quiet,” Conridge told him. “You are a very sweet freak of nature, but you don’t have nearly enough active brain cells to interject yourself into our conversation.”
Shen nodded his head. “I see why you’re Kyle’s favorite.”
Conridge locked her gaze with Stevie’s. “The boy has always had good taste and good sense. He brought you to me for a reason, Doctor Stasiuk-MacKilligan. Because I’m the one person who can and will help you without feeling the need to lock you up or put you down. Of course”—Conridge suddenly smiled and Stevie had the urgent need to make a run for it—“that situation could change at any minute.”
* * *
“I don’t hear anything,” Kyle whispered to Max and Charlie. They were still downstairs, the kid refusing to go up after his aunt or to let them go up after their sister.
“That’s because we’re downstairs and they’re upstairs.”
Kyle, with an exasperated expression, glanced at Max over his shoulder. “That’s so we can keep living. I swear, I think all you honey badgers have a death wish.”
Max smirked. “Not our own deaths.”
The kid’s back tensed. “Stop trying to terrorize, Max!”
How could she, though? When she was just so damn good at it.
* * *
Dr. Conridge had walked out of the room but returned a moment later with a pair of jeans.
“These should fit you,” she said, handing them over. “They belong to Kyle’s sister. The dancer. You seem thin enough.”
While Stevie slipped them on, Dr. Conridge jotted down some information on a pad from the bedside table and handed it to Shen.
“Take her here. They’ll be waiting for you.”
“Manhattan Behavioral Center,” Shen read out loud.
Zipping the jeans, Stevie informed Dr. Conridge, “I can choose my own mental hospitals, thank you very much.”
“I know you can. You and your strange obsession with checking yourself in every few months is something that fascinates the science community. But the Behavioral Center isn’t a mental hospital. You’ll find people there who can actually help you.”
Stevie folded her arms over her chest, her gaze narrowing on Dr. Conridge.
“Why are you doing this?” she finally demanded. “We both know you’re not a good person. You’re not helpful. What do you want from me?”
“Do you remember Dr. Matt Wells?”
“I dated the asshole for six months. Of course I remember him.”
“Bad breakup?”
“Bad enough. Max put him through a wall and Charlie ran him down with her pickup truck.” She glanced at Shen, probably saw the look on his face. “He’s lion.”
“And?”
“That means he was asking for it.”
Dr. Conridge leaned against the chest of drawers. “Would you be averse to getting in touch with him again?”
“Setting aside the fact that he’s a lousy lay, an arrogant prick, and is one of those insecure men who feel women shouldn’t be scientists because we’re ‘distracting,’” she said with finger quotes, “why the hell would I want to willingly get near him again?”
Dr. Conridge looked off, took in a breath. After a few seconds, she said to Stevie, “I think he’s experimenting on hybrids.”
Stevie’s expression didn’t change, but she suddenly shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “What makes you think that?”
“Because we keep finding the bodies.”
Stevie’s arms fell to her sides.
“All hybrids?” Shen asked.
“All hybrids. The Group, my husband’s organization, is on it but Wells is very careful, very protected, and very smart.”
“But I heard he was doing good work,” Stevie said.
“In biogenetics.” Dr. Conridge brushed stray hairs off her forehead. “I could be wrong about him. But we can’t get close enough to find out.”
“But you think I can.”
“Men are men. No offense,” she added, glancing at Shen.
“I’m a panda.”
“Sometimes,” Dr. Conridge continued, “they can’t help but brag to old girlfriends. To prove that they didn’t need them to be successful.” She shrugged. “It’s at least worth a try.”
“What exactly do you expect him to tell me? ‘And on the weekends, I’m Dr. Mengele’?”
“I think he has a second lab. Not in the city. We need to know where that lab is.”
“All right,” Stevie replied, no hesitation. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“There is one thing, though.”
“Which is?”
“My husband has expressed concern about your sisters.”
“If my sisters find out you’ve involved me with this,” Stevie said matter-of-factly, “they’ll kill you and your husband, and the cries of your devastated offspring won’t interrupt their REM sleep one bit. So if I were you, I’d keep my mouth shut.”
“Fair enough.” Dr. Conridge pointed at the piece of paper Shen still held. “When you go to the Behavioral Center, bring your sisters. My contact will