Riel’s stomach twists after she hits send. The first time she’s told Leo she loves him, just as she’s saying good-bye. She shouldn’t have wasted so much time. She should have told Leo earlier how she felt—when there was still a chance for it to matter.
Riel opens the back of the phone, plucks out the SIM card, cracking it in half as she walks over to the garbage. She flinches as it strikes the bottom with a hollow sound.
As Riel makes her way back to her table, she tries again to picture the man from Brew, the one with the hat who grabbed her. She couldn’t see much of his face either time. But it wasn’t actually his face she recognized anyway. It was the shape of his body, the way he held himself. Where? Who? And then, suddenly, she knows.
Kendall.
“That’s Kendall. The police guy,” Brian had said as they watched the live stream of what was happening at the camp. Because by then Riel was already suspicious of Quentin. That was why she’d had Brian plant the cameras before leaving. “Wait, what’s he holding?”
“It’s a gun,” Riel said, feeling sick.
The rest happened so fast: Kendall out of the frame, a popping sound, a wounded old woman stumbling into view. Riel had been the one to send the police to the camp. Anonymously, of course. By then, Level99 had cut the camera feed, couldn’t risk it being traced. It wasn’t until hours later that they picked up chatter on the police frequencies: everybody at the camp was dead.
Kendall’s face wasn’t easy to make out in the video. But the way he moved with that huge gun was unforgettable. Smooth, forceful authority. It was him at Brew, and then later outside Leo’s dorm with his hand on her. Riel is sure of it. And realizing that the man who grabbed her is the same man who killed all those innocent people should terrify her. But the truth is, she feels relieved. Hopefully that means Kendall is somebody on their side. That Riel can feel it, even if the evidence is thin. Because right now, people on her side feel in really short supply.
RIEL WAS ELEVEN and Kelsey eight when they met their grandfather for the first time.
“You girls remember your granddad,” their mom had said with a razor-sharp edge. “Oh, wait, no, of course you don’t, because he’s never met you. What are you doing here?”
“Can’t I stop by and say hello to my daughter?” their grandfather said, smiling hard as he stood in their living room with his coat still on.
Their mom crossed her arms. “Well, I think that depends.”
She ended up inviting him for dinner when he wouldn’t leave but also wouldn’t explain why he had come. It was obviously a token offer meant to get him to go. But he took her up on it anyway. He waved some signal out the door to his driver, who kept his shiny black Mercedes sedan idling at the curb for the full two hours.
The dinner was miserable, endless and awkward—their mother making hostile small talk as their father quietly seethed. The feeling was mutual, too. Their grandfather didn’t look once in their dad’s direction.
After they were excused from the dinner table, the girls sat on the top step, listening. Waiting for their grandfather’s terrible secret to be revealed. Because he was definitely there for a reason, the girls had no doubt about that.
“Does he seem kind of . . . ,” Kelsey began in a hushed whisper.
“Evil?” Riel finished her thought. From their grandfather, Riel had felt only cold, dead nothing. Like oozing tar. “Yeah, I’d be careful reading him. Your heart might stop.”
“Oh no, I left our book down there,” Kelsey said. Riel had driven it into her sister to be cautious with their journal. Even if she didn’t know why. Riel felt sure it should be guarded at all times.
“It’s okay, I think they’re done,” she said, knowing it would do nothing to come down on super-sensitive Kelsey now. “He should be leaving soon.”
Except their grandfather didn’t leave—like their dumbfounded parents surely both intended as they excused themselves to the kitchen to clean up. Instead, he headed to the living room, where they could hear him walking around. Picking things up and putting them down.
“So, the reason I’m here,” their grandfather began finally when their parents had returned. “I wanted to let you know that I’m running for the Senate.”
“What?” their dad laughed.
“Yes, senator from Arizona.” Their grandfather was deadly serious. And pissed that their dad had laughed. His anger shot up the stairs like a bullet.
“You just moved there,” my mom said.
“Ten years nearly,” he said. “Long enough for it to be my home.”
“A senator?” Their dad’s disgust had ripened into anger. It felt hot and sharp, too, even all the way up the steps. “Why?”
“I believe I have a legitimate chance of winning.” Their grandfather sounded so smug. “And that I ought to try.”
“Because you have a chance of winning?” their dad huffed. “Sounds like a great reason for devoting your life to public service.”
“Not just a chance of winning,” their grandfather corrected. “A legitimate chance. I don’t know that I will, of course. But you miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.”
“So it’s a game?” Their mom’s voice was sad in a way Riel didn’t understand.
“A game implies chance,” he said. “This is more of a contest of skill. Spoils to the victor.”
They went back and forth like that, taking swipes at each other for what felt like forever. Until all the polite barbs had been used up and only the impolite ones were left.
“It’s late,” their grandfather said finally, just before they launched into those. “I suppose I should go. I do hope I can count on your support, though. I would imagine there may be questions, requests for interviews directed your way and such. There are only you and your sister now as my family.” Dead silence followed. Riel could picture her mom staring hard at their grandfather in disbelief. “Well, I’ll see myself out then.”
Their grandfather looked up the steps on his way out the door. Met eyes with Riel. That heavy tar filling her lungs.
“Ignorance is strength,” he said with a smile. And then he raised a fist in the air.
Just three words that made no sense. But they felt nasty, icy. Brutal. They made the hairs on Riel’s arms stand right on end.
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH, Riel Googles now. After all her searching about her grandfather, this is where her mind has stuck. That has got to mean something. And it will be her last search, she promises herself. It has to be. She is running out of time. She will not risk Leo more by poking around in places online that she shouldn’t. Places that could be easily traced on the bookstore’s wide-open public Wi-Fi. Riel will have to find out whatever else she needs another way. But then before she can think any more about what next, there it is. Right there at the top of the search results: Top ten quotes from the novel 1984.
Riel closes her eyes. Fuck. The book. Their book. That’s what their grandfather had been doing while he was all alone in the living room that night. He’d been reading their damn book. That’s how her grandfather, Senator Russo, knows about the Outliers: from Riel. Or not about the Outliers. No, but the idea. The seed had been planted in his mind. The possibility. Way back then.
Riel is on her feet now, staring down at her computer. Hand gripping her stomach. She doesn’t remember standing. But she is. Riel looks around the bookstore café—no Kendall or Klute, no other threat. There is just a mother and her kids now on the opposite side of it. Nothing else has changed.
And yet, everything has. Riel can see it now. Time is moving in reverse. The beginning where Riel thought the end had been.
That moment with her grandfather so long ago was way before any of Dr. Lang’s studies. What had the charming Senator Russo done with the innocent ramblings of two little girls? Something terrible, Riel knows that much. Now she has to figure out what—but in a way that keeps Leo safe.
She slides her laptop into its case, and when the woman is distracted by her younger child, dr
ops that, too, into the garbage can before heading downstairs from the café.
“YOU FIND EVERYTHING you’re looking for?” the girl behind the register at the front of the store calls as Riel passes on her way toward the door.
There’s something about the way the girl does it, too. Calling after Riel when she is already almost gone. Like it’s about way more than even she realizes.
Riel pauses, turns back. What does she need that this girl could give her? Why did this girl feel compelled to offer? A bookstore. A book. An author. That’s it, no doubt.
“Could you look up something for me?” Riel asks.
“Sure,” the girl says, stepping over to her computer.
“Rosenfeld,” Riel says, spelling it out for her. “He’s the author. The book was something about the military.”
“Sure, no problem,” the girl says, but keeps her eyes on Riel, narrows them, concerned. “Are you okay?”
The girl’s an Outlier for sure.
“I don’t know,” Riel says because that’s the goddamn truth.
“Yeah.” The girl nods finally like she understands completely. She turns back to the computer. “Rosenfeld. Here it is.” She turns the screen around so Riel can see for herself. “A Private War: How Outsourcing Is Changing the Face of the Military. It’s on the recent nonfiction paperback shelf. Come on, let me help you find it.”
WYLIE
DETECTIVE OSHIRO SITS IN OUR LIVING ROOM, EYEING GIDEON AND ME nervously. It’s just past four thirty p.m., and he’s been looking at us that way for the entire fifteen minutes he’s been here. He came fast when I called, but now he mostly wants to dart for the door. I can feel that much loud and clear.
I’ve tried to explain enough about what’s going on to get his help tracking down my dad’s phone, but not so much that he gets completely freaked out. It’s easier said than done. In the story Oshiro knows about me, I am the grieving daughter of a dead mother. Which is kind of still true, at least the grieving part. So I have no plans to tell him that my mom is actually alive. That I was right—in the end—about the vodka bottle. Oshiro feeling sorry for me is probably the biggest thing I have going for me.
“But, to clarify, you are out on bail?” he asks hesitantly. “Legally?”
He won’t be in the room if I’m a fugitive. Oshiro has already decided that. But this is exactly why I trust him. Because he has his limits. Oshiro was willing to refuse to show me the accident file until he had permission, even when yes was all I wanted to hear. He cares about what is right most of all. I believe, in the end, that will work in our favor.
“Yes, I am officially out on bail,” I say, glancing in Gideon’s direction. He nods dutifully. “Also, I didn’t have anything to do with the fire. You don’t have to believe me on that part, but it is true.”
Oshiro nods noncommittally. “And you say that everything that has happened, including your mother’s accident, is somehow related to this research your father does?” He’s not trying to hide how skeptical he is. I respect that, too.
“I don’t have proof yet, but yes,” I say. “My dad is an official missing person, though. You can ask the DC police.”
“I already did,” he says. “That’s the reason I’m here. Your story checked out. Some of it at least. Listen, Wylie, I’ll help you in any way I can. Legally. But jurisdictionally, your dad’s case belongs to the DC police. I can’t take over.” And, boy, is he relieved, that’s the truth.
“Oh,” I say, and my throat seizes so sharply I let out a sad little hiccup. It’s pitiful.
Oshiro exhales. “Listen, why don’t you tell me what you need help with exactly,” he says. “And then we’ll see.”
“Would it be possible to trace a phone number?” I hold out my cell to him and point toward the call log. “We tried calling the number back, but it’s out of service now. She’s the person who found my dad’s phone right after he disappeared, in some market in DC. Or at least that’s what she said when I called his phone and she answered. She called and texted a bunch more times while I was in the detention facility from this number. One of her messages said that my dad needs me.”
“Who is she?”
“I don’t know. When we spoke the first time, she gave me a name and a PO box. I wrote it down and we passed it on to the police. But that was weeks ago. When you call my dad’s phone now it just goes to voicemail, and mailbox is full. Her name was something with a J—or maybe an L or a K. I’m sorry. Sorry, I don’t remember anymore. A lot has happened. But I know the police never found her. Or my dad’s phone. I really need to, though. There could be—who knows what’s on it? Texts, notes—there could be some real evidence that helps find him.”
Detective Oshiro rubs a hand across his face. “Have you reached out to the officers in DC on your dad’s case?” he asks. “Following up on something as basic as this would be protocol.”
“I’ve called them,” I say. And I did. True, it was only moments ago, and I was glad when I didn’t reach them. But still not a lie, technically. “I’m sure they’re doing the best they can, but I kind of feel like they’ve written my dad off. They have this surveillance video of him getting into some guy’s car ‘willingly.’ My lawyer has talked to them. It’s like they’ve decided he just ran off. But he wouldn’t do that. Not to us. And not after what happened to our mom.”
Now I feel officially sick. Because that is me actually pushing the lie about my mom being dead. It’s also a reminder about what my mom has actually done: run off totally, voluntarily. I still can’t believe it. Or maybe I just don’t want to. I’m not sure right now that I can tell the difference.
Oshiro stares at me. “I’ve met your dad and I agree. I don’t think he would do that.” He holds out a hand. “Okay.”
“Okay?” It takes me a moment to realize he’s motioning for the phone. “You mean you’ll trace the calls?”
“I can’t make any promises. The tech department has a list of priority cases, and given that your dad’s isn’t even in our jurisdiction . . . It could take a couple of days, at least.”
“A couple days?” My heart sinks. “I’m just—I’m worried that he’s running out of time.”
It isn’t until I’ve said it that I realize just how afraid of that I am. It’s like there’s a giant clock ticking down in my head. Oshiro sighs again, then rubs at his forehead some more. He isn’t a wait-it-out kind of person, either. He is meticulous and relentless.
“There is one other option,” he says, already filled with second thoughts. “It wouldn’t be official. And I’m not promising I’ll be able to arrange it. . . .”
“Please, yes, anything,” I say. There is a desperate burn at the back of my throat. “Whatever it is.”
“I’ll try. Again, no promises.” Oshiro stands and nods. I feel him consider saying one comforting thing and then another—none of which I can get a fix on—before he decides to say nothing. I’m grateful. “I’ll be in touch, Wylie. In the meantime, be careful, okay? Don’t violate your bail conditions. They won’t care how good you think your excuse is.”
“NOW WHAT?” GIDEON asks once Oshiro has left and taken my phone.
“Find Quentin,” I say, but halfheartedly. My mind keeps going back to him, but how would we even begin?
“I thought we didn’t even know his real name,” Gideon says.
“We don’t. We know absolutely nothing.”
“Oh,” Gideon says, a little let down. He still thinks being an Outlier means I have so many more answers than I do. “Maybe it’s for the best.”
“But,” I say hesitantly. “I do have one idea.”
I just wish I felt more convinced it was a good one.
A BLOCK AWAY from the Level99 house I see the sign: D & G Construction. It’s stuck into the lawn on top of a fresh pile of dirt. But aside from the sign and the dirt—which definitely screams remodel—the house looks exactly the same. Sloped steps, faded blue-gray paint, the buzzer with all its code-ready numbers.
I ta
ke a deep breath and try to remember the sequence as we head up the steps. On purpose, I didn’t practice in the car. I was too worried that overthinking would make me forget. Instead, I press the numbers as they come to me. And then we wait. One minute, then two. Nothing.
“This happened the last time,” I say, trying not to feel discouraged. I’d been so intent on not bringing Riel back into this by mentioning her to Rachel. But for some reason—maybe not a good one—I’ve given myself a pass suddenly. I’m still trying to figure out why.
I punch the numbers a second time. But still the door stays closed. Now my stomach is officially tight. I’d been getting my hopes up about Riel and Level99. I hadn’t realized how high until this moment, as they free-fall to the floor.
Gideon leans closer to peer through the front bay window. The paper that had been covering the inside of the windows on the ground floor is gone. You can see clear inside. “Was it empty before?” Gideon asks, his voice muffled against the glass. “Because it looks like they moved out. There’s nothing in there.”
I come to lean over and look myself. The furniture was old and run-down when I was there with Jasper. But there was furniture. Now there’s nothing but dust balls gathered on the floor.
“It does look like they’re gone,” I say.
Riel said that Level99 might have to move, now that Kendall knew where they were. Still, I don’t really feel like they’re gone. It doesn’t matter, though, if they refuse to come to the door.
“Okay,” Gideon says. “What next?”
WHEN WE ARRIVE at Delaney’s it’s only six p.m., early for a college bar. The place is empty, except for one nondescript old white guy—smallish, khakis, white head of hair—sitting at the bar near the door. Definitely not a student.
Delaney’s looks way more run-down in the fading daylight than it seemed late at night when Jasper and I were there. The red paint is chipped, the wallpaper peeling. It smells ever so slightly, too, of something that could be vomit. On the upside, there’s no bouncer in sight.