Outbreak (8 page)

The plane lands shortly after my nightmare and I debark without looking at anyone. I want as much distance as possible between myself and my shame. I go to the car rental desk, pull out my fresh ID—Janice Jones—and secure a car. I will change my identity again. Once I figure out what to do. Where to go.

The drive is peaceful. The leaves are a mix of green and gold as the central coast slips into an early fall. Clouds dot a bright sky. With each mile, the stress of the past few days eases. My chest begins to open, my breath no longer labored.

I clear my mind and enjoy a moment of peace while I can. The miles tick by and I realize that I need to train. LeMercier will find me again. David will continue to search. I must block them both and hide myself away. Secure my dreams. Memories of David start before I can prevent them. Hours spent arguing about training and using my abilities. As much as I hate to admit it, David was right. If I want to survive, I must embrace my skills.

At least some of them.

I’ve never spent much time training. Josh talked about it when we first left Cambria, briefed me on subtle ways to resist attacks. How to maintain a shield to block out the noise and hide my thoughts. I wish I had paid a more attention to him.

“It’s natural for you,” David would say every time I expressed frustration about learning the skills. “Learn to let go and trust your instincts.”

My instincts are what got me into this mess,
I think. My willingness to kill. How am I supposed to learn to manage that instinct and still practice? I don’t know where to start.

As soon as the thought forms, Mom’s voice fills my mind. A smile involuntarily spreads across my lips. It fades with the tone of her voice. “Go home, Dakota. Everything you need is home.”

Not everything. Not Josh. Not Mom.

My house looks exactly as it does in my dreams. I climb the steps and push down on the door handle. Locked. Reaching deep into my backpack, I retrieve the key I haven’t needed in months. A quick turn and I’m inside.

Everything is different than I expect. Clean. Gone are the upturned pieces of furniture, smashed picture frames and scattered remnants of my life. The house is exactly as Mom would’ve want it—neat and organized.

I walk through the living room and up the stairs. No dust coats the railing, no pictures are askew. My mind flashes to the last time I was here. The time with Josh. The house had been destroyed, room after room searched by those who cared nothing for our lives.

For the third time in as many days I think about my mom, wondering if she could have somehow survived the attack in February and returned home. Impossible. If she survived she’d come for Josh and me, right? She’d search for us and made sure we’re safe. She’d find me and tell me about my past. She’d fill in every missing piece.

She’d have done these things, wouldn’t she?

I reach the top of the stairs and walk toward my room. The door is closed. My breath catches in my throat as my heartbeat roars in my ears.

It’s okay,
I say to myself.
Relax
. I center my mind and open the door slowly, unsure of what I’ll find.

My room is perfect, cleaner than I’ve ever kept it. My clothes are neatly arranged in my closet. No papers litter my desk. It looks like a showroom, staged and lifeless.

My brow creases. Who did this? How?

I open the drawers of my desk and dresser. Everything seems right, exactly as it should be. And yet, I can’t help but think that something is terribly wrong.

I go through the rest of the house in shock. There is no evidence that anything bad ever happened here. Nothing that proves the events of the last six months ever happened at all.

But they did. I know they did.

I wander to Dad’s study. It looks like the rest of the house, unnervingly perfect. Walking to the massive desk, I look at the floor. Deep scratches poke out from one corner of the desk and disappear under a rug.

I stoop down to take a closer look. The scratches are darker than I remember, like someone had tried to fix them. I move the rug and give the desk a strong push. The wood creaks and moves less than an inch. Again I push. And again.

It’s no use, I’m not strong enough to move the heavy desk alone. I trace the scratches with my thumb, satisfied that they prove that my life wasn’t a complete illusion. The past six months really did happen.

And someone else came and cleaned the evidence away. Someone who didn’t want the truth of what happened to be discovered. But who?

Mom? Dad?

—I won’t permit myself to indulge in the fantasy that they survived, not when I can still here their screams.

LeMercier?

—he is the best choice. He probably sent a team to clean up after Josh and I left.

WITSEC?

—another good choice. Wouldn’t want anyone to know exactly how much they screwed up, even if it was my fault.

I go back upstairs, contemplating every option. A picture of Josh catches my eye, my heart. My chest grows heavy. Tears fill my eyes. “Why aren’t you here?” I ask the picture. “You promised you’d never leave. Why did you leave?”

Because you died. Protecting me.

I run to my room and close the door. The tears come before I reach my bed. I flatten my face against my pillow and scream. Months of pain pour from me, every feeling of guilt or shame, every loss and betrayal. I empty it all within the safety of my room. Raw, empty, and exhausted I roll over.

And allow the world to fall away

I wake to the sound of the front door opening. Instantly, my senses are on fire. Long shadows spread across the floor of my room as day slips into dusk. I close my eyes and listen. The heavy front door creaks as it closes. Lights turn on and someone moves through the house.

My instincts take over and I travel from my room to the hall in a series of fluid motions. I slip into the shadows and picture myself blending into the walls. Josh sneaks into my thoughts. He was so much better at camouflage than me.
Focus,
I tell myself.

More sounds float up and surround me. I slink toward the stairs and peak around the corner. All I can see of the intruder is her back as she rifles through papers before placing them on the small table near the door. She turns and my instincts take over.

In moments, she grabs her throat and gags, unable to breath. I take a tentative step down the stairs. Our eyes meet as her face begins to redden.

“Elaine?” I snap to my senses and release my hold on my best friend.

She coughs and collapses to her knees.

“Elaine,” I say again. Taking the stairs in twos, I race toward her.

What have I done?

Elaine reaches for me as she sucks in great gulps of air. I rub her back, tell her to relax, breathe.

Silently, I berate my carelessness. This is why I can’t be trusted, why I shouldn’t be near anyone that I love.

“Dakota? Is it really you?” Elaine whispers. Fear colors the lines of her face.

“Are you okay?”

She nods. “I don’t know what happened. One minute I’m looking around and the next minute my throat closes and I can’t breathe. It felt like I was being choked from behind.”

Guilt coats my mouth. I fight off the urge to confess my sins and beg her forgiveness. “Do you feel better now?” I ask instead.

“Much.”

I help her to stand and she fixates on me. “I can’t believe you’re here. When did you get back?”

“A few hours ago,” I say. “Why are you here?”

“I’ve been watching the place. I got a letter from your mom a few days after you went to the . . .” Elaine hesitates.

“Hospital.”

“Yes, after you went to the hospital. She asked me to keep an eye on the place while the family was gone.” Elaine’s eyes meet mine and I’m touched by the concern I see reflected there. Her voice drops to a near whisper. “I wasn’t sure if I would see you again. You never called. Reached out.”

More guilt flows through me. I know how she feels, how I felt when David left. The betrayal and pain.

“I’m sorry, Elaine. I wanted to call you, write. Something. It’s been . . . hard.”

“It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re here now. Where are your parents? Didn’t they come back too?”

My brain struggles to process the words. What can I say that will make sense of everything? I don’t know where to begin so I do the only thing I can think of and change the subject. “The place is really clean. Did you do that?”

Elaine lets her question go unanswered. “Yeah. After I got the letter and the key I came over. The place looked like something out of a horror movie. The furniture was turned over. Drawers were smashed and tossed around. It was a mess. I thought someone had robbed the place, but after I cleaned and put everything back it didn’t seem like anything was missing.”

I don’t know what to say.

“Do you see anything missing? We can still file a police report. I called them—”

“Wait. What? You called the police? When?” My mind grows frantic.

“Yeah, after I saw the house. I wasn’t sure if everything was okay, if you guys were safe. So I called the police.”

My skin erupts in gooseflesh. “What did they say?” My voice is calm, unlike my insides.

“They said it was probably just a bunch of kids looking to steal drugs. Nothing to worry about.”

I release the breath I hadn’t realized I held.

“They did want me to contact them once you guys came back though. And they suggested that you inventory the house, just to make sure nothing of value is missing.”

Apprehension filters through me. “Um, okay. I can talk to the police later. Right now I just need to chill. It’s a lot to take in.” I shake my head and turn away, unsure where to steer the uncomfortable conversation. “I’m glad you’re here,” I finally say. I turn to my best friend and embrace her. “I’ve missed you.” Tears prick the back of my eyelids and I pull away.

“I’ve missed you too.” She stares through me. Her expression screams unspoken questions.

“I’m okay,” I offer. “I didn’t go completely crazy.”

Elaine smiles. “I knew you didn’t. I mean, you’re fine.”

Is she trying to convince me or herself?

“You were just stressed. All that talk about Gabe and David and leaving. It messed with your head.”

“Something like that.” I turn and walk toward the kitchen. “I don’t suppose you brought any food with you? I’m starving.”

“Wasn’t planning on being here for very long,” Elaine says. “How about this, we’ll inventory the house, order pizza and I’ll stay over. We can catch up, just like the old days. Cool?”

“Perfect.”

Elaine and I make small talk as we walk through the house and inventory my valuables. “It seems like everything is here,” I say. I flip the lights on as we pass from room to room. “I expected the electricity to be off. I mean, we haven’t paid the bill in a few months.”

“Your mom’s letter said everything was paid through the end of the year—the mortgage, utilities, everything. I think they expected all of you to be gone,” Elaine says. More unanswered questions float in the air.

“Hmm.” There is nothing else I can say.

“I get the sense that your family was prepared for this. That all of you would be away.”