MILA 2.0: Redemption (14 page)

The next morning, the crunch of footsteps alerted me to Daniel’s presence long before I saw him.

He paused about five feet away from me, hands thrust deep into his pockets. From the size of the dark shadows under his eyes, I guessed he hadn’t gotten much sleep.

Not that I had, either.

“Lucas told me why you’re here in Philly,” he said. “I’m ready to listen, if you’re willing to talk.”

He grabbed one of the camp chairs and plunked it down right in front of me. He settled into the canvas and crossed his arms.

I hadn’t even started talking yet, and this already felt like the interview from hell.

Before I could utter my first word, he flinched.

“You’re even getting her expressions down now,” he said, half-accusing, half-awestruck.

I didn’t have to ask him whose. Sarah’s. His dead daughter’s. And in spite of everything, I couldn’t help but feel a stab of pity for him. What must it be like, to see a reincarnation of your dead child sitting before you? Moving as she did? Speaking as she did? Knowing that she’d been replaced
by a machine that was programmed in her image? Or did he look at me and get confused, his memory saying one thing, his logic another? I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Not even Daniel, who had sold me out to Quinn and inadvertently led to Peyton’s death.

I still couldn’t hate him. Not when my memories conjured up a warm and loving man. He’d been a good father to Sarah, and the strength of her love was hardwired into me along with everything else. None of his actions now would erase that. Not entirely.

But they could hurt like hell.

“Don’t look at me like that. Not when you look so like . . . It’s too much. Too much,” he repeated. He sighed and buried his head in his hands. When he looked at me again, his eyes glistened.

“I know what you must think of me. I turned you over to Quinn; I sold you out. You’re right. I did. What would you do, if your dead daughter reappeared to haunt you?”

Then the fight faded out of him. “If it matters, I had no idea what Quinn had planned. Or how much you’d grow on me. I’d like to think that I’d have chosen differently, had I known what she had planned, but hindsight is twenty-twenty.”

At his mention of Quinn, a memory flashed into my head. One of mine for a change, not Sarah’s.

Daniel, tied to the chair and pleading, back at Quinn’s.

“No matter what happens, I want you to know—you’re my
daughter. I tried to reject that because it hurt too damn much, but it’s the truth.”

A man would say anything when begging for his life. I knew he didn’t mean it. I didn’t even blame him for lying. But the lies didn’t stop me from wanting to believe. To make the words true.

“I need to tell you some things now,” I said.

He rested his elbows on his thighs and waited.

I told him about our visit with Maggie, his old neighbor. About the suspicious man she’d seen before the fire. About Edgar Blythe, the police detective, and his sudden death. About Sonja and the warehouse and the evidence that pointed to arson.

“Arson,” Daniel repeated. “God. Why would anyone do that? Hurt my baby girl?”

I examined my shoes, not wanting to witness his pain. “There’s more,” I continued. Softly. “Maggie also led us to Chloe Nivens. I met with Chloe. She told us that Sarah had a scholarship—a Watson Grant—to a place called Montford Prep. She went there soon before the fire, but she only stayed for a couple of weeks.”

I found myself needing to pause. This next part was going to be difficult.

Daniel rubbed his eyes. “She said she was homesick, and Nicole and I let her come home. If we hadn’t given in . . . she wouldn’t have been there when . . .” He couldn’t finish his sentence.

My head popped up. “Don’t. It’s not your fault. I don’t . . . I mean, she wouldn’t want you to think that. Ever.”

This next part was the worst.

“Sarah confessed something to Chloe, once she got home from Montford. She told Chloe that something about the school had freaked her out. She never told Chloe what it was, just that it had to do with the grant kids.”

Daniel straightened. “Freaked her out . . . why the hell didn’t she tell us?”

“She told Chloe she didn’t want to worry you.” I stopped there, wondering if I should continue. Did he need to know the rest?

Then I remembered how I felt when people kept me in the dark. For my own good.

“Lucas remembers seeing an envelope at work once. It was addressed to Cynthia Gordon. Holland’s wife, but under her maiden name. He didn’t think anything of it until Chloe brought up the name Watson Grant. The letter was addressed to her care of Watson Grant Committee.”

I saw him put the pieces together, the way we had. Cynthia Gordon. Lucas’s aunt. Holland’s wife. Even though the puzzle was yet incomplete, the partial picture was enough to do one thing: connect Holland with Montford Prep. I watched Daniel’s face sag when the reality sank in. This couldn’t be a coincidence. The Watson Grant. Montford. Sarah. Holland. Together, they formed some kind of chain. And at the end of that chain were the answers. We just
needed to follow the links to the very end of the line.

“What do you want to do now?” So soft, even I had to strain to hear.

“I thought I could research who is at Montford, right now, with the Watson Grant. Then I’ll go to Montford to talk to them. What if whatever frightened Sarah is frightening them, too? If we find out what it is, we could find out what Holland is really up to.”

This time, when Daniel dropped his head onto his forearms, his body shuddered. As if racked by silent sobs.

My heart cracked as I was reminded of how similar we were. Daniel and I both struggled to contain our emotions. Suddenly something occurred to me. Maybe my emotions weren’t just a mistake manufactured by Holland. Maybe they were genetic. That thought was almost comforting.

Daniel dragged his sleeve across his eyes and stood.

“Lucas told me about your two-hour window. What happens if it activates?”

“I’ll tell everyone immediately, and go off on my own to a remote location. I don’t want to hurt anyone. Not again.”

He studied me as if the truth might manifest in red letters on my face, like one of my security warnings. Then he ducked behind me. I felt pressure against my wrists, a gentle jiggle-tug in my bindings. There was a snap, and the pressure disappeared.

Free.

From programming or habituation or some surfacing instinct, I rubbed nonexistent circulation back into my wrists.

“I’m sorry I restrained you, but we had to make sure. From here on out, I pledge to do anything I can to help.”

I scanned him, automatically, for any signs of lying. None.

“Follow me,” he said. “It’s time for a group meeting.”

I trailed him past thickets and low-hanging branches to the RV. Feeling like a prisoner about to face a firing squad.

With six people inside, the RV was a little cramped. A table fitted beside a circular seating area. Lucas sat on the far side, and Abby, Samuel, and Hunter congregated on the other. They all looked up when I entered. I hadn’t seen Abby since we were back at Quinn’s, and I could hardly meet her eyes.

A door in the back led to a messy set of bunk beds and a pullout. Another door opened to a compact bathroom. The typical cooking surfaces were absent, though. The RV was custom, decked out with built-in computers that fit where a stovetop might have resided.

Lucas scooted over, and I slid into the empty spot beside him. The brown fabric of the makeshift couch pilled into nubby little balls, which restless hands had plucked and tossed onto the yellowed linoleum floor. A musty smell hung in the air, filled with damp skin and greasy food remnants and
a hint of floral body lotion. Just this side of overripe.

“Don’t worry, your little computer lad didn’t desert you,” said Samuel. “We had to restrain him overnight—loose restraints, loose!” He added, when I visibly bristled, “To keep him from trying to help you escape.”

I’d forgotten how large Samuel was. Like a tree trunk with arms and legs.

Abby rolled a penny on her knuckles and kept tabs on me with watchful blue eyes. Hunter ignored me.

I filled them in on the bomb, as Daniel requested, so they could make an informed decision to stay here or come with me.

But as Samuel opened his mouth, I held up a hand. “There’s more you should know. About Quinn.”

I smoothed my hands across my jeans while Lucas and I exchanged a look.

Samuel caught the glance. “What?”

I bit my lip, then forced out the words. “She’s dead. Holland found her and murdered her.”

More than one face blanched. “Do you know for sure?” Daniel asked.

“We do. He sent us a transmission. He wanted . . . he wanted to make sure we watched while he executed her.” My voice was dull, a complete contrast to the sharp twist of horror inside me as I remembered.

Samuel flinched while Abby’s hand flew to her mouth.
“Oh my god,” she whispered. Even Hunter whirled in his seat to look at us, his boyish features taut. Guilt was a string of barbed wire inside me. A visceral reminder that up until he’d met me, Hunter had been perfectly content to read his manga and do normal teen things. I’d dragged him into this mess. These murders.

“Jesus,” Samuel breathed, after several long, silent moments.

“Is someone Holland clearly doesn’t worship,” Lucas said. “You need to keep in mind that he is a cold-blooded killer who will do whatever it takes to get his way.”

He paused to let that sink in, and then continued. “Which is exactly why Mila is on this quest. At no small personal risk, I might add. Probably more than anyone else. She’s made a choice to stop Holland, regardless of her own safety. She wants to make sure he can’t hurt others the way he’s already hurt so many. I’ve made a pledge to join her. Who else is in?”

Lucas’s hand edged across the table until his pinky touched mine. A bare hint of contact, but it was enough.

Across the way, Hunter’s gaze tracked the small movement, his gaze locking on our hands.

Lucas said, “I’ve already let Mila know I’m dedicated to helping, but no one else is bound to my decision. Samuel?”

To my surprise, there was no hesitation on the part of the brawny Scot. “Danger is my middle name. Or it would be,
if my mother had given me one.”

“Are you sure about the two-hour window?” Abby said, twisting a strand of blond hair between nervous fingers. “Even if the bomb goes off, we’ll be safe?”

“I’m as sure as I can be,” Lucas said.

She pondered that for a thoughtful moment and nodded. “I’m in too. But I reserve the right to bail at any time.”

“Agreed,” Daniel said. He was in.

All eyes turned to Hunter, who was still staring at the place where Lucas’s hand met mine. I pulled away and folded my hands in my lap, self-conscious.

“You all are crazy. What if she loses control again? Do you really think she can be trusted?” he said, all curled lip and flashing eyes.

Lucas stiffened. “I trust her implicitly.”

“I can see that. Maybe it’s easier when she hasn’t shot someone in your family.”

My hands tightened into a fretful ball. I didn’t open my mouth to defend myself. I had no defense.

“No, but my uncle—Holland—shot someone in hers,” Lucas said. His uncle shot my mom, and yet here I was, trusting him anyway. “It’s okay to want to leave. This is a tough situation, on many levels. And your pain is understandable and fresh, and I’m very sorry for it. But the circumstances are different now. Mila will never be under Quinn’s control again, and that means that I will follow
her until this mission is complete, or she begs me to go away. Her bravery and compassion put a lot of so-called real humans to shame.”

Hunter’s lips thinned. He glanced from face to face, and finally shrugged. But beneath his casual pretense, fire lurked. “I’ll do it. If only to be there when she proves you wrong.”

I flinched. It hurt, of course it did. But even Hunter’s grim prediction couldn’t snuff out the glow ignited by Lucas’s words. Somehow, he believed in me.

Daniel clapped his hands together. “Well, then. If that’s all settled, let’s get to planning. We have a lot of work to do.”

D
aniel passed out laptops and filled everyone in on what Lucas and I had learned so far. He pulled a stool from a closet, and folded his tall frame so he could sit at the table. I was next to Lucas, Hunter sandwiched in between Abby and Samuel.

“Here’s how it’s going to work. Mila will do a few quick online searches and then assign us tasks based on what she finds.”

He opened the laptop and flexed his knuckles until they cracked. Lucas glanced at me, and cleared his throat. “Sir?”

When Daniel looked up, he continued. “The chip. You promised Mila you’d remove it.”

I feigned interest in the table, feeling Hunter’s eyes on me. But I had to be over that now. I couldn’t be ashamed
of who—and what—I was.

“We can do it right here, if there’s enough room,” I said.

Daniel shrugged. “Should work. Let me grab a few things.”

A few things turned out to be a handheld scanner and a probe, with an end that separated into thin, razor-sharp tweezers. Lucas eyed the scanner. “I’ve never seen that technology before.”

“It’s new, something Quinn’s team made. Designed to be unnoticeable.”

While Daniel positioned me with my back to him, I wondered what kind of people would need such technology and why. Maybe I didn’t want to know. Daniel directed Lucas to pull the back of my shirt down. After checking with me for permission, he complied.

I was acutely aware of the others looking on while the scanner hovered over my bare skin. Daniel muttered as he started the search just to the right of my spine, but had to move the scanner left, and then down.

Beep, beep, beep.

BEEP.

“There it is. Things migrate sometimes,” Daniel said.

The probe sank in, its metal cold against my warmed skin.

And then it was all over. “Done!” Daniel pronounced. A tiny dot of metal was clenched between the tweezer tips. He
promptly slid it into a waiting Ziploc.

With that complete, everyone stared at me expectantly. Feeling a little like a circus performer without a net, I started my search.

Secure network: Log on?

The smooth ease of the connection flooded me with relief. Until this moment, I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed using one of my most basic functions. The hum, the flare, the thrill of tapping into something vast and ubiquitous; of being able to reach out and grab whatever information I needed, whenever I wanted. I hadn’t appreciated it before.

As I searched for information on Montford and the Watson Grant, I heard a strange sound.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Water. The faucet outside the RV was dripping. Steady and distinct.

Something about the sound sent a creeping shadow up my spine. Dread, I identified. Then I realized why.

The dripping sounded too much like a countdown. A reminder that inside this RV, nestled among the only people left that I cared about, there was a ticking time bomb.

And that bomb was me.

Shaking off that unsettling notion, I concentrated on the search.

First, I accumulated information on Montford Prep.

Scanning . . . Citations found.

I skimmed through the data and shared what was relevant.

“Montford Prep, founded in 1926. List of deans if needed, current one named Robert Parsons. Seven board members,” I said, sharing the names. “But none of them triggers any links to Holland. If someone wants to follow through on that, though . . .”

“On it,” Samuel said, through a mouthful of chips. He shoved the bag aside and began to type.

“Alumni donations totaling over five million dollars in the last three years alone.”

Samuel whistled. “Must be nice to be rich and douchey.”

When I finished with Montford, I switched gears to the Watson Grant, starting with any former or current recipients.

Searching . . .

To my surprise, only five names pulled up; six if you included Sarah’s.

“The Grant is something new. In fact, Sarah was the first-ever recipient, and the only one that year.”

Daniel swore under his breath, and I couldn’t blame him. He probably wished he’d never heard of the Watson Grant.

“Now, for the current students.”

I whipped through names and descriptions.

Hannah Peckles—a tiny blond computer-science whiz.
In her sophomore year of high school, she’d developed a top-selling iPhone app that created 3D games based on the user’s location.

Ben LaCosta—a lanky redhead with a splattering of freckles across his cheeks and nose. He placed out of college calculus his sophomore year in high school, and had been part of some wunderkind math team that won every time.

Claude Parsons—a boy with a long, oval face, wire-rimmed glasses, and a shock of dark hair, praised by his teachers for his aptitude in language (oh, the things you could learn by hacking into school transcripts!). He’d acquired three before high school—Spanish, French, and German—and then Mandarin by the end of junior year.

Sharon Alexander—an athletically built brunette who had used ad revenue from her popular blog and a Kickstarter campaign to raise a million dollars for the victims of domestic violence.

J. D. Rothschild—really, the only one who sounded like a contender for Samuel’s “rich and douchey” snob title. Whenever J.D. appeared online, he was dressed in trendy but expensive clothes, immaculately groomed to the point where one started to wonder if his family kept a personal hairdresser on staff. His claim to fame was creating a hedge-fund algorithm that increased his family’s wealth by twenty percent.

As I shared these findings with the group, I continued my research.

Cross-referencing names.

A few seconds later, I sagged.

“I can’t find any common link among these kids. Different towns of origin, different interests, no overlap in parents or relatives. The grant claims to be connected to Magnate Enterprises. But that seems to be a dead end—a dummy company.”

“So, they’re all exceptional . . . but in completely different ways,” Lucas mused.

“What about their parents? Are they all rich? Do they have government connections? Any . . . special abilities we should know about, beyond what you’ve mentioned?” Hunter this time, his expression guarded.

“I looked into that, and no,” I said, ignoring his subtle jab at my androidness. “Nothing. I mean, none of them are below poverty line, but that’s about it. No one worked for the government, or even a company with tight government ties. Their parents’ occupations range from doctors and CEOs to school teachers and administrative assistants.”

My useless information washed over the RV, rendering everyone silent. Abby was the first to break it.

“So now what?” she said, resting her chin in her palm.

Samuel slammed a fist on the table. Chips went flying. “Isn’t it obvious? We need to go to the school and investigate. Talk to these kids and see what’s up.”

“I agree,” I said. “We need to figure out what’s going
on there that made Sarah run. Seems like the current grant students are key.”

Daniel flinched at the sound of his dead daughter’s name. He swallowed hard, then nodded, staring at the ceiling as if deep in thought. When he spoke, the words came slowly, almost as if he was reluctant to speak.

“I have an idea. While you were talking, I pulled up the Montford website myself. Looks like they encourage prospective students to come visit the campus and sit in on classes. They even have a program that allows kids to bunk with attending students, spend the night, get the feel of things. You could all pose as prospective students. It’s just . . .”

“Just what?” I asked.

“It’s dangerous, I think is what he’s trying to say,” Lucas said. “If Holland is connected to the school, he might be on the lookout for just this sort of thing. He doesn’t know what they look like, but you . . .”

Hunter’s gaze darted back and forth between Lucas and Daniel, his jaw slack. “Are you out of your minds? You’re not really considering letting . . . her,” he said, emphasizing “her” like he was granting me some kind of concession, “go undercover at a school?”

Lucas stiffened, but Daniel was the one who spoke. “We’re all very aware of what Mila is,” he said mildly.

“Then you should realize that sending her to a school
full of teens is a bad idea. She’s unstable. You didn’t see her back at Quinn’s—I did.” His voice rose, and he paused, hands fisted. “It would be better—safer—for everyone if she stayed behind in the RV.”

He didn’t even glance in my direction.

I pushed to my feet, bumping the table in the process. Samuel’s chips flew off the edge, and he caught them by the edge of the bag.

Hunter hated me. Worse than that—he had reason to.

He’d have to get ready to hate me even more.

“I’m going. End of story. Look, Lucas altered my appearance once—he can alter it again. More. I don’t look exactly like Sarah, and she was only there for a week. I doubt people remember her, and once Lucas is done, it won’t matter anyway.”

I watched Abby and Samuel exchange an uncertain glance. “It’s not just that,” Samuel said, looking apologetic. “Holland—”

“Won’t be hanging out at the school. He’s too busy with his secret lab—he can’t just disappear for days to hang out at Montford. Plus, that would be pretty hard to explain to whoever isn’t a part of—whatever’s going on there—right? A high-ranking military general, showing up out of the blue?”

Hunter’s mouth tightened mutinously, but Lucas nodded. “I agree. And I’ve been tracing his cell phone signal
by remote, anyway. I’ve got it set to alert me the second he steps out of a ten-mile radius beyond his office and home. Besides,” he said, staring straight at me, “Mila has a right to determine what role she plays.”

Hunter opened his mouth, no doubt to protest again. Daniel cut him off. “The simple truth is, we need her. Not all of us together could access as much information as she can, not in a short amount of time. The sooner we get in and out, the better. We’ll make sure everyone exerts as much caution as possible—agreed?”

We all voiced our consent. Everyone except Hunter, who leaned back into his seat, jaw clenched. But at least he was silent.

“Okay,” Daniel continued. “The way I see it—the more kids we can get inside, the better. But I can’t claim you all as mine, so we’ll need some kind of plausible cover story.”

“What if we pretend to be students from a charter school?” Abby suggested. “They’re popping up everywhere these days, right? It wouldn’t make Montford suspicious if they’d never heard of it—most charter schools are pretty new.”

Daniel tapped one finger against his lips. “That could work. We could create an entire school, add you in as students, and I could be your senior teacher, taking you on an approved overnight visit. I think that’s our best bet.”

“Wait,” I said. “Wouldn’t you be at risk for detection?
Haven’t you met the dean before, when Sarah went?”

He shook his head. “No, I was out of town at a conference when Sarah started school. I planned to visit her, but she was home by the time I got back. Maybe if I had been there . . .”

He trailed off, and my heart hurt for him.

He recovered by barking out commands, divvying up projects so that, by morning, we would all have fake personas and online records to match.

We worked late into the night. When someone got too sleepy to function, they headed into the back of the RV, where custom bunk beds and an overhead bed served as temporary resting spots. Daniel provided guidance when needed.

Technically, I didn’t need to sleep, though I had a program that emulated drowsiness once I’d been awake for a specified number of hours. I’d noticed that ever since the desert, though, that drowsy sensation was harder and harder to resist. I wondered if my newly proliferating cells needed rest to grow? Logic dismissed that idea as ludicrous. In humans, sleep cycles were regulated by melatonin and the hypothalamus. I was pretty sure I didn’t have a hypothalamus. My biology was artificial . . . and deadly. As we worked, my hand drifted to my abdomen. To where a monster slumbered, waiting to devour me at a madman’s whim.

If I focused really hard . . . I inhaled through my nostrils,
closed my eyes. Let my sensors roam freely, flooding my brain with their data.

Scanning.

Scanning.

A blip of recognition from my lower abdominal quadrant.

There.

It disappeared before I could trace the path. A slippery bit of nothing, vanishing with a beat of my phantom heart but leaving behind a lingering sense of dread.

And there went the faucet again.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The walls of the RV seemed to close in around me, and I jumped to my feet. “I’m going out to get some air.”

The door clicked as I walked out into the crisp night. An owl hooted in the distance while I focused on breathing: in, out, in, out. Anything to calm the rising panic beneath my ribs. The bomb wasn’t activated. I was still safe. Somehow, Lucas and I would figure out a way to disarm it. Hopefully before Holland drank a little too much one night and decided to flip the switch on a whim.

But if we didn’t . . .

The door snapped open behind me, and footsteps headed my way. Measured, steady, heavy.

Daniel stopped two paces back. “Everything okay?”

My hands balled into fists. Part of my heart still longed
for him, this father of Sarah’s that I’d never known. And I’d appreciated his support, back in the RV. But I couldn’t forget that he’d set me up to be captured by Quinn. And those emails . . .

I didn’t turn. “Why do you care? After all, I never should have existed, right?”

In the few seconds of silence that followed, I could sense his confusion. Then he uttered a muffled curse. “The emails,” he said flatly. “How did you find them?”

“Lucas.”

He sighed. “You have to understand what I was going through. Look at me,” he said. When I didn’t budge, he added a soft plea. “Please.”

As though my feet disagreed with my mind, I felt my body turning until I faced him.

“Losing a child is the hardest thing that can ever happen in life. No one will ever convince me differently. I was half-mad with grief. Nicole and I both were. We just dealt with it in different ways. She clung to hope, while I chose to be cynical. I’m not saying I was wrong, not back then. But now . . .”