I grin up at the cracked plaster of my ceiling and picture her creeping out of the room while I’m sleeping, hesitating to kiss me good-bye, not leaving a note or any other normal-person thing. Of course not. She wouldn’t want to seem sentimental. She’d dress in the bathroom and splash water on her face. Carry her boots and run across the lawn in stocking feet. Sneak back into that fancy penthouse apartment before her criminal mastermind of a father could realize that his daughter spent the night at a boy’s house. At my house.

  I can’t stop grinning.

  She loves me.

  I guess I can die happy.

  I head into my parents’ room and dig around, find a beat-up leather duffel bag into which I stuff a couple of T-shirts and my least favorite pair of jeans. No point in packing anything I like, since I have no idea where Yulikova is taking me or whether I’ll ever see any of this stuff again. I stash my wallet and identification under my mattress.

  My objectives are simple—figure out if Yulikova’s going to double-cross me, do the job so Patton can’t hurt my mother, and come home.

  After that I guess we’ll see. I didn’t sign any papers, so I’m not an official member of the LMD. I can still get out if I want. At least I think I can. This is the federal government we’re talking about, not some crime family with blood oaths and slashed throats.

  Of course, even if I’m not an agent, I’ll still have to deal with everyone else who’s looking for someone with my particular talents.

  I imagine for a moment being on my own after high school, living in New York, waiting tables and meeting Lila for espressos late at night. No one would need to know what I am. No one would need to know what I can do. We’d go back to my tiny apartment, drink cheap wine, watch black-and-white movies, and complain about our jobs. She could tell me about gang wars and all the new things that fell off trucks, and I could—

  I shake my head at myself.

  Before I get too involved in fantasies about an impossible future, I better show up for detention. Otherwise I’m not even going to graduate from Wallingford.

  Glancing at the clock on my phone, I see that I have about a half hour. That gives me time to go back to my dorm, pick up Sam, and figure out what we’re going to say on Mina’s behalf. Barely enough time, but still.

  I’m walking out to my car, duffel bag over one shoulder, when my phone rings.

  It’s Barron. I flip it open. “Hey,” I say, surprised.

  His voice is carefully neutral. “I did some digging.”

  I stop, leaning against the front of my Benz, keys still in my hand. “What kind of digging?”

  “After what you said about the Patton job, I persuaded one of my friends to let me use her ID card and rifle through some files. You were right. It’s a setup, Cassel. You’re supposed to get pinched.”

  I feel cold all over. “They want to arrest me?”

  He laughs. “The really hysterical part is that they’re getting you to turn Patton into a toaster or whatever to cover their own screwup. They could go in, guns blazing, if they weren’t the reason Patton’s so unstable in the first place. This is their mess.”

  I look out at the lawn. The leaves have almost all fallen, leaving behind barren trunks of trees, their black branches reaching for the sky like the long fingers of endless hands. “What do you mean?”

  “Patton’s aides called the Feds once they realized Mom had worked him. If she hadn’t been so sloppy, you wouldn’t be in the lurch.”

  “She didn’t have time to do a better job,” I say. “Anyway, politics isn’t exactly her thing.”

  “Yeah, well, my point is that I read the reports and they tell a fabulous tale of fuckupitude. After the aides call the Feds, they bring in a state-sanctioned emotion worker to “fix” Patton. But, see, the government is full of hyperbathygammic idiots who have been taught not to use their powers unless they really have to, so the emotion worker agent they sent in didn’t exactly have a deft touch.

  “He works Patton to hate and fear Mom, thinking that strong emotions are the only way to negate what she did. But instead Patton gets completely unhinged. Like, no hinge in sight. All violent outbursts and crying jags.”

  I shudder, thinking about what it would be like to be made to feel two contradictory things at the same time. It’s worse when I realize that’s what I was asking Daneca to do to Lila. Love and indifference warring together. I don’t know what might have happened. Thinking about it is like looking down into the deep ravine you somehow missed stepping into in the dark.

  Barron goes on. “Now, the backbone of getting Proposition 2 passed is having workers who are also upstanding citizens endorse it. Prominent members of the community coming forward and submitting themselves for voluntary testing makes the rest of us look bad, but it makes the program look good. Safe. Humane. Problem was, Patton decided that now was the time to be crazy. He got everyone with a positive HBG test fired.

  “Then he started asking federal employees to get tested. He managed to put a lot of pressure on them. He wanted the federal units with hyperbathygammic agents disbanded.”

  “Like the LMD,” I say, thinking of Yulikova and Agent Jones. “But he’s got no authority over them.”

  “I told you this was a comedy of errors,” says Barron. “Sure, he can’t do a thing to make that happen. But he can threaten to embarrass them by telling the press how they worked him against his will. So, in all their wisdom, what do you think Team Good does?”

  “I have no idea,” I say. Another call makes my phone buzz, but I ignore it.

  “They send another worker so that he can fix the first botched job on Patton’s brain.”

  I laugh. “I bet that went real well.”

  “Oh, yeah. Patton killed him. That’s how well it went.”

  “Killed him?” Since this is Barron, it’s possible he’s embellishing the truth, if not outright lying. But the story he’s telling adds up in a way that the story Yulikova told me doesn’t. Barron’s story is messy, full of coincidences and mistakes. As a liar myself, I know that the hallmark of lies is that they are simple and straightforward. They are reality the way we wish it was.

  “Yeah,” Barron says. “The agent’s name was Eric Lawrence. Married. Two kids. Patton strangled him when he figured out that Agent Lawrence was trying to work him. Amazing, right? So they have a homicidal governor on their hands and the higher-ups tell them they need to clean up the mess before there’s a huge scandal.”

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “So after I transform Patton, what? They arrest me, I guess. I have a motive, because of Mom. Then I’d get put in jail. What’s the use of that if they want me to work for them? I can’t work for them in prison—or at least whatever I could do would be pretty limited. Transform other inmates. Make cigarettes into bars of gold.”

  “That’s the brilliant part, Cassel,” Barron says. “You’re not getting it. Not only would they have a scapegoat, but once you become a criminal who is no longer protected by an immunity deal, you’d have a lot fewer civil liberties. They could control you. Totally. They’d have exactly the weapon they want.”

  “Did you find out where this is going to take place?” I ask, and open the car door. I feel numb.

  “Monday speech out near Carney, on the site of a former internment camp. They’ll pitch tents by the memorial. The Feds have got the security sewn up, but who cares, Cassel? You’re obviously not going.”

  I have to go, though. If I don’t go, Patton gets away with it and Mom doesn’t. I might not think my mother is a good person, but she’s better than him.

  And I don’t want the Feds to get away with it either.

  “Yes, I am,” I say. “Look, thanks for doing this. I know you didn’t have to, and it really helps, knowing exactly what I’m getting into.”

  “Fine, go. But just show up and screw it up. What are they going to do, give you a good scolding? Mistakes happen. You screw up everything anyway.”

  “They’ll just set me up again,” I say.

  “Now you’ll be looking for it.”

  “I was already looking for it,” I say. “I still didn’t see what was going on. Besides, someone should stop Patton. I have a chance.”

  “Sure,” he says. “Someone should. Someone who’s not being set up. Someone who’s not you.”

  “If I don’t go along with this, the Feds are threatening to go after Mom. And that’s the best we can hope for—because Patton will kill her. He’s already tried once.”

  “He did what? What do you mean?”

  “She got shot and she didn’t want us to know. I would have told you, but the last time we talked, you hung up on me abruptly.”

  He ignores the rest of what I’ve said. “Is she okay?”

  “I think so.” I belt myself into the driver’s seat. Then, sighing, I turn on the ignition. “But look, we have to do something.”

  “We aren’t doing anything. I’ve done all I’m going to do, looking through those files. I’m looking out for myself. Try it sometime.”

  “I have a plan.” The vent floods the car with cold air. I crank up the heat and rest my head against the wheel. “Or, well, not a plan exactly, but the beginnings of one. All I need you to do is stall Patton. Find out where he’s going to be on Monday and keep him there so he’s late to his speech. For Mom’s sake. You don’t even have to visit me in jail.”

  “Do something for me, then,” he says, after a pause.

  The chances of me pulling this off and getting away with it are so bad that I’m actually not that concerned about whatever evil scheme my brother will try to involve me in next.

  It’s kind of freeing.

  “Fine. I’ll owe you a favor. But after. I don’t have time right now.” I look at the clock on the dashboard. “In fact, I don’t have any time. I have to get to Wallingford. I’m already late.”

  “Call me after your school thing,” Barron says, and hangs up. I toss the phone onto the passenger seat and pull out of the driveway, wishing that the only plan I’ve got didn’t depend on putting my faith in two of the people I trust least in the world—Barron and myself.

  * * *

  It’s ten after ten when I pull into the Wallingford parking lot. There’s no time to go to my room, so I grab for my phone as I’m crossing the lawn, figuring I’ll call Sam and get him to bring the photos of Wharton. But as I start thinking about the pictures, I have that awful feeling that there’s something I’ve overlooked. In the diner I said that I thought Mina must have intended for us to see the pictures, but she didn’t just let us see them. She made sure that we had copies.

  Cold dread works its way up my spine. She wanted someone else to blackmail Wharton. Someone to claim they took photographs and they want money. But we don’t have to really do it. We just have to seem like we’re doing it.

  Stupid, stupid. I am so stupid. As I am thinking that, the phone rings in my hands. It’s Daneca.

  “Hey,” I say. “I can’t really talk. I’m so late to detention, and if I get another demerit—”

  She sobs, liquid and awful, and I bite off whatever I was planning to say next. “What happened?” I ask.

  “Sam found out,” she says, choking out the words. “That I was seeing your brother. We were in the library together this morning, studying. Everything was just normal. I don’t know, I wanted to see him—and figure out if there was still anything between us, if I felt—”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, crossing the green, hoping that Wharton is still in his office. Hoping that I’m wrong about Mina’s plans. Hoping that Sam is somewhere burning those photos, even though I’m pretty sure he’s too busy being devastated, and even if he wasn’t, he has no reason to think we’re in trouble. “Maybe he’ll get over it.”

  It’s pointless to think about the fact that neither of them getting over things is what broke them up in the first place. He’s going to be furious with her and doubly furious at me for not telling him about Barron. Which, predictably, I deserve.

  “No, listen. I left the room for a minute, and when I got back— Well, Barron must have texted me. And Sam read it—and read the other ones too. He started screaming at me. It was really ugly.”

  I pause. “Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know.” She sounds like she’s trying to fight back more tears. “Sam’s always been so gentle—sweet. I just never thought he could be that angry. He scared me.”

  “Did he hurt you?” I am pushing open the doors of the administrative building, trying to think.

  “No—nothing like that.”

  I head for the steps. No one’s in any of the offices. My footfalls are loud in the hallways. The only sounds I can hear are the ones I’m making. Everyone’s home for the weekend. My heart starts to race. Wharton’s gone, and Mina has probably already told him that Sam and I are blackmailing him. He’ll toss our room, and if he does, he’s going to find the pictures… and, oh God, the gun. He’s going to find the gun.

  “Sam threw his books across the room, and then he got really cold, really distant,” Daneca is saying, although it’s hard to focus on her words. “It was like something just switched off inside him. He told me that he was supposed to meet you and he didn’t care if you didn’t show. He said that he’d take care of things, for once. He said he had a—”

  “Wait. What?” I ask, snapping to attention. “What did he say he had?”

  A shot rings through the stairwell from the floor above me, echoing through the empty building.

  * * *

  I don’t know what I expect to see when I burst into Wharton’s office, but it’s not Sam and the Headmaster grappling on the antique oriental rug. Wharton is crawling across the floor, toward a gun that seems to have skittered away from both of them, while Sam’s trying to pin him down.

  I go for the gun.

  Wharton looks at me dazedly when I swing the barrel in his direction. His white hair is sticking up all over the place. Sam slumps bonelessly, with a moan. That’s when I realize that the red stain surrounding Sam isn’t part of the pattern of the carpet.

  “You shot him,” I say to Wharton, in disbelief.

  “I’m sorry,” Sam gets out between locked teeth. “I screwed up, Cassel. I really screwed up.”

  “You’re going to be fine, Sam,” I say.

  “Mr. Sharpe, you are twenty minutes late for your detention,” Dean Wharton says from the floor. I wonder if he’s in shock. “If you don’t want to be in more trouble than you already are, I suggest that you give me that gun.”

  “You’re kidding me, right? I’m calling an ambulance.” I cross to Wharton’s burled wood desk. The photos of Mina are there, on top of the other papers.

  “No!” Wharton says, pushing himself to his feet. He lunges for the phone cord and pulls it out of the wall with a violent jerk. He’s breathing hard, looking at me with glazed eyes. “I forbid it. I absolutely forbid it. You don’t understand. If the board finds out about this— Well, you just don’t understand the difficult position that will put me in.”

  “I can imagine,” I say, pulling out my cell with one hand. I can’t quite work out how to dial and keep the gun trained on him at the same time.

  Wharton staggers toward me. “You can’t call anyone. Put that phone down.”

  “You shot him!” I yell. “Stay back or I’ll shoot you!”

  Sam moans again. “It really hurts, Cassel. It really hurts.”

  “This can’t be happening,” Wharton says. Then he looks at me again. “I’ll tell them that you did it! I’ll say that you both came here to rob me and you two got into an argument, and then you shot him.”

  “I should know who shot me,” says Sam. He winces as he puts pressure on his leg. “I’m not going to say it was Cassel.”

  “That won’t matter. Whose gun is that, Mr. Sharpe?” Wharton says. “Yours, I’ll wager.”

  “Nope,” I say. “I stole it.”

  He gives me a sudden blank look. He is used to good boys in tidy uniforms who only play at being troublemakers before doing what they’re told, and the sudden suspicion that I’m nothing like that seems to disorient him. Then his mouth twists. “That’s right. Everyone knows your background. Who are they going to believe—you or me? I am a respectable member of the community.”

  “Not when they see the pictures of you and Mina Lange. That’s pretty sketchy stuff. You’re not going to look good. You’re sick, right? Brain starting to go. First you forget small things, then bigger ones, and the doctor gives you the news that it only gets worse from here. Time to resign from Wallingford. Not much you can do legally—but illegally— Well, now we’re talking. You can buy children, little girls like Mina, and she can’t cure you because it’s degenerative, but she can give you the next best thing.

  “So you don’t get any worse and she starts getting sick. At first you rationalize it. She’s young. She’ll get better. So she misses some classes? That’s nothing for her to be upset about. After all, you’ve gotten her a scholarship to Wallingford, a prestigious prep school, so that you could have her on hand whenever you needed her.

  “When she told you we had the pictures, you probably were willing to pay. But then when Sam comes in here, he says something that makes you realize the money is for Mina. And that puts you in a tough spot. If she goes, you get sick again. And if anyone sees the pictures, you lose your job. You can’t have that, so you go for the gun.”

  Wharton looks toward the desk as though he wants to make a mad grab for the photos. Sweat is beading on his forehead. “She was in on it?”

  “She orchestrated this. She took those pictures. The only thing she didn’t expect was someone to actually try to help her. Sam did, because he’s a good guy. See what it got him. Now I am making this call and you’re not going to stop me.”

  “No,” Wharton says.

  I glance at Sam. He looks very pale. I wonder how much blood he’s already lost.

  “Look, I don’t care about Mina or the money or you losing your mind,” I say. “Take the photos. Keep your secret. Tell the ambulance people whatever you want when they come. But he’s really hurt.”