a coincidence that three babies all conceived at Genesis Innovations have died. How many of us are there, anyway?
But it’s got to be a coincidence.
There could be Genesis babies all over the place, celebrating their nineteenth and twentieth and twenty-first birthdays.
I go back to the blog.
“James, my name is Kyle McAdams. We need to talk. You already know about Triagon, but there are others.”
I stare at the screen, at the words I’ve just typed. Then I slump back in my chair and run my hand beneath my T-shirt.
I press it against my chest, against my ribs. I want to feel my heart beating. And I want to make sure it doesn’t stop.
7 0
Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
Did you drop your application off?” Cami asks, coming toward me in her orange Sak & Save shirt. She looks good in orange, especially with the noon sun shining down on her. The summer is drawing out the freckles on her face, and they go well with the earthy tones of her hair and eyes.
“I haven’t filled it out yet,” I say, leaning against the front of the Jeep.
Her eyes narrow. “Why? I thought you had to get a summer job. School’s been out for a week. There aren’t going to be any openings left if you don’t get your application turned in.”
“I don’t think I want a summer job.”
She looks at me like she knows something’s wrong. Shit, this was a bad idea. I wanted to call Emma, to have her go with me, but Emma’s been through so much, and the last thing she needs is to hear what I have to say. I could go alone, but the truth is, I don’t want to.
“Kyle, what is it? Are you okay? Why did you want to know what time I got off?”
“You probably have to go watch your brother, don’t you?”
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Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
“Actually he’s at his grandparents’ for the next few weeks.”
I nod a couple of times and watch some sorry-ass boy in an orange shirt trying to push a cart with a gummed-up wheel across the pavement.
“Spit it out,” Cami says.
“I need to go somewhere, and I’m kind of nervous, so I thought maybe you could go with me.” I rush the words and wait for her to come up with some excuse why she can’t.
“Sure.” Cami starts toward the passenger side of the Jeep.
“Don’t you want to know where we’re going?” I ask. We both get into the Jeep.
“If you want to tell me.” Her hand lands briefly against my arm. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” I say, honestly. “And no,” I say, honestly again. “A girl died yesterday. She was the same age as Connor, and she was conceived at the same fertility clinic. She was fine one minute, dead the next. Heart attack. And there’s another one.
A kid in Nebraska. Same thing, same age, same clinic. That’s three people, all dead, all conceived where Connor and I were.”
Cami stares out over the dashboard for several seconds, processing what I’ve told her and trying to think of something to say. Finally, she looks at me. Her brown eyes don’t look brown anymore. They look black, and I’m not sure if it’s the absence of direct sunlight in the Jeep or something else, something like determination or fear. “So where are we going?”
I start the engine and decide that it’s determination. “We’re going where it all started.”
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Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
• • •
“Shit.” I start to duck down when I see my dad stepping out the front doors of the Genesis Innovations Fertility Clinic.
That’s really dumb, because there’s no way he won’t recognize the Jeep. But he barely looks up. His eyes are fixed on the pavement as he walks toward his truck. He’s not carrying anything.
If he asked for a photocopy of the files, they didn’t give him one.
We wait for him to leave, but for the longest time, he just sits in his pickup. He hasn’t even turned on the engine, which is crazy because it’s June, and the temperature is already in the 90s. With the doors and windows shut, he has to be cooking without the air on. Finally, he starts the truck, and with a hauntingly blank look on his face, pulls out of the parking lot.
It’s Wednesday, and the place is pretty dead. There’s a middle-aged couple sitting in the waiting room. They’re