Don't Turn Around (11 page)

Linux was a survivor like her, she reasoned. Despite his scraggly appearance, he probably had a half dozen people in the neighborhood leaving out food for him. She couldn’t worry about him right now.

Noa checked her email. Nothing new from Vallas, so he’d either given up or was angry about her slow response. She chewed her lip, debating whether or not to send him an email. She could just give him the other files. But she was worried about what he planned to have /ALLIANCE/ do with them. She needed to find out more first. She’d have to finish going through the folder branded with her name.

Noa opened another document and started skimming it. To keep track, she’d categorized them into subfolders as she identified them—that way she wouldn’t end up going through the same material twice. One was labeled “Stats,” another “BS” (for the unintelligible doctor’s notes), and a third, “Possible.” This third category was the most promising. Even so, 99 percent of the contents was scientific jargon that went over her head. But Noa was convinced that if she could decipher enough of it, she’d be able to figure out what was going on. Three documents in, Noa stumbled across a typed summary of some sort of experiment. She couldn’t understand everything—it was a quagmire of words like
histopathology,
encephalopathy,
and
hemizygous and homozygous cervidized
—but the gist was that some sort of operation had been performed. It made reference to other charts and documents, and on the final line, which read, “Results,” someone had typed: “Pos/Neg: see note.”

Unfortunately the note was apparently in another document. Noa cursed under her breath. She’d copied backups from the AMRF’s main server, and they were in a jumble, with no overriding order or organization. The original files and folders were probably arranged in a way that made sense on a separate network.

Noa was skimming a study on “transgenic mice,” whatever those were, when an email alert popped up on her sidebar.

She went back to her inbox and frowned: another message from the mysterious A6M0. This time the subject was
GET OUT NOW
.

Noa sat up straight and opened the email, a feeling of dread growing in the pit of her stomach. The single line read:
You’re not safe there. Leave now
.

She chewed her lip. Who was sending these? And why were they messing with her like this?

Noa quickly went to the window and pulled aside the curtain, looking down at the street below. It was poorly lit, just a few streetlamps spaced far apart. She couldn’t see much in the shadows, but it didn’t look like there was anyone out there. She stood there uncertainly, debating. She’d left the messenger bag by the door the night before, packed with everything but her laptop, jacket, shoes, and the clothes she was wearing. Paranoid, but she wanted to be able to leave quickly if necessary. Should she go? It was freezing outside, and she was already cold. This was probably just someone trying to spook her, or even flush her out, forcing her back out on the streets where they had a better shot at finding her.

She decided to ignore the warning and went back to her laptop. But another email had already popped up from the same sender. The subject line was the address for the apartment.

Noa’s hands started shaking so hard she could barely center the mouse to click it open. She froze. The body of the message was a jpg of a building at night. In the single lit window, she caught a glimpse of her profile peeking out from behind the curtain.

Someone had taken the photo minutes before when she’d checked the street. Which meant they were right outside.

Noa slammed the laptop shut and skidded across the room, jamming it into the messenger bag. She struggled to pull on her boots—thank God she hadn’t gotten the kind that laced up. Tugged on her jacket and did one last check of the room.

As she closed the front door behind her, the elevator bell chimed.

Noa raced for the emergency stairwell at the end of the hall. She heard a shout, and glanced back over her shoulder. No security guards this time, just a bunch of big men dressed in black. She pushed open the door and launched herself down the stairs. She could hear them tearing down the hall after her.

Peter rang the dorm buzzer again. He’d tried texting and calling Amanda, but she wasn’t picking up, even though it wasn’t that late. Which made him a little worried—could she still be pissed off about what he’d said earlier?

Peter checked his watch: a little past midnight. It had taken forever to get here without a car. He’d left his Prius at the house, with Bob’s speech about how spoiled he was ringing in his ears.
Screw them,
he’d thought—he didn’t need any of it. So he’d hiked a few miles to the nearest T station and waited what seemed like forever for a train to arrive. He’d just gotten to the point where he was worried that he’d missed the last train when one pulled into the station. He’d had to change trains twice to get here, each time forced to wait at least a half hour. Now he was exhausted, starving, physically and emotionally drained. It was freezing outside, too. Ice had formed a solid layer over the pavement and wind gusted over it, sending scattered leaves racing across the surface like speed skaters.

Laughter sounded out behind him. Peter turned to see two figures making their way down the path that led to the dorm: a girl and boy, walking together. The walk was slippery, but not so treacherous that the girl needed to clutch the guy’s arm the way she was. His head was bent toward her, and he said something. The girl tilted her chin up, laughing in response, and Peter’s heart clenched.

It was Amanda.

When they were ten feet away, she saw him. The guy with her looked up, too, then asked, “What is it?”

Amanda murmured something. They paused, then kept walking toward him.

Peter tucked his hands in his pockets. His stomach wound in on itself in a tight gyre as Amanda stopped in front of him.

“Peter,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“I tried calling, but your phone must be off.”

“I had study group.” Abruptly she took her hand off the guy’s arm, as if she’d just noticed it was there.

Peter examined him: six feet tall, black hair, blue eyes, square jaw. Wearing jeans and a toggled wool coat. Standard prom king, the kind of guy who quarterbacked the football team, edited the school paper, and became valedictorian. The exact type Peter had always detested. Reflexively, Peter looked down: leather shoes. How could Amanda like a guy who wore leather shoes? “I’m Peter,” he said, jutting out his hand. “Amanda’s boyfriend.”

“Drew.” The guy shook, his smile tight. “I didn’t know Amanda had a boyfriend.”

They both looked at her. A small part of Peter was happy to see Amanda shift uncomfortably.

“Well, Peter and I are …”

“We’re what?” Peter demanded when she didn’t finish.

“What’s in the bag?” she asked, brow furrowing. “Are you going somewhere?”

“It’s cold,” Drew said. “I should probably get going.”

“Good idea,” Peter said. “See ya.”

Amanda hesitated, then waved her key card over the door. It clicked open, and Peter pulled it wide, holding it open for her. Before walking off, Drew called back over his shoulder, “See you in class, Amanda.”

“Sure,” she said. “Bye.”

She ducked inside and waited for Peter, but wouldn’t meet his eyes. In silence, he followed her up a flight of stairs to her dorm room.

Amanda lived in a single suite, which meant that she technically had her own room, but had to go through an outside bedroom to get to it. Mercifully, her roommate, Diem, wasn’t there.

“She’s been gone all week,” Amanda said, passing by the unmade bed. “New boyfriend, I think.”

Peter didn’t say anything. She walked into her room and flicked on a lamp that was draped with a scarf to mute the light. She sank down on the bed and pulled off her knit Ugg boots. She still hadn’t met Peter’s eyes.

He dropped the duffel to the floor, but remained standing. It was a small room, rendered smaller by all the decorating she’d done. Amanda had pinned enormous swaths of fabric across the ceiling to hide the ugly tiles, and covered the floor with overlapping woven rugs. The walls were decorated with signs from the various rallies she’d attended over the years: PETA, NOW, Teens in Trouble, GLAAD. Oversized throw pillows dotted the floor, and an orange IKEA butterfly chair sat in a corner. Above her bed hung the standard print of Che Guevara that Peter figured they must hand out to everyone on registration day. The first time he’d visited, he’d jokingly nicknamed it the “überradical opium den.”

Now, instead of feeling colorful and exotic and inviting, the room struck him as claustrophobic. Amanda still hadn’t spoken. Finally, he asked, “Are you seeing that guy?”

She shook her head. “We’re just friends.”

“Yeah? Because it looked like—”

“I said, we’re just friends.” Amanda pushed off the bed and crossed the room. On top of the built-in vanity she had an electric teakettle. She shook it to see if it was full, then pressed the on button. Without turning around she asked, “Why are you here, Peter?”

“My parents kicked me out.”

“What?” She swiveled, her face scrunching up with concern. “Why?”

“I don’t know. They got pissed because I was trying to find out more about that thing. You know, what I told you about at brunch today.”

Her face had gone blank, and Peter wondered if she’d even been listening that morning. “They kicked you out because someone stole your laptop?”

“He didn’t steal it, he just … that’s not the point.”

“What is the point?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Let me guess: You want to stay here.”

“Yeah, I do.” His turn to shift. “Why? Isn’t that okay?”

“It’s just that—” Amanda ran a hand through her wavy hair. “I mean, I’ve got class early tomorrow.”

“So we’ll just sleep,” Peter said, remembering her expression when she looked up at Drew.
Drew
. He even hated the guy’s name.

Amanda stretched her hands up and dropped her head back. “It’s fine, whatever,” she said. “I’m going to brush my teeth. If you want some tea, help yourself.”

She gathered up her shower kit and slipped on a pair of Moroccan slippers, then left the room.

Peter sank down on the bed. Tea was the last thing he wanted. He wasn’t sure he could sleep anymore, either, even though he felt completely wiped out. Truth be told, all he wanted was to lie down and start crying, and he hadn’t shed a tear in years.

Peter lay back against the pillows and crossed his hands behind his head, staring up at the paisley pattern that billowed slightly in the wind from the heating vent. The whole room smelled vaguely of lavender and patchouli, a scent Peter always associated with Amanda. There was a framed photo on her bedside table. She was a kid in the picture, around twelve years old. An older boy with braces, her brother, Marcus, had an arm wrapped around her shoulders. They both looked healthy and happy. She’d told him once that it was the last good photo she had of her brother. Soon after that Marcus started using, and in later photos you could see him literally wasting away. Then he’d run off and vanished from the family photo albums entirely.

It was a common bond they’d discovered, that they both knew the pain of losing a sibling. Peter wondered if Drew had any idea what that was like. Probably not—he looked like the type of guy whose entire life had been too easy, who’d never lost anything important.

Peter turned on his side to face the wall. When Amanda came back in, he pretended to have already fallen asleep.

Noa raced down the stairs, taking them two at a time. The messenger bag bounced against her side painfully, and there was a throb of protest in her chest—apparently it hadn’t healed enough for her to be sprinting. She ignored the pain, panic driving her onward. The stairwell door was thrown open above her, followed by the sound of heavy boots clomping downstairs. No yelling this time, which somehow made her pursuers even more frightening.

The studio apartment was on the fifth floor. Noa had no idea where the emergency stairwell let out, if she’d end up in the lobby or on the street. Or if there’d be anyone else waiting for her down there. It sounded like the men chasing her were gaining. She pushed every thought out of her mind, focusing solely on moving faster. At the bottom of the stairs was a plain wooden door with a paddle handle. She hit it at a dead run and shoved through it …

… straight into another guy dressed in black. He’d half-turned toward the door as it opened. Right before she crashed into him, his eyes went wide with recognition. Her momentum sent them flying backward through the building lobby. Noa landed hard on top of him, knocking her head against his collarbone.

She fought to disentangle herself during the valuable few seconds before he recovered from the surprise. The guy was looking stupidly at her, wheezing—there’d been a crack; maybe he’d broken a rib when he hit the ground. She leaped to her feet and started running again. The stairwell door slammed open behind her and someone yelled, “Hey!”

She pushed through the front door. The temperature had dropped, and the cold air hit her like a slap. She skidded on a patch of black ice right in front of the building and almost went flying, but her bootheel caught the edge of a sidewalk brick at the last second, stabilizing her.

Noa headed right, toward the nearest corner. She figured her best shot at losing them was in the shadowed side streets. She kept checking for a gap in the buildings, a way to duck into a backyard, but everything was fenced off.

She didn’t know this section of Boston well, which was the main reason she’d chosen it, figuring they wouldn’t be looking for her here. Cambridge was dominated by the Harvard campus. The small dwellings lining the street mainly housed faculty and students. All the windows were dark and shaded, the streets empty.

Noa cut right up the next street. She could still hear them behind her. She wasn’t a fast runner, even when she was in shape. She wouldn’t be able to keep up this pace for more than another minute or two. Her lungs felt raw and chafed and the cold air made it worse, like every inhale was a piece of glass slashing at them.