MY OWN ROOM. MY OWN BED. YET I CAN’T SLEEP.
I keep taking my tPhone from its charging dock and staring at my contacts list. Paul Markov is there, exactly like at home. I even assigned him the same ringtone.
Rachmaninoff.
For an instant it’s as though I’m back at home, cooking by Paul’s side while we both pretend our arms aren’t brushing against each other—
Apparently my feelings about Paul are confused in this dimension, too.
(I found his sliced-up portrait in the downstairs storage room, torn canvas hanging limply from its frame.)
Mathematics or fate: Whatever that force is that keeps bringing us together in world after world, it’s powerful. Undeniable. But I still don’t know whether that force means my salvation or my destruction.
Around 2 a.m., I give in to temptation and text Paul. I compose then delete at least a dozen messages before I settle on simply: We need to talk.
Although I lie awake for another couple of hours, no answer ever comes. I fall asleep thinking of his dead body in my arms.
“You doing okay?” Theo asks for about the tenth time in a thirty-minute drive.
“Yeah. I’m good. It’s just—this morning was hard.”
This morning was like countless others in my life: Dad making blueberry waffles (albeit in his green foil party hat from last night); Josie rambling on about the crazy-complicated dreams she always has; Mom wearing her yoga outfit while the rest of us are still in the stuff we slept in, because even on New Year’s Day she was up at dawn doing her sun salutations. But this time I was both living it and watching it from the viewpoint of someone who knows what it’s like to lose such moments. Before now I never understood how beautiful the ordinary can be.
“I can imagine.” Theo looks over at me, his gaze gentle, but only for a moment; his attention is reserved for the road. Currently we’re doing at least twenty miles over the speed limit, Theo threading his muscle car through every break in the traffic to get us to Triad faster. “Hang in there, Meg.”
I fiddle with the Firebird’s chain, dangling beneath my T-shirt. Theo and I have been careful in this dimension to keep our Firebirds concealed beneath clothes that won’t show their outlines; in this world, my parents would recognize them in an instant and realize what’s up.
My phone is in the pocket of my skirt, set to vibrate, so it’s not like I could miss a call or a text. Still, I take it out and check it again. Nothing.
As Theo’s car comes over the crest of a hill, far enough into the burbs that we’re now surrounded by more trees than buildings, I see a brilliant silver curve rising high on the horizon. When I realize what it is, my jaw drops. Theo laughs. “Pretty spectacular, huh?”
At home, Triad’s ultramodern HQ is still more theoretical than real—airbrushed artwork on billboards in front of construction sites. Here, the construction is complete, and it shimmers like some sort of fantastic mirage—surreal and yet so substantial that it dominates the landscape. The mirrored cube of the main building is surrounded by a shining ring structure: the world’s largest and most efficient generator of solar energy. Triad Corporation’s building follows the same design aesthetic as their products, the marriage of beauty and power.
Theo has a badge on his license plate that allows us to drive through the security gate at the boundary of their grounds. The grass seems to have been manicured to a uniform length, like on a golf course. Long rows of oleander bushes line the straight, smooth path into Triad’s parking lot.
“C’mon,” Theo says. He’s grinning, like this is no big deal. Probably he’s psyched just to get a look at the place. “Let’s get you a guest pass.”
I fall into step at his side, but I can’t help staring upward at the sheer enormity of the building as we walk toward the entrance. The sunlight reflects so brilliantly from the glass that it’s hard to focus on it for long.
If Paul is right—if Triad’s plots go beyond Mom and Dad’s worst fears—I’m walking straight into the lion’s den.
The glass doors part for us as we walk into a lobby even more dazzling than the building’s exterior. While Theo flirts with the female security guard to hurry along my pass, I indulge the impulse to stare. This space would be spectacular no matter what, but it’s sort of surreal to have it all to ourselves, my footsteps echoing slightly in the silence. The lobby ceiling is at least ten stories high, lined with view-screens showing different demos of Triad products both real and theoretical. Always, at least one of the screens is glowing Triad’s trademark emerald green, with white letters spelling out the corporate motto: “Everyplace, Everytime, Everyone.”
A tug at the hem of my cardigan makes me look around to see that Theo has clipped my security pass right there, at my hip. He winks at me. “Relax. Remember—no matter how impressive all this looks, your parents are still the biggest thing that ever happened to this place.”
Hardly. This is the house that Wyatt Conley built, and everyone knows it. Still, Theo’s smile helps quiet the butterflies in my stomach. With him, I feel safer.
He holds out his hand. It’s a casual gesture, or he wants it to seem that way—but I can tell he’s nervous. Last night’s kiss flickers through me, a reminder of everything I feel for Theo, and everything I don’t. We can’t meet each other’s eyes.
But I take Theo’s hand.
Of course this building also has those awful glass elevators. We step inside, and Theo says, “Lab Eleven.”
“Certainly, Mr. Beck,” the elevator replies. Okay, that computer is maybe a bit too smart. Smoothly it lifts us through the lobby, viewscreens shining brilliantly all around us.
“We ought to have the place pretty much to ourselves,” Theo says. His thumb brushes across my knuckles. “Jordyn at the security desk says only five other people have signed in all day.”
Just as he says it, though, the elevator gently glides to a stop at a floor I can tell isn’t our destination, from the way Theo frowns. The doors open—and Wyatt Conley steps inside.
Wyatt Conley. Himself. Yes, he’s the founder and CEO of Triad, which means obviously he’d show up at headquarters sometimes, but actually running into him in the elevator . . . it’s like taking the Universal Studios tour only to be personally greeted by Leonardo DiCaprio.
Except how it’s not like that at all, because I’m beginning to believe this might be the man responsible for my father’s death.
“Theo.” Conley says that name so easily you could imagine he doesn’t have a couple thousand employees, and that it isn’t kind of weird that he apparently knows every single one of their names. “Are you here to work or to show off for your girlfriend? I wouldn’t blame you if it were the latter.”
“This isn’t—I mean, this is Marguerite Caine.” Theo’s hand tightens slightly around mine. “Dr. Kovalenka and Professor Caine’s daughter.”
Conley’s smile widens. “Well, well, well. About time I met you.”
Technically we met back in London, if my running onstage during his presentation counts as “met.” But that was a different universe’s version of Wyatt Conley. This one dresses pretty much the same, though: careless rich, faux casual, more like a kid than a tycoon. He seems . . . not homicidal. Whatever that is. I mean, Conley definitely seems to be full of himself, but what do you expect from a thirty-year-old internet mogul?
“Pleased to meet you,” I lie, hoping Conley believes I’m being awkward only because it’s soooo awesome to meet someone famous.
Apparently Theo thinks I’m being awkward, period, because he quickly says, “Thought Marguerite ought to have a chance to look around.”
“Absolutely.” Conley’s smile is so easy, so natural, that despite everything, I could believe he’s actually being sincere—at least, at the moment. “I see the resemblance to Dr. Kovalenka. Your parents are remarkable people, Marguerite. You should be proud of them.”
“Yeah, I am.” And I don’t need you to remind me.
The elevator glides to a stop on the tenth floor. Theo leads me out, but Conley comes with us; either he was headed this way to start with, or he has way too much time on his hands. Even though Theo must be unnerved too, he acts like it’s completely normal for Conley to tag along. Our path takes us along a corridor with one glass wall looking down on the lobby below, so the brilliant colors from the screens shine through. Conley grins as he says, “The daughter of two geniuses. Who knows what we might expect out of you one day?”
“I’m not one of the family geniuses,” I say hastily. “At all.”
“Marguerite’s selling herself short.” Theo smiles sideways at me, an expression gentler than usual. Sometimes I forget how kind he can be beneath all the attitude. “She’s not a scientist, but she’s incredibly talented. An artist, in more ways than one.”
Conley nods. “That’s right. Portraits, isn’t it? Maybe I should get you to paint me someday.”
Two months ago, that suggestion would have been the most exciting idea possible. A painting of Wyatt Conley? That would turn me into a nationally recognized portraitist overnight. Now I have different priorities.
Then again—I’ve always believed that a portrait shows the truth. (I hear in my mind, You always, always paint the truth.) If Conley sat for me for a few hours, and I painted what I truly saw there, maybe I’d learn exactly what kind of man he is.
“That would be amazing.” I smile when I say it, bright and girlish. That’s what he expects from me, right?
Conley chuckles. “I like a young woman who knows a golden opportunity when she sees it. Now, Theo, are you set up for the final-level Mercury tests?”
“Absolutely,” Theo says, doing a great job of acting like he knows what that is. Or maybe he read about it on this Theo’s computer and is about to bluff his way through a whole lot of tech jargon.
At that moment, my phone buzzes inside the pocket of my skirt. I step away from Theo and Conley with the usual apologetic text message—what can you do? shrug. They keep talking while I take up my phone, hoping desperately to hear from Paul but knowing it’s probably Angela wanting to tell me about her big New Year’s date, or Mom telling me to pick up some milk on the way home.
It’s Paul.
His message says, in its entirety: Don’t go in there.
Quickly I type back: Go in where?
Lab Eleven. You have to get out of there NOW.
A chill sweeps through me as I realize: Paul is watching us, even at this moment.
I look around, half expecting him to peer out from behind a corner, though that can’t be right. Then I notice the small mirrored semispheres up by the ceiling, evenly spaced, serving no obvious function. They’re not merely part of the ultrafuturistic decor; some of them must conceal security cameras.
Paul worked here alongside Theo for most of the past few months. He didn’t only sabotage my parents’ data—he also hacked into Triad’s internal security system, which must be one of the best in the world.
My phone buzzes in my palm again. You two didn’t run into Conley by accident. Theo’s not in danger, but you are.
When I glance at Conley and Theo, I can tell that Theo suspects nothing. He’s grinning as they talk, and Conley nods as he listens to Theo’s ideas. So far as I can tell, everything is as it should be.
I glance at the door only a few feet away, the one marked LABORATORY 11.
You have to get out now.
I type back, How else am I going to get any answers? Not from Paul, obviously. How else can I find out what Conley’s after?
Theo looks toward me, more relaxed than he’s been since we walked in. Clearly he doesn’t feel like anything has gone wrong. “Ready?”
Then my phone vibrates with one more text. I look down and read Paul’s next message:
Conley is after YOU.
“Marguerite?” Theo now looks puzzled. “You okay?”
I don’t know what to say; I don’t even know what to think.
It all comes down to this: Do I trust Paul or not?
As soon as I put it that way, I know I am not walking through that door.
“Yeah, I, um, ah—” Think fast, think fast! “It’s my friend Angela. Sorry. I borrowed a bracelet of hers that she wants back for a big date tonight.”
Conley gets this look on his face, like I’m so cute, like a GIF of baby puppies or something. I wish I could slap him. “Ah, to be eighteen again.”
“The thing is, I put it on this morning, but I don’t have it on now.” I hold up my wrist, trusting that Theo didn’t notice I wasn’t wearing a bracelet this morning. With my other hand, I drop my phone back into the pocket of my skirt. “I feel sure I had it on in the car. Can I just—I want to run down and check the lobby, maybe the car, too? Sorry, but if I’ve lost this bracelet, oh, my God, Angela will totally kill me.”
Okay, I laid on the silly-teen-girl routine a little thick at the end, but right now I need Conley to think that’s all I am. I need him to be one more of those assholes who thinks my brain couldn’t hold anything other than gossip and favorite colors of nail polish. If he believes that, he’ll let me go in the confidence that I’ll be right back.
Theo exchanges a glance with Conley and says, “Women. What are you gonna do?” I’m going to give him hell for that later, but maybe he’s realized I need to walk away. He takes his car keys from his pocket and tosses them to me. “Hurry back, all right? Oh, hey, there’s a Starbucks in the caf that delivers to the labs. They’re open today, I think. You want a latte?”
“Sounds great.” I smile at him, but the smile can’t be very convincing. Here’s hoping it only looks like I’m worried about a lost bracelet.
Even turning my back to them as I wait for the elevator is excruciating. Every second I keep expecting Conley to call me back, or to feel his hand on my shoulder. Yet when the chime sounds and the doors slide open, I’m able to step in without any problems.
As soon as the elevator begins its drop, I grab my phone to see that Paul has texted again. Good job. Now get out of the building. Go somewhere safe.
I type back, Tell me where you are. I won’t take no for an answer.
Answers—that’s what I need, and I’m not waiting for them any longer. But my phone remains silent as I keep sliding down, the screens projecting green light at me with the message “Everyplace, Everytime, Everywhere.”
So I send one more message. Tell me or I swear I’ll go back up there.
I mean it, too. Because if Paul isn’t ready to tell me the truth even now, maybe I’ve been wrong to believe in him. Maybe I was right to want him dead.
My phone buzzes. San Francisco, the Tenderloin. Meet me in Union Square Park.
The elevator deposits me in the lobby and politely says, “Have a nice day, Miss Caine.” That thing is creepy.
In case Conley’s watching from above, I pretend to look around in the lobby for my bracelet, then apologize to the security guard as I turn in my badge and head outside. Then I run for Theo’s car so fast my flats nearly fly off my feet.
As I unlock the door, Paul texts, You know you need to steal the car.
“Borrow,” I say out loud, knowing he can’t hear me. “I’m borrowing Theo’s car. He’ll understand. Eventually.”
I punch the key into the ignition and hurriedly send, What do you mean, Conley is after me?
The answer comes even before I can put the car in reverse: This is all about you, Marguerite.
You’re the one Conley has wanted all along.