Contagious? No wonder Tamara Wahl had been crying—she probably believed it, too, that I was out here infecting Tyler as we spoke.
I shook my head. “He’s lying, Mom. I’m not infected with anything. That’s not what he wants from me. He wants to do experiments—to hurt me.”
But when she answered me, there wasn’t a hint of flexibility, and she no longer sounded like she was losing it. “No, Kyra, you’re wrong. You’re confused. You need to turn yourself in so he can help. That’s all he wants, is to help you. They all just want to help before it’s too late.”
My face fell as I turned to stare out the side window. “Mom—”
I thought about the message she’d left me, the text that had been on my phone right before the people from the NSA had pulled up in front of our house: Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be home soon.
She hadn’t been on her way home. She’d known then. Agent Truman had gotten to her and filled her head with lies, and she’d given him permission to come and take me. To “help” me.
For all Tyler’s words about family and that it was a parent’s job to protect us no matter what, my mother had been willing to hand me over to a bunch of strangers who’d lied to her, without even talking to me.
Simon was right; I couldn’t trust anyone.
Not even my own mother. My mom.
I hung up on her and sat there clutching the cell phone in my fist while tears streamed down my face. I wondered why—when I’d been taken—they couldn’t have stripped me of my emotions too. Because it sucked to feel this way: betrayed and alone.
Tyler didn’t move or say anything right away. He knew, of course. It was written all over my tear-streaked face.
And then the phone in my hand made a strange, clicking sound, and my eyes flew wide as I gaped at it. The call was over. But the phone had come back to life, and the screen was all lit up.
The message on the face flashed: CONNECTING . . .
CONNECTING . . .
CONNECTING . . .
“Dammit,” I cursed, throwing the phone—Tyler’s phone—away from me. How had I been so careless, so stupid? Of course they’d traced the call. Agent Truman had probably been there the whole time, standing over my mother’s shoulder as he listened in on us, tapping the phone line to find out exactly where we were. “Dammit, dammit, dammit!”
Tyler was reaching for his keys now, too, understanding clear on his face as he snatched the phone and chucked it out the driver’s side window. “Let’s get outta here.”
Standing at the open door to my dad’s trailer, it was hard to say for sure if his place had been trashed or not.
Using the disposable cell phone Simon had given me, I had dialed my dad’s number at least half a dozen times on our way to his place. When he didn’t answer any of my calls, I’d finally turned off the phone and thrown it on the seat between us.
“It’s gonna be okay,” Tyler had offered consolingly. “When we get there you can talk to him in person. If anyone’ll understand, it’s him.”
“Yeah?” I’d challenged, in no mood to be comforted. “That’s what you said about my mom.”
I’d shut down for the rest of the drive, sulking because I was good at it—always had been. It wasn’t Tyler’s fault, but it was easier to be pissed at him than to admit how terrified I was. I didn’t want my dad to turn on me the way my mom had.
“Looks like they’ve already been here,” Tyler said when we saw the wreckage, which would have been stating the obvious if I hadn’t already seen my dad’s place on a “normal” day.
“I don’t know . . . it’s hard to tell.” I had no way of knowing whether the unlocked door should alarm me, but I stepped inside cautiously, kicking scattered newspaper out of my way. There were dirty dishes piled in the sink and on the countertops, and stacked on the kitchen table.
I assumed Tyler picked up on my meaning and wisely chose not to state the obvious, that my dad’s place was gross.
But beyond the grossness of it, something felt off. The skin at the back of my neck stretched tight, and the tiny hairs at the nape stood on end. “Nancy!” I called out, wishing more than anything that the mutty dog would lope in and greet me sloppily with her molten-brown eyes and her big, fat, juicy tongue. I thought about the way she’d placed her head in my lap and stared up at me all dreamily. She wouldn’t spurn me just because some stupid agent told her I was no longer who she thought I should be.
My hopeful plea was met with silence while that something-is-off feeling nagged at me.
I walked warily toward the hallway, kicking more and more of the litter out of my path, until it no longer seemed like just the clutter of a drunken slob. I looked down, paying more attention to the debris in my way, and recognized the papers I was wading through.
These were my father’s files and clippings, his maps and charts and missing-person fliers, all leading the way to his room like a haphazard trail. The door at the end of the hallway stood ajar, but it was the handprint on the door that made me stop dead in my tracks.
“Dad?” I called out, dread snaking its way around my windpipe. I was terrified about what I might find on the other side of that door.
Behind me, Tyler reached for my hand, and every muscle in my body tensed. “You stay out here,” he whispered, but I shook my head vehemently.
“I need to know.” And even though my voice shook, I’d already made up my mind. I needed to see for myself if that was my dad’s bloodied handprint. To know without a doubt if he was in there. Because if he was, it was all my fault.