going on, Wylie?” Gideon whispers in my ear. He’s standing at my side now. “We should go, to the address. . . .”
“You’re blocking,” I say to Rachel. “You’ve been blocking this whole time.”
And then Rachel starts clapping. Loud. And slow.
“That damn note. Your mom said she needed something from the house, so I brought her by.” She shakes her head. “That was a mistake, obviously.
“And yes, blocking. We might never figure out how to turn somebody into an Outlier. But if we learn how to block, what difference does it make? And we’re nearly there.”
Rachel is involved. But then, didn’t I always feel something bad about her? It was my mom showing up and telling me to trust her—Rachel saved her life.
“Are my parents dead?” I ask. My voice is trembling, making my chest rattle.
“I don’t think so. But then people like EndOfDays can be so unpredictable,” she says with put-on regret. “As an architect, all you can do is build the house: you can’t control how people live in it.”
“An architect?” I ask quietly.
And Rachel is so sickly proud of the label. It’s against her better judgment to say more, but she just can’t help herself. I wish she’d block me again. I’m not sure I want to feel any more.
“Houses, political campaigns, they all need a person with a plan. I headed off your mom’s accident—that was Klute, that idiot. He decided that it would be better to scare your dad by getting rid of your mom. But it was far too early. He has no sense of timing. The baby dolls were me, too. In the end, they were what freaked your mom out the most. Her babies. That’s what she kept saying when she came for my help. She thought the babies were meant as a threat to you. Her love for you made her easy to manipulate. And once you save someone’s life, it’s amazing how they’ll never consider that you could be slowly killing them by other means.”
“You’re a monster,” I say, feeling short of breath.
“Evil is in the eye of the beholder.” Rachel shakes her head. “I know you all think this Outlier thing is going be some great advance for women. You know what I think? I think I’ve worked my ass off to get where I am. No one cut any corners for me. I think this Outlier thing is a bunch of bullshit, no matter what the science says. Your dad should have known when to leave well enough alone. You were all warned. But you people just wouldn’t stop. This nonsense with the pictures, for instance—I go to the trouble to get them from your house—”
“You were the one who broke into our house?” I say, feeling momentary relief at having the mystery solved.
“Of course I did,” Rachel says, mocking, vicious. And now her feelings are even colder and uglier. “And really, shouldn’t you have known that? I mean, you are an Outlier.”
Gideon’s hand is on my arm. It’s because I’ve stepped closer to Rachel. And my hands are balled into fists. “Come on,” he says. “We need to go now, while we can.”
He is tugging me toward the door.
“Gideon is right,” Rachel says. “You should go. I may have given EndOfDays a little direction. A couple key allies to reach out to at the start, like your dad’s assistant, and your friend Riel. But he’s off on his own now. And there’s no telling when he’ll finally jump the tracks.”
I keep on glaring at Rachel as Gideon manages to get me to the door.
“This isn’t over,” I say through gritted teeth.
“No,” she says, and with such terrible, icy certainty. “But almost. Almost.”
JASPER
AFTER LOTS OF BACK-AND-FORTH AND A BEGRUDGING AND UNSUCCESSFUL LOOP around the back warehouse, trying all the locked doors and windows and without another glimpse of the figure, Quentin is back standing between the warehouses with Lethe and Jasper. A light suddenly goes on in the front warehouse.
“What the hell was that?” Quentin asks as he steps over to try the door of that warehouse. Unlike the door to the back warehouse, this one pops right open.
Lethe, Quentin, and Jasper step hesitantly inside the front warehouse, peering toward the light, still glowing eerily from the back. They inch slowly forward, until Jasper can see that the first hallway breaks off into two smaller ones on either side, like two sides of a barbecue prong. The light is coming from all the way at the back on the left side.
“Nope,” Lethe says, pulling to a stop. “You assholes do what you want. I am sure as hell not going down there.”
Quentin looks at Lethe, then back at Jasper. “And I am sure as hell not going down there alone.”
“Untie me. I’ll go,” Jasper offers, turning his bound wrists toward Quentin. He sounds too amped. He can’t help it. It’s the first real leverage he’s had: putting himself in harm’s way. “Dude, you can even stay here. Or come behind me, whatever. There’s definitely somebody in here. Or there was. That light wasn’t there before. I’ll go check it out, but not with my hands tied up. I won’t have any way to defend myself.”
“I’m not untying you,” Quentin says flatly. Like the idea is so stupid it’s boring.
“I’m telling you, I’ll go,” Jasper says, trying to keep himself checked—it isn’t easy. “Just untie me.” Then he’ll have to figure out how to get Quentin to follow. Or Lethe. Either one, just not together. First step, though, is to get untied. “Hurry up, before whoever it is comes out of nowhere. Face it. You need my help.”
And then suddenly there is a tug from behind and the rope around Jasper’s wrists pops open, falls to the ground.
“Try anything, and I will cut you,” Lethe says. She reached around to cut the ropes and is now pointing the knife toward Jasper’s face. “Go with him, Quentin.”
“No way,” Quentin says.
Lethe points the knife at Quentin. “Go,” she says. “You goddamn coward. Or I will cut you, too.”
“Fine, but he goes first.” Quentin shoves Jasper forward. “Move!”
Jasper starts toward the light, thinking, Come on, come closer. He wants Quentin right behind him. Quentin, who is unarmed. This is his chance, while Lethe and Quentin are separated. When it’s not two against one. When the knife is back with Lethe and not with Quentin.
“Hurry up,” Quentin barks. “Go on, see what it is.”
But the more Quentin hustles Jasper ahead, the farther he lags behind. On purpose, probably, to keep himself clear in case there is someone there. By the time they are halfway down the hall, there is so much space between Jasper and Quentin that Jasper would have to turn around and sprint back to get his hands on Quentin. It’ll never work. Jasper can finally see what it is at the end, though, the source of the light. It’s a laptop on a small table, open and glowing, something moving back and forth across the screen.
“Hey, you okay back there?” Quentin calls out to Lethe in a pointless whisper, loud as a shout. They are out of her line of sight now—all the way down at the end of the hall. The timing couldn’t be more perfect. Or would be if Jasper was the one behind.
But then, as Jasper is moving closer to the computer, he spots a pile of short metal pipes along the wall. Sitting there like an answer. He can already feel the sick, wet pop of Quentin’s skull being crushed in.
“What is that?” Quentin asks, suddenly walking past Jasper and right up to the computer. The pipes lie behind Quentin’s turned back now. And in front of Jasper.
On the computer screen, shadowy images of moths gather in a larger and larger cluster and then disappear suddenly, the screen going black, as if drawn to a suddenly extinguished
flame. Quentin is watching the screen, mesmerized, as Jasper bends quickly down, grabs a short stretch of pipe, and tucks it in the back of his waistband.
“Shit!” Lethe shouts angrily from the front of the building, just as Jasper is pulling his shirt over the pipe. Quentin whips around and rushes back. Jasper follows, heart pounding, the pipe digging into his back.
WHEN THEY GET back to the front of the warehouse, Lethe is twisting the locked doorknob and rattling the door. “We are fucking locked in here!” she screams, then starts kicking wildly at the door, the sound echoing in the warehouse.
“Move, let me try it,” Quentin says, giving a go at the knob. But he can’t get it to budge, either. “Shit.”
Lethe whips around and charges at Jasper. “What the hell did you do?” she screams so viciously that he leans back, the pipe scraping painfully against his flesh. He forces himself not to flinch.
“Me?” he asks. “I was down there. I didn’t lock the door. And there’s a goddamn computer in here with moths flying around a flame. Get it? Somebody wanted us in here.”
“Well, now they have us! Thanks to you!” Lethe screams. “Fucking fantastic. I am going to die in here because of you two idiots.”
“Calm down, Lethe, no one’s going to die,” Quentin says, sharp and condescending. “I know that you’re an Outlier and all, but try not to get overemotional.”
“What the fuck did you just say?” Lethe asks, the knife gripped tighter at her side. She takes a couple steps closer to Quentin. They are only inches apart now.
“I said”—Quentin leans in closer—“don’t get so emo—” Lethe swings the knife over her head, but Quentin has grabbed for her wrist. “Lethe, what the fuck are you—”
Run, Jasper thinks as they struggle over the knife. But where? The door is still locked. He’s looking around for another way out, when there’s a small, sharp noise. A yelp, like a little dog. And then silence. When Jasper turns, Lethe and Quentin are frozen. Lethe is up on her toes. Finally, Quentin takes a step back, pulling his arm away. And the knife out of Lethe’s side. She collapses to the floor.
FOR A LONG time, Jasper and Quentin stand facing each other, leaning against opposite walls, staring down at Lethe’s body. Quentin looks stunned, even confused. There is blood all over his hands and his shirt. Lethe is dead, no doubt. There is way too much blood for it to be otherwise.
“This is all Cassie’s fault, you know,” Quentin says, motioning to the blood on his shirt.
“What the hell does you killing Lethe have to do with Cassie?” Jasper asks, though he’s not even sure he wants to know.
“Everything was fine until she came along.” He shakes his head. “Yeah, I lied on my résumé. I’d been about to get my PhD when I got expelled from UMass. I neeeded a job. Who the fuck cares? I was a good research assistant and then Cassie had to show up.”
“Yeah, you started to say this before. And I still don’t believe you.”
“Believe me or not, asshole. It’s true,” Quentin says. “Listen, I was just there working with Dr. Lang, minding my own business, and then Cassie was there saying how much more I could be if only I helped her. How I had all this potential and so many better ideas. That I should be in charge. She was the one who sent me to that hacker chick. None of us knew then that she was Russo’s granddaughter, though.”
“If Cassie was involved from the start, why did she—why would she have done what she did? She’s dead.”
Quentin shakes his head. “Don’t look at me,” he says. “I didn’t know she was going to do that. And I have no idea why she did. But it sure as hell wasn’t to save all of you from me.”
WYLIE
THERE’S NO QUESTION WE’RE GOING TO THE ADDRESS ENDOFDAYS LAST POSTED from. A place that we know is a trap. That Rachel all but suggested we go. Still, we must go. Carefully. And with our eyes wide open. We call the police on the way, but it’s not easy to explain our situation to the 911 dispatcher. Pretty soon it feels more like an argument than a request for help.
“No, I don’t know for sure that our dad’s there, and what difference does it make if my dad’s an official missing person?” I say to the 911 operator. “We think someone is holding him at this address. We’re going there right now. And we’re just two teenagers. If we get killed, it will be on you.”
I didn’t mention our mom. How much is one 911 operator expected to believe?
“Well done,” Gideon says when I hang up. And not even sarcastically.
“I don’t know if it’ll work,” I say.
Gideon shrugs. “It was worth a try.”
What we don’t talk about is Rachel. What is there to say? She betrayed all of us. This person I did not like from the start, but whom I decided to trust despite my initial gut reaction. I trusted her because the facts told me to, because my mom had told me to. She had saved our mom’s life. And so I decided to go with the facts instead of my instincts. And now that may have cost us—and our parents—everything.
WHEN WE FINALLY get to the address Elizabeth gave us, an hour outside Newton, the car lurches hard over the dirt driveway as we make our way slowly through the trees. It’s dark back there. Really, really dark. And foreboding. Still, we are doing the right thing going there. I feel sure we are.
Our dad needs us, and he is there, somewhere, waiting. Alive for now, at least I think so, and our mom, too. I hope. I haven’t let myself consider what it will mean if they’re not together. But I feel sure that something terrible is about to happen. There is nothing good about the fact that Rachel let us leave. She didn’t do that because she feels bad, or because deep down she is a good person. She let us go because it was all a part of her plan. Still, knowing that doesn’t change the fact that going to that address is our only possible chance.
Outlier Rule #8: Knowing you should run the other way doesn’t mean that you can.
Gideon pulls the car to a stop between the two long cream-colored warehouses. The buildings, dark inside, look new. It’s a surprisingly bright night, a nearly full moon shining down on us. It reminds me of when Jasper and I first arrived at the camp in Maine, the moonlit lawn between the cabins lit up like dawn. Jasper and I had been so right to be scared then. I have no doubt that I am right to be scared now.
Because as we sit in the car, staring at those strange and terrible warehouses, my instincts are saying, Go inside. You must. You have no choice. And at the same time, my instincts screaming danger, danger, danger.
Outlier Rule #9: Knowing the right choice doesn’t mean it is a good one.
“We need that flashlight,” Gideon says, reaching forward and digging around his glove compartment like his life depends on it. “And we should stick together.”
“Yeah.” I nod, though I can already feel it won’t make a difference. Maybe that email was right. The EndOfDays is nigh. Something definitely is.
THERE’S ONLY THE quiet when we get out of the car. No wind, no rustling. Like the world is holding its breath. In silence, side by side, we move closer to the back warehouse. I brace myself for something or someone to jump out and stop us. But no one does. And soon we are peering through the windows of the back warehouse and into more darkness.
“It doesn’t look like it’s being used,” Gideon says, face pressed against the glass. Above Gideon’s head there are a few strange small holes, perfectly round. Like they were put there for ventilation.
Through the window I can see the warehouse interior has been set up as an office or business, long hall down the center, doors on either side. But there’s not much else. A few step stools at the front, some cleaning supplies on the windowsill next to a hammer. A handful of chairs, and a small rug off-center covering a weirdly small portion of the broad floor. No other signs of life. Not of my parents, either. Hurry. The EndOfDays is nigh. This is definitely the place, though. I’m sure.
“Do you think this was bullshit?” Gideon asks.
Before I can answer, there’s a flash of light inside at the back of that ware
house. Like a shooting star. There and then gone.
“Did you see that?” Gideon asks, hope and dread colliding inside him. He wants me to have seen it. But also wants it to have been his imagination.
“Yeah, I saw it,” I say, and I want so badly to feel relieved. But I do not. Not at all.
I put a hand on the doorknob, bracing for it to be locked, but the door pops open with a delicate click. An invitation, but a terrible one.
The light flashes again once we step inside. And now we can see where it’s coming from: a bulb flickering at the back of the warehouse like it’s about to go out.
“Should we turn on more lights?” Gideon asks, motioning to a panel on the wall. “There’s electricity.”
When Gideon hits the nearby switches, I’m still surprised that the lights overhead sputter to life. Such a simple thing. So obvious. The warehouse is brighter now, but the light yellow and unpleasant. Still it’s better than darkness. Anything is.
With the light on, the front of the warehouse looks like a waiting room in the making: the chairs along the wall, a large cutout rectangle to the left like a window a receptionist would sit behind. Except the glass hasn’t yet been installed. The chairs are way premature, too, compared to the state of the rest of the space. It’s built out—the walls constructed, drywall in place. But there are no switch plates or other finishes, the floor is still concrete, and all the interior windows—there are several, not just the one at the reception desk—are waiting for glass. But weirdly, there is a small metal box in the corner, like for blood samples, ready for lab pickup.
“What is this place?” I ask, though Gideon doesn’t know the answer.
“Come on,” he says, waving me on.
We head tentatively down the hall, lined with so many doors. The light at the back has gone out again. “There’s something off about these, isn’t there?” Gideon says, motioning to the doors. “They’re so narrow and close together or something.”
I turn to the nearest one, expecting again for it to be locked. But it opens, too. Inside, the room is a tiny box, enough space for a couple chairs maybe but not even a desk. It’s way too small to be an office, for sure. And no window, though it feels like there should be one. There’s a mirror on the wall instead, which makes the room feel a tiny bit less cramped, but also creepy. Why a mirror? I come out of the first room and enter the next and then the next. But they are all exactly the same.