worried I was only doing it because I was upset about Sarah. Because I was scared.” Do you see why I’m torn? I want to scream. The fight runs out of me as quickly as it came. “I killed someone, Talia. Some old man who probably would have done anything he needed to get my blood. But I still killed him.” I stand up, the sheets sliding underneath me. When I speak, my voice is quiet again. “You’re gonna have to forgive me if I’m not exactly jumping at the chance to do it again. Let alone to Ploy.”
Talia’s words come out a whisper. “You’re in way over your head, Allie. He’s dangerous. He needs to be put down. If you can’t do it, I will.”
“You think I’m weak, too, then?” The retort is instant, past my lips before I think about what I’m saying. The wounded look on her face tells me I’ve hit a nerve. My voice shakes. “You think I don’t know what needs to be done?” I say lowering my voice.
Her shoulders are tight and drawn. She won’t look at me.
“He’s only alive because we need him to lead us to Jamison,” I say.
“And if we didn’t need him?” she asks in a hushed tone and then draws a breath. My aunt’s notebook is balanced on the knee of one of her crossed legs. Her hand trembles as she lays it on the cover.
My skin breaks out in goose bumps, adrenaline rushing through me. “You found something.”
“Your mother’s section.” Talia’s whisper is barely a breath. My throat goes dry as she hands the notebook over, her head down. I flip open the leather cover and tab to her section. “Eleventh page.”
My fingers brush past the dividers.
“There,” she says. The handwriting is the same scrawl that decorated my school lunch bags, birthday cards. My mother’s.
Alba Solorzano. Age 39. Son called after his mother fell down the stairs and told him my number before losing consciousness due to head wound (floor vs forehead). Resurrection within time period. No complications. Witnesses to death: Son, Jamison – age 15 Husband – age 38
His address is on there. Or, at least where he lived when it happened. A phone number. Christ, everything we need to find him. He might not be living at home anymore, but someone will know where to find him.
“We’re going after him. Now.”
“Allie—”
“He won’t expect it! We can get him, Talia!”
The look she gives me brims with pity. “Keep reading.”
My attention snaps to the page. Below it is a second entry. Then a third. “What?” I manage.
UPDATE: Alba Solorzano. Age 39. Treated with a transfusion after incurring an unhealing wound, it was later speculated that Solorzano’s injury was the direct result of experimentation after discovering the lingering effects of the blood. Account already past due. Advised of her options.
The loopy scrawl switches to tight script. The letters match the entries I’d flipped through to get to this page. UPDATE: by Sarah Vogel - Investigation and judgment have now been completed after my sister’s death. After bringing back Mrs. Solorzano a second time, Juliana and I had spoken about the woman’s decision to sell off her family land to pay the debt she owed. Juliana wanted to forgive it completely. I argued against this, as it would set a precedent. Juliana told me she’d scheduled a meeting with the woman to discuss further arrangements and repercussions for her late payment along with confronting her regarding the experimentation. That night, my niece showed up at my door, informing me her parents, my sister and her husband, were dead. Because of Solorzano’s case, the threat was deemed a non-relocation event and neutralized.
The entry is cold. Clinical. It’s not until I run my fingertips over my mother’s writing that I feel the circular wave patterns in the paper. Places where my aunt’s tears had hit the surface and dried as she wrote. I hand the notebook to Talia.
Jamison’s mother killed mine. And so we killed his. Now, he’s out for the blood, or revenge. Exhausted, emotionally and physically, I slump on the bed. “This is never going to end, is it?”
“Of course it is,” Talia says. “In the morning I’ll figure out who we’re supposed to contact. Cleaners. You’ll call them to get them to take care of Jamison. The cluster won’t have to relocate.”
That’s not what I meant, but I don’t correct her. I’m running on fumes. I need rest and food and days we don’t have to heal wounds