I wake up in a hospital room with a nurse and a guard standing over my bed. The clock on the television says 11:41. The sun is shining, so it must be just before noon on Wednesday. Which means I was out for almost eleven hours.
The nurse is holding a plastic bag that’s filled with my few belongings.
“You had to be sedated. Now it’s time for you to go home,” she says. I can tell she’s looking forward to showing me the door. “If you don’t comply, we will be forced to phone the police.”
It’s a good thing I’ve kept the document Kat’s mom signed in my back pocket. I sit up and unfold it. Then I hold the paper up for the nurse to see. “Kat’s mother wants me to stay with her,” I croak. My throat is parched.
The nurse doesn’t even look down at the page. “The woman who signed that document no longer has legal guardianship over her daughter. Katherine Foley’s sole guardian is now her stepfather, Wayne Gibson.”
Oh, shit. I try to stand up, but it takes two attempts. My legs are still wobbly from the sedative.
“I need to talk to him,” I say.
“Shoot.” I turn to see Wayne Gibson sitting in the corner of the room, a smirk of triumph smeared across his face.
“What’s going on?” I demand. “What did you do to Linda?”
“What did I do to Linda?” he repeats incredulously as he rises from his seat. “My wife voluntarily committed herself to a mental health institute yesterday. Our daughter’s illness has been weighing heavily on her, and she was worried she might do herself harm.”
If that’s the truth, it doesn’t seem to bother him much. I wish there were a scalpel lying around. If I cut into this asshole, I’m pretty sure I’d only find gears and wires. No human being has posture this good—or a heart this cold.
“I want proof that she left you in charge of Kat,” I say.
“Mr. Gibson has provided all the necessary legal paperwork,” the nurse answers from the other side of the room.
For the first time ever, I genuinely wish my parents were here. Without a lawyer, there’s no way I can win this battle. And getting into a pissing contest with GI Joe isn’t going to do Kat any good—or help me figure out what the hell is going on.
I look back at Mr. Gibson. “May I speak with you privately?” I ask, adjusting my tone.
“Certainly,” he says diplomatically, nodding at the nurse. I guess it’s easy to be gracious when you know you’ve won.
The nurse and the guard shuffle out of the room. Wayne assumes a superhero stance—chest out, arms crossed and legs apart—and I realize I’m not going to convince him of anything.
“Kat spoke yesterday,” I say.
“Thank you for letting me know.” It sounds like a voice recording at some corporate headquarters. “I will inform the doctors. Is there anything else?”
“The Company disk needs to be removed. It was scaring her.”
“Thank you. I will let the doctors know about that as well.”
Nothing I can say will make any difference. I see that now. My words just bounce off him. This short, cocky man with his button-down shirt and perfectly pressed pants is completely invulnerable.
“You don’t give a shit about Kat, do you?” I ask.
“Don’t worry, son.” He gives me a pat on the shoulder and then heads for the door. “I’ll take it from here.”
“Wait!” I reach out to stop him and he spins around. His lips curl slightly as his eyes travel from my hand to my face. His expression is as good as a growl. I pull back before my fingers brush against him, like a kid who’s nearly been nipped by a dog. “Can I at least see her before I go?” If he wants me to beg, I will.
“Katherine isn’t at the hospital anymore,” he says just before he leaves the room. “She’s moved on.”
For a few horrible seconds, I assume the worst. Then I realize he means it literally. She’s been moved to the facility. I’m relieved she’s alive—but otherwise, I couldn’t be more terrified.
The plastic bag with my belongings bounces against my thigh as the security guards frog-march me out of the hospital. As we pass the waiting room I catch a glimpse of Busara. She’s arguing with some guy who’s got a backpack slung over his shoulder. Her eyes lock on to mine and the guy turns to see what’s caught her attention. Jesus. It’s Marlow Holm. He opens his mouth as if he wants to say something to me but he can’t quite get it out. I struggle to break free and go back to them, but the security guards drag me forward and out the front doors. They drop me to the ground in the parking lot and stand blocking the path to the hospital.
I pick myself up and start weaving around cars, making my way toward the road.
“Hey, Simon!” It’s Busara. She must have run after us. I keep walking. I don’t respond. I’m too furious to be around anyone right now.
The walk home must have been around three miles, and the weather was unseasonably warm. I remember nothing about the journey. I couldn’t even tell you which route I took. My shirt is soaked through with sweat when I reach the driveway and see my parents’ cars are both gone. I walk through the door and a woman dusting the entryway yelps.
“Are my mother and father here?” I ask. She stands with her back against the wall and watches me like I’m a beast that’s escaped from the zoo.
“They’re still in London,” she tells me. My mother must have caught the red-eye after all.
I head straight for my room, disrobing as I go. I turn on the water in the walk-in shower and take a seat on the ledge. I bow my head, letting the streams of water beat down on my skull.
What am I going to do now? I sit back, banging my head against the tiles. I’m such a fucking idiot. I swore I’d take care of Kat, and then I gave them a reason to separate us. Now she’s gone.
Kat spoke. I know she did. I wasn’t hallucinating. But even if I had been—why the hell wouldn’t they just take the disk off?
I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around my waist. There’s a knock at my bedroom door. I open it to find a young woman in a blue maid’s smock.
“This just arrived for you,” she says, averting her eyes and holding out a box covered in brown paper. My name is written on the front, but there’s no return address.
“Who’s it from?”
“I don’t know. It came by messenger.” She backs away from my door as if I’ll attack her if she dares to turn around. I guess I don’t blame her. I probably look pretty crazy right now.
I rip the wrapping off the package as I make my way to my desk. Underneath the paper is a shoe box with a picture of a pair of sneakers on the side. They’re the same unusual brand and color that Milo Yolkin’s known to wear. MEN’S SIZE 9 is written beneath the image. I open the box, but there aren’t shoes inside. Instead I find a visor and a round, flesh-colored disk.
There’s only one person who could have sent the gear. Did Martin feel guilty about watching me get a needle jammed in my ass? Is this the engineer’s way of proving to me that there’s nothing to fear in the White City?
I remove the items and place them carefully on my desk. At the bottom of the box is a small envelope. I open it and pull out a note scribbled in Sharpie.
GO FIND HER, it says.
The piece of paper slips out of my hand and flutters to the floor.
I sprint out of my room, through the house and out the front door. There’s no sign of the messenger.