The Butterfly Code (6 page)

We were in a seaside hotel, an ancient place of wood timbers and creaky doors. She wore a white woven belt; I could see it clearly because that’s how tall I was. A white woven belt over a pretty navy-blue dress. It’s the only outfit I recall that wasn’t a lab coat.

We discovered the piano under the stairs at the end of a deserted hallway. An upright with yellowed keys, the sort that makes
plink-plunk
noises when you press them with your finger.

Together we sat side by side, neither of us with any clue how to play. Then as if by magic, or so it seemed to me then, we carefully picked our way through the song she always sang when she tucked me in. We were both delighted as the tune emerged right enough to be known. We were no longer mom and daughter but two souls connected in piecing together a musical puzzle, two souls building an eternal moment through our joint discovery.

In that instant, I knew her. Knew everything there was to know about her. And I loved her more than anyone should safely be allowed to love someone.

I glance at Dad.

His eyes are on the James Patterson novel in his hands. There’s a small smile on his face, so I’m pretty sure he’s not actually reading. He might not be a music fan, but he likes listening to me play.

Even Sammy seems content, lolling on the spot where I’d been. Every now and then, he chimes in with a howl, which makes me giggle.

How I go from this perfect moment to thinking about Dad in Hunter’s car, I can’t imagine.

My fingers hit a discordant note. I stop abruptly and stand.

Dad glances at me, surprised. "Oh, is that the end?"

"Er, yeah." I manage a smile. "I’m beat. I’m going to hit the sack."

"Good idea. I think I’ll do the same."

"Night, Dad."

I head to my room.

My Macbook whirs as it boots up. The first place I check is Facebook. Then LinkedIn. No Hunter Cayman. I come across a few references to the construction of the Phoenix Research Lab in old copies of the local paper. The reporters have nothing bad to say. There’s no scandal to justify Dad’s attitude, or Gage’s for that matter.

I finger Hunter’s jacket and recall his face before Gage walked into the coffee shop. What was he going to say? What is he holding in those amber depths?

Two people I care about act like I should stay far away from him.

Yet Hunter was nice to me. He offered me his coat. He didn’t have to do that. And when we spoke, when our fingers touched, I saw someone likeable. Someone kind and good under his mysterious facade.

I recall his parting look in the café that momentarily caught my breath.

The clearheaded me wants to make it all stop.

A stronger, irrational force, however, is winning out.

T
he next morning
, I’m standing in the kitchen, rubbing my eyes and yawning and willing the coffeemaker to hurry up, when Dad appears. He’s wearing a suit, which strikes me as odd. Sure, he wore one every day when I was growing up, but here in Deep Cove, it’s totally out of place. And his beard has been trimmed back.

"Wow, Dad," is about all I can manage.

He laughs. "I got a call. Sorry, Peanut, but I’m booked on a commuter flight into the city."

"Uh-oh, something urgent?"

Although the brew cycle is still under way, I pour him a coffee and hand it over.

"In the investment community, everything is urgent. I’ll be away until tomorrow."

"Want me to man the store?"

"No. You have things to do. Mr. Creedy’s coming in."

Sammy and I follow him to the garage.

Wind whistles from outside. Last year’s leaves cartwheel under the electric door as it rises. He starts the Range Rover and rolls down the window.

"Thanks for the coffee. See you tomorrow."

I stand in the wan light from the overhead bulb as he backs into the predawn darkness. His headlights swing around. Dense, pooling mist swallows him whole.

In the living room, cold rattles down the chimney. I find a blanket and go into the kitchen. The house feels lonely. Empty.

My phone rings, echoing down the hall from the guest bedroom. I frown at the clock.

Six a.m.

It’s still ringing when I pick it up.
UNKNOWN
comes up on the caller ID.

"Hello?" I say.

The line is silent.

"Hello? Who’s this?"

"I’m looking for Jack Thorne." The man’s voice is raspy and official-sounding, yet vaguely familiar.

"He’s not here. This is his daughter’s phone."

"We have a certified delivery scheduled for this morning. A family member has to sign for it. I need to confirm you’ll be at the house."

"How did you get my number?"

"It’s on the order form as the secondary contact."

That’s weird.
I shrug. "Oh. Well, yeah. Sure, I’m not going anywhere."

"Dispatch is routing a special van since you’re so far out. Should arrive around noon."

"I understand. I’ll be here."

I hang up. I forgot to ask what was being delivered.

The coffeepot in the kitchen calls to me. I go, pour a mug, and add cream. Sliding onto the pine bench, I hunch down with my manuscript and wrap my fingers around the cup of steamy brew. I need to get focused. After a long moment, I carry the music book to the piano and run the first notes.

Where do you go from here, song? Give me a clue.

I rub my forehead until my hair is standing on end.

Finally, I go and stare out the stormy back window. Dawn’s first light rims the steel ocean with metal streaks. As I watch, a thought comes to me.

If Dad and Hunter are working together, there must be a record of it in his office. It’s wrong to go behind Dad’s back and look. Still, I can’t help my curiosity. If I’m going to do it, I have to move fast. Mr. Creedy’s due to open the store at any moment. I have twenty minutes at most.

Sammy perks up and lurches to his feet as I dash for the guest bedroom to change out of my pj’s. His claws scratch the wood floor as he scrambles after me.

Quickly, I wiggle into jeans and a checked blouse and snatch my oversize blue Juilliard hoodie off the ladder-back antique chair. Then I kiss the top of Sammy’s nose.

"Back in a few."

With Dad’s store keys in hand, I sprint outside.

T
he
thorne country
supply
sign still hangs at an angle from the storm. There’s no sight of Mr. Creedy—yet. The gravel lot is empty.

I slide the key into the lock and turn. A bell jangles when I open the store’s glass-paned front door. Familiar scents greet me: warm, dry smells of golden hay and pet food; aging wood; leather leashes, collars, and horse tack; and numerous varieties of soap. Earthy smells, too, like peat moss and planting seeds, and fancy organic topsoil.

I hurry past rotating racks of seedling packets to Dad’s office, which is tucked into the rear of the store. The door’s locked. I work my way through the jumble of shop keys and find the correct one. Inside, three tall file cabinets dominate the right wall. I open the drawer with the letter
P
and riffle through for
Phoenix Research Lab
. Nothing. I move on to
R
, and then
L
. No luck. Nothing under
C
for
Cayman
, either.

Strange.

Neat stacks of paper lie on his desk. I go sit in his swivel-back chair. The macaroni-decorated pencil cup I made for him in elementary school is right there next to the phone. A delighted laugh bursts from me; I can’t believe he kept it.

Now I really feel guilty. I hate to imagine his face if he found me going through his private drawers.

He must have
some
file on Hunter.

The bottom drawer is bigger than the rest. Locked. I try the keys. None fit.

A sound outside makes me freeze. I hold my breath.

Just the wind.

Whatever’s important is hidden away. I go through the top drawer one last time. My heart leaps when my fingers touch something hard and square, tucked at the very back. I drag it out onto the desktop. It’s an ancient, scuffed photo album.

The cover opens with a papery creak.

Mom looks up at me. My breath catches and my fingers go to her face.

Why would Dad keep this out here, and not in the house? Does he think this holds some key to her death? Is there something inside he’s been studying?

I turn a page. It’s another picture of Mom; she looks around five years old. She’s wearing such a funny, endearingly serious expression that my stomach twists. I’d forgotten about these photos. I remember seeing them when I was little. I never noticed where she was. Now, after all these years, I see the picture for what it is. She’s in an airport. There’s a baggage carousel behind her. I wonder where she’s going. Somewhere very snowy and cold, obviously. She’s wearing winter boots and a giant, fur-lined parka, and has one small arm wrapped protectively over a dog carrier crate. The dog inside, a black Labrador, peers up at her through the bars with trusting eyes.

I imagine her alive in that moment and breathe her in.

Unable to fully catch my breath, I bend forward and give her a kiss, trying to hold on to the ghost of Mom.

I flip through the pages.

Tucked into the back is a notebook.

This I’ve never seen before. The rise and fall of my chest escalates.

There’s only one entry. It’s in Mom’s small, slanted scrawl. What’s strange is that the first paragraph starts right in the middle of a sentence. Was there a notebook before this one, and she’s simply carrying on here, having run out of space in the first book? What's happened to it? Does it still exist somewhere? I flip through the rest of the book, yet it really is empty apart from this. So why only one page? Is it possible this was . . . her last entry?

It’s too real, these pen strokes, this physical evidence of her. My fingers grow damp, and I blink hard against the threat of tears. I can almost hear her voice as I read.

I read the baffling words several times. I knew, even as a small child, that her work consumed her, but what could she possibly have done to feel such guilt? Mom was incredibly caring and conscientious of others. So what made her write that?

And what did she mean, humans were not made to be divine? As in godlike? That doesn’t make sense. But could this be a clue? Is this strange legacy the reason why people chased her down and killed her? What happened that made fate tear her away from me? From us?

I stare at the door. Mom had her secrets. Dad used to question me about them. They never married, even though I’m sure they loved each other. I lived with Mom, and she worked at a lab outside Washington, D.C. Dad mostly lived in New York. We only saw him on weekends. It’s unlikely I’ll ever learn the answer. Who could I ask? Mom is gone. She’s been gone since I was five.

The digital clock next to the phone blazes at me. It’s getting late. My right leg is curled under me and has gone numb. I stretch it out, and it starts to prickle.

I close the cover and replace the notebook and the album in Dad’s desk drawer. Then my eyes fall on a stack of papers next to the phone. The words
Phoenix Research Lab
stare up at me from a printout. I grab the sheet, wide-eyed. It’s a purchase order. An order in Hunter’s name.

And the delivery date is marked for today.

My heart rate increases. I scan the contents. Dad would want this delivery made. I’ll be doing him a favor. I should definitely fill his order and take it up there. Hunter will be expecting his goods to arrive.

Only instead of Dad making the delivery, it will be me.

Besides, I can return Hunter’s jacket while I’m at it.

The memory of those piercing amber eyes searching mine is enough to send thrills of energy through me. I need to calm down. So I’m a little charmed. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s not like I’m planning to let anything come of it.

Maybe I’ll get a chance to clear up some of these mysterious questions. I don’t want to find out anything bad, but surely Hunter wouldn’t be doing something wrong. Would he?

I ignore the small voice screaming
No way, Dad will be furious if I go
, and take a closer look at the list of items. Nothing out of the ordinary, except there’s a lot of it. If I’m going to do this, I need to get moving.

I run for the store’s cash register. Maybe the PRL access card key isn’t there anymore. Maybe Dad took it.

Praying, I shove my fingers into the secret spot.

I breathe in relief. Got it.

The clock is ticking. Mr. Creedy is due anytime.

I
sprint for the house
, grab Hunter’s jacket, and return to the shop. There’s a roll-up door for deliveries at the back. Dad’s cube truck is parked next to it. Ears trained for sounds of Creedy’s car, I start to panic. I don’t want to have to explain myself. It takes forever to track down the right bags of straw and oats and lug them outside. What Hunter wants with them is beyond me. I had no idea they were keeping animals.

My heart is slamming.

Wheels on gravel send it into overdrive. Time is up.

"Hi, Mr. Creedy," I call as he gets out of his car and stares at me in surprise. "I’m going to deliver this order." I wave the slip.

His feathered white brows shoot up, and he says, "Well, now, hold on there, Aeris—"

Before he can complete the thought, I climb in the cab, slam the heavy door, and lurch out onto the street.

I’ll just have to apologize for taking off when I get back.

The giant square side mirror reflects Mr. Creedy’s creased face. His mouth is open, his kind, rheumy eyes are frowning. I can’t wave or smile or anything. I’m too busy focusing on driving this thing.

Sure, I’ve driven it before.

That doesn’t mean I’m good at it.

In my hand, the shifter knob shakes, sending vibrations up my arm. I head down the road, away from town. I’m going to hear it later. I must seriously be crazy.

As I drive, I flash to the phone call I received earlier and the package I’m supposed to sign for. I’d better hurry.

The road twists, winding down into a thick stand of trees. On the far side, it snakes up again, opening onto a plateau. Choppy ocean surges beneath the cliffs. Storm clouds mount like grimy giants roaming across the sky. Mottled shadows paint the forested hills emerald green, the cliffs stony gray, the ocean quicksilver.

I spy the long finger of land jutting out into the Atlantic. Another five minutes and I’ll be there, using Dad’s pass to let myself in. A twinge of nervousness makes my foot ease off the gas. With a choking rattle, the engine threatens to stall. I gun it in panic, not wanting to be stranded out here. Dad’s cube truck lunges forward, and I let up on the accelerator.

Relax. It’s only a delivery.
I chew my lip. I’m sure Hunter will be happy to get his jacket back.

Only a mile left to the promontory entrance.

I have no idea what to expect.

I haven’t driven this close since the day Dad and I came out here together, before Hunter’s people bought the land to build the Phoenix Research Lab. That was three years ago.

Some memories stick in your mind with vivid clarity. I can still recall every single thing about that afternoon.

Dad was living in New York, and I was at Juilliard. We’d returned to Deep Cove to visit his summerhouse, and to take a vacation ourselves. I hadn’t seen it since those long-ago summers with Ella and Gage. Because of the full-time tenant, we’d stayed away. But now his tenant was moving, and Dad needed to assess the place for any problems before finding someone new.

On our second day in Deep Cove, he announced he wanted to show me something.

We climbed into the Range Rover and headed up this way.

I was joking around. Asking what the big mystery was.

"I’ll tell you when we get there," he replied.

I knew we were headed toward the big country estate on the promontory. I’d heard about the massive home with its open parklands and narrow road in. People claimed it was haunted. The couple who lived there were recluses. Few guests came and went through their gates.

Dad and I turned the final corner toward the vast residence. We were met with the sight of construction vehicles blocking the entranceway. To my surprise, Dad looked dismayed.