lay a hand on me the way he did when I was sixteen, with as much as I’ve filled out over the years. Not to mention the funding he’d risk losing, if he did.
My unpredictable nature likely puts him on edge, too.
Good.
Nowadays, it’s only a careful placement of his hand on my shoulder. Cautious responses.
Gesturing toward one of the chairs in front of his desk, he makes his way to the other side and falls into his own.
“I’m assuming you have something important to discuss, as you’ve requested face-to-face, rather than a Skype meeting.” I lean back in the chair, wishing I had a drink to numb me from the science bullshit he’ll undoubtedly spew in the next ten minutes.
“You know I don’t trust meetings held over the computer.”
Of course I do. And I was swept over with a metal detector at the front entrance, to ensure that I didn’t have a recording device on me, including my phone. Since it’s not my first rodeo, I left that in the car with the driver I hired.
“The purpose of this is to let you know that I did look into Mr. Boyd’s family history,” he started. “And it does seem he has an incarcerated twin. But the interesting piece in all of this is who he murdered.”
“And who might that be?”
“Their biological father. Who also had a criminal record for assault and the murder of their mother, when both boys were quite young.”
“That sounds like one messed up family tree.”
“Indeed. Which makes Patrick a very curious specimen. I’d love to pick his brain about what he remembers of his childhood.”
I’m sure he would. Literally, with an ice pick. “I take it my vote no longer holds any weight.”
Hands in the air, he smiles and shakes his head. “Now, I didn’t say that. We don’t have baseline studies on him, so much of the data will be inconclusive, anyway. It’s more curiosity on my part. Was Amelia his only offspring?”
I shrug, already beyond my limits of boredom. “As far as I know.”
“We’ll verify that, of course. For now, I’m going to observe before making a decision about him.”
“And this is what you requested an in-person meeting for?”
“Of course not.” He rises up from his chair and shoves his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. “Come with me. I’d like to show you what your generous funding has provided.”
With a quiet huff, I follow him out of the office and down the hallway, toward the elevators I took to get up here. Once inside, he pushes the button to the bottom floor of the institute. A place where all the magic of this shit-show goes down.
The research department.
The doors slide open to a too-bright hallway, where fluorescent lights leave me squinting.
He leads me down the white hallways, with white doors and white tiled floors, that smell of potent disinfectant. “Have you considered more extensive surgery on your scars?” he asks over his shoulder.
Prick. “No.” I gave up on trying to remove all traces of my accident. If nothing else, it serves as a reminder that I am not, and never was, as invincible as I liked to think.
“Shame. I know a surgeon, if you change your mind.”
“Thanks. I’ll let you know when I give a shit.” The irritation of having made this trip has seriously soured my mood.
The smile he flashes me is fake and oozing contempt. Our benevolence toward one another is separated by a thin layer of bullshit.
A loud throaty scream brings me slamming to a halt in front of a door whose small, square window shows a dimly-lit room on the other side. I catch sight of a figure crouched in the corner, shaking and scratching at the walls. A girl, given the long, disheveled hair that sticks up around her head and over her shoulders.
Curiosity pulls me closer, until I’m standing at the door, staring straight in. From what I can see of her profile, the girl’s lips are moving, but all I can make out is quiet mumbling through the door. I knock, and she pauses her scratching of the walls, where long streaks of red, which must be blood, indicate she’s rubbed her fingertips raw. When she finally turns to look at me, I frown back at the familiar face.
“Melody Lachlan.” Friedrich moves into my periphery as he stands beside me. “Daughter of--”
“Daniel,” I interrupt, studying the girl, as she resumes her scratching. “I know her.”