Overtaken (8 page)

Through the window I could see Chase's body stiffen, stewing with rage.

“No, thanks,” I responded with a polite but hesitant smile. “I'm meeting a friend.”

Cochran didn't react or smile back. “Don't let me keep you.” He just continued to stare in my direction, eyes hidden behind reflective lenses. Studying me, scrutinizing me.

A shudder of fear ran down my spine. I could've sworn Cochran was trying to read my thoughts, bore inside my brain. I held my stare and half smiled, determined not to be cowed or look away, all the while trying to erect an impenetrable Berlin Wall to protect me—from what, I didn't know.

Our brief contest of wills concluded when the driver's window abruptly rolled up, concealing Cochran behind the tinted glass. And the car drove off, leaving the school grounds.

“That was intense,” quipped Oliver as he walked over to where I stood, watching the Mercedes as it disappeared down the street. “Trying to do a Vulcan mind meld?”

“If only I could,” I replied with a fatalistic sigh. “Then I'd know what the hell's going on around here.”

“What if there was another option?” Oliver teased with a sly smile.

“I'm all ears, Spock.”

•  •  •

“Wait,” I urged Oliver as we hoofed it through town on foot, sticking mostly to the quieter residential streets where there was little traffic. “Telling Cochran you're his son is extremely risky. There's still too much we don't know.” I was diligently watching every vehicle that drove by to make sure Bar Tech Security or any other suspicious cars weren't tailing us on our way home.

“Whatever Bar Tech wants from us, I don't want to be a part of it,” Oliver announced as he shrugged off my concerns. “They can't force us to do anything. Bar Tech doesn't own us.”

“Not yet,” I warned. “Did you forget what they did to Maya? Things may be weirdly quiet for the moment, but don't be fooled. Cochran is planning something.”

“Problem is that Cochran doesn't see us as people,” Oliver countered, “but as his genetic experiments. Investments. If I can get close to him, maybe I can persuade him that he's got it all wrong.”

“How?” I looked at Oliver, hoping he had something clever up his sleeve. “What's your brilliant plan? That he'll welcome you with open arms?” While I really wanted to believe my friend was right, I wasn't convinced that he or any of us were in a position to change minds. Our destinies? Perhaps. But Cochran's plans? Highly doubtful anyone was going to be able to move that powerful billion-dollar mountain.

“That's the thing, Nica,” Oliver replied with a hesitant laugh. “My brilliant plan requires help. Your help.”

“If you're going to approach Cochran, it might be best to do it on your own. One-on-one.”

“First I need proof.”

“I doubt Cochran will consent to a cheek swab for some DNA.” I was becoming warier by the second.

“Who says the DNA has to be from him?” Oliver shot me a long look, signaling that he had an alternate strategy.

I stopped in my tracks and stared at him, suddenly catching his drift. “You're talking about getting Chase's DNA.”

Oliver nodded. “Just need a few strands of hair to prove he and I are brothers. No big deal.”

“You can't seriously expect me to volunteer for that,” I proclaimed, “especially when I've been doing everything in my power to avoid being alone with him.”

Great. Oliver's plan started with me getting up close and personal with Chase. This was one situation where I wasn't sure how I felt about having Oliver's back.

“It'll be easy,” countered Oliver. “It's not like Chase will miss a few strands of his precious golden locks.”

“Okay,” I said, trying to wrap my brain around this scheme. “Let's suppose for the sake of argument that I can actually get you some of his hair, then what?”

“I send it to one of those fancy labs with my own DNA and get back scientific proof that we share the same genes. Same father. It'll make it impossible for Cochran to turn me away.”

And there lay my quandary: I could do what Oliver was asking and help him reunite with a man that I not only didn't trust but was convinced was actively evil, or I could risk one of my only friendships in Barrington by saying no. This was an impossible situation with way too many variables.

“How can you be sure Cochran doesn't know the truth already?”

“Because my mother never told him,” answered Oliver, eyes moistening, emotions bubbling to the surface. “That night after the accident, when I saw my mom lying in the hospital . . . Everything suddenly became crystal clear. If she'd really been hurt . . . if something had happened to her . . . I'd be all alone.”

Oliver's deep longing to connect with the father he never knew and fill that hole in his heart was palpable and real. And I didn't want to stand in Oliver's way to connect with his own father. But if he had to follow his heart, I had to follow my head.

“Oliver, I . . . just wish you'd wait.”

It took a second for my reluctance and resistance to register with him, but after it did, his face went ash white.

“You're turning me down?” Oliver's shoulders slumped. He looked so crushed and disheartened, as if someone close to him had died.

“I can't imagine how difficult this all must be . . . what you're going through. But there are so many things that can go wrong. Things that can expose you in ways you don't even know about. I just can't be a part of you putting yourself in a vulnerable position to be taken advantage of. Or worse.”

“I better get going,” muttered Oliver, barely making eye contact with me.

“Oliver . . .” At a loss for the right words, I stood there feeling helpless and torn apart about turning my best friend down.

Before I could apologize and say I was sorry, Oliver turned and ran off, practically leaving me in a cloud of dust. This was not how I'd planned for the afternoon to go.

I had turned onto my street, relieved to see my house looming in the distance, when my pocket buzzed. I reached for my phone, hoping it was Oliver. Our conversation had been cut way too short. And I'd been swimming in an ocean of regret about how badly I had (mis) handled the situation. Maybe there was another way to deal with the whole father issue that I hadn't considered. If Oliver and I just sat down and really worked it out, maybe we could—

The text was from an unknown number. I tapped it open with my thumb.

Won't find answers if you ask the wrong questions.

I stopped dead and looked around, suddenly feeling eyes on my back that were not there. My breathing sped up and my heart rate spiked. I clenched my jaw and focused, determined to keep my invisibility at bay. Paranoia be damned. I was going to keep myself under control. Who had my number? Why didn't they say who they were? I summarized them all as one:

What?

The answer didn't come right away. I had enough time to scoot off the street and into my house, where I felt like I could breathe again. Without thinking about it, I retreated to a bathroom with no windows as if to say,
Try it—invade my privacy now.

My phone buzzed. I held it up.
1 New Message
. My finger hovered. Whatever the message contained, I had the sneaking suspicion it was going to make matters more complicated, not less. Maybe I should just ignore it; pretend I'd never received it. Or better yet, pretend it had never been sent. The little “message” symbol taunted me. It teased a mystery, and like always, I couldn't resist. I swept my thumb to the side and opened it.

9918 North Elm
.

The address sounded familiar, though I couldn't place it. Somewhere off Main Street in the heart of town. I could only assume the mystery texter wanted to meet. I headed to my room to shake off my school clothes and put on something more appropriate for espionage. All black seemed a safe bet.

•  •  •

9918 North Elm. My eyes pinged off my phone and then to the gold numbers fastened to the storefront. I'd expected a dark parking garage or a back alley. Maybe a wooded area or an abandoned sewer tunnel. But I was way off. This was where the texter wanted to meet: Ebinger's Bakery. Great. Way to make sneaking around nice and easy, Mystery Texter. Send me to a place where a classmate or neighbor might be stopping in to get snacks or coffee. Next time maybe we could meet in the cafeteria during lunch. It would be about as private.

For a minute I considered slipping away. I thought about turning invisible and waiting for someone to open the door so I could sneak in without raising any suspicions. Of course, this presented the problem of how I could reappear in the small, tight space to greet the mystery texter without anyone noticing. It would be almost impossible. Not to mention my ability was still highly unpredictable. I also had to consider the fact that whoever had texted me wasn't necessarily a friend. Sure, it seemed like I was onto something good here, but what if it was a trap? What if I was being followed or watched? What if someone was trying to trick me into going invisible so they could prove I had a power? I couldn't take that chance. Besides, I had to assume that the mystery texter was indeed on my side and that they had thought this plan through enough to execute it without putting either of us in an awkward (or potentially dangerous) situation. With that, I wrapped my fingers around the chilly metal doorknob and pushed my way inside.

As I stepped inside the bakery, my senses dialed to eleven as I took in my surroundings. All it would take was a wave or a greeting from a friendly classmate to call attention to me and possibly ruin the whole meeting. I mentally cataloged everyone inside: a few grandparents, soccer moms, and a man in a dark-blue suit. My brain swam in a flood of endorphins as I realized any of these people could be the mystery texter. Who could it be? One of the soccer moms laughing and chatting over croissants? I imagined that one of them had a baby like me, whose very DNA was warped by Bar Tech's experiments. Maybe she didn't want her children to end up like us. Or could it be one of the grandparents? They all sat alone, reading newspapers—exactly the way I imagined a secret source would wait for someone. What motivation could they have, though? Was it possible that one was a disgruntled Bar Tech exec? A whistleblower whose conscience was finally getting the better of her?

Truth was, my mysterious texter could be anybody.

The only person who looked up when I sounded the door chime was the buttoned-up man in the dark-blue suit. I stared for a moment too long and his gaze caught mine. I quickly looked away, hoping he would just ignore me. He didn't make a sound or even a gesture as I moved past him.

So who was left? Maya? I didn't think so, but then again I hadn't heard from her in days. Maybe she'd gone incommunicado because she'd worked her way into a position where she could play both sides. Not something as big as working for Bar Tech, but maybe she'd made a friend on the road who knew something the rest of us didn't. Maybe she couldn't risk getting caught by continuing to text us, but once she got close enough to learn something important, she'd decided to reach out again. The bigger question was if she would really risk being seen in Barrington again. In any case, I had no choice but to settle in and wait.

With my head down, I headed straight for the counter to order a coffee. A guy I recognized from school—sporting a name tag that dubbed him
NOAH
—took my order. He had a surfer's cool but with a scientist's intense eyes—the kind that noticed everything.

I was on edge, so it could've been my imagination, but I could swear he was staring at me suspiciously. I ordered a coffee and scooted away to find a place to wait for my not-so-secret rendezvous.

I cozied into a chair by the door and gulped down coffee in an attempt to calm my jangling nerves. I felt Noah's eyes on my back and tried to focus on something mundane until before I knew it, I'd finished a second and a third cup of coffee and was quite buzzed and ready to leave. By now the bakery had started to empty out, the sun was long gone, and my dad was probably beginning to wonder where I was. He hadn't texted, so I was most likely in the clear, but not for much longer. I couldn't wait here all night, but I couldn't resist my curiosity.

What if the texter knew that? What if this was all some sick joke being orchestrated by someone who wanted to see how long I'd play along? As that possibility loomed large in my mind, I grew agitated. The coffee I'd been sipping for the past seventy minutes didn't exactly curb my emotions. My inner switch had flipped from “intrigued” to “exasperated.”
Screw this,
I thought.
If someone really has answers or questions or any kind of tips for me, there are better ways to get in touch. We don't have to play secret agent.

As I stood up and headed for the door, I was struck by a thought: They didn't set a meeting. I assumed the address had been sent with the intention of meeting face-to-face, but the only person that ever indicated that was me. It wasn't mentioned in the texts at all. Maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe I wasn't sent here to meet someone. Maybe I was here to do something else. I snapped my head around to see if Noah was still standing behind the counter, but he'd vanished into the back. With no one else in sight, I started to circle the edges of the bakery, pretending to examine the local art that hung on the walls. Truth be told, I wasn't interested in the impressionistic mountain landscapes or the half-dozen attempts at splotchy “modern art,” I just wanted to get a different angle on the place.

My eyes darted over tabletops as I moved, letting my fingers dance beneath them, searching for anything that might've been hidden there. Every spy movie I'd ever seen played back in my mind and every literary detective I've ever loved tried to help me guess what particular game was afoot. I finished checking the tables and came up empty-handed. I went into the bathroom next and checked the graffiti carved into the stall wall. Yes, Barrington keeps its streets clean, but not that clean. I took note of the phone numbers (though, I was honestly too skeeved out to dial any of them) and tried to decide if any of the filthy words Sharpied onto the smooth, tan plastic could have a double meaning. I almost went full Godfather and checked the toilet tanks, but that felt like a step too far. I headed back out to the main room.

Starting to get desperate, I eyed the blinking Christmas lights that draped around the edges of the windows. Were they programmed to convey some sort of Morse code? I hoped not, since I didn't know Morse code. For all I knew, they could be screaming the truth about UFOs and Area 51 and I would be none the wiser. I clenched my jaw, frustrated and ready to give up when I spotted the bulletin board by the door. I cocked my head and drifted toward it. It would be too easy to just leave a note. . . .

I scanned the ads and missing pet posters to see if anything seemed like a secret message, and caught my own face staring back at me. What in the . . . ? I pushed some other flyers to the side and revealed not just my face, but Oliver's, Jackson's, and Maya's as well—all smiling out from an ad for “Ellen Bowes Photography—School Portraits, Weddings, Events.” Except the photos of my friends and I weren't portraits at all. They were selfies pulled from Instagram and Facebook. Either Barrington had a terrible photographer wannabe at large, or something was up.

My fingertips sizzled with anticipation as I snatched the ad off the board. What could it mean? I didn't see anything else out of place on the front, but as I turned away from the board, light hit the back of the paper and made it ever so slightly translucent. I flipped the ad over to read them. There I found a question staring back at me.

WHAT IS BLACKTHORNE?

•  •  •

Could it be a futuristic video game? Or was it an obscure Bolivian movie about Butch Cassidy? Or perhaps a dive rib joint in Boise, Idaho? These were among the many dubious possibilities I discovered during an exhaustive Internet search, which yielded little of actual substance. Certainly nothing that led me to connect Blackthorne to Bar Tech or Cochran or shadowy conspiracies.

I even risked reaching out to Maya and texted her, hoping that maybe she was behind the cryptic message, but no such luck. She assured me that she was still safely a thousand miles away, lying low somewhere in the Chicago area. And despite my attempts to connect with Oliver, he blew me off, not responding to any of my increasingly apologetic texts.

After hours of futile and exhausting bleary-eyed research, I shut my laptop and called it quits. I had to face the prospect that maybe Blackthorne and my secret texter were bogus—meant to distract and send me off on a wild-goose chase. For all I knew, this could've been one big setup by Richard Cochran to entrap me.

I stared at my phone like it was radioactive. Damn, I was definitely losing it. A good night's rest would hopefully clean the cobwebs out of my brain and help me think clearly in the morning. Blissful sleep was what I desperately needed.

•  •  •

BZZZZZZ. BZZZZZZ.

I sat upright in bed and looked around my room in a foggy haze. It was dark outside. 11:04 p.m. according to my clock. I had drifted off to sleep no more than ten minutes earlier and now my cell was buzzing. I looked around. Where was my phone? Not on my nightstand or anywhere on the bed. My hands felt around the coffee-colored shag carpeting, fingers combing through the long, dense fibers until I found the phone underneath the bed. The number was blocked on the incoming call, but I answered anyway. I hoped it was my mysterious texter wanting to establish verbal contact.

“Hello?” I waited for the caller to identify himself.

Nothing.

“Who's there?” I heard breathing. Someone was definitely on the other end.

CLICK.

I dropped the phone, unnerved by the disturbing call. I had no clue if it was my mystery texter or not, but it definitely made my skin crawl. I didn't think it was a wrong number. Spooked, I slid back under my comforter, longing for a safe place to hide. Not tonight. I was no longer tired. My eyes were wide open, fixed on my bedroom door. Staring. It wasn't that I expected an intruder to break in during the night and kill me, but a good night's sleep wasn't in the cards either. That would have to wait for another day.