“So funny,” Bridge agrees, feeling sick.

  His eyes narrow. “Fucking cunt. Trying to take our kids. Hey, this better not be some kind of setup, with cops waiting over there for me.”

  “You think I got a woman to tie me up and drug me and cut open my arm to set you up?” Bridge can’t believe she has to rely on this human shitbag, but maybe stupid and fucked up is better than smart. Maybe she can work with that, slip away when she has to.

  His face darkens, a whole weather system she doesn’t know how to read; she doesn’t have a handle on the history. And then the clouds clear, and he gives a raffish open-mouthed smile, like a dog (a hurt dog, a mad dog, a dog that will bite your face off), pulls her tight to him, gives her a noogie, really grinding his knuckle into her scalp. “Who knows what crazy shit you’ll get up to, dum-dum.”

  AMBER

  Shadow Life

  In and out of focus, visiting the other Ambers while she waits, sitting hidden in the back of the anonymous white panel van she picked up at the Denver airport, looking out the rear window. Waiting for this Bridget—Budgie—to emerge from her poky apartment in a row of poky apartments, all alike in a four-story building with chipped paint and cheerful curtains.

  No one has hurt her. Not since Christopher Bacque threw boiling water at her, laughing, twisting her arm. Wearing her friend’s face.

  She would like to feed Bridget’s baby daddy to the alligators. Tie him up and drag him behind the boat through the inlets, but be careful not to let him drown. Not until she’s got the gators circling. It’s a fantasy that they will take casual bites out of him, rip off an arm. They’re not sharks. But one will take him in the end. Or she could cut off chunks of his body as he watched and screamed, feed them to the animals like they do on the tourist boats with catfish.

  She’s nursing revenge fantasies but also checking in on her Reluctant, Amberlynn. It would have to be her reality harboring the Source. Right now Amberlynn is riding up in an elevator with this Dom—who is frantic, jabbing the button as if that will make it go faster—and a young Black woman who apologizes over and over. Amberlynn, wretched with nerves, keeps pressing her elbow against her side to feel the gun strapped against her ribs. Amber is worried she is going to have to step in when she has a messy situation of her own to deal with.

  She’s shaken up herself, but she would never let that leak into the Ourmind. She knows how to keep things to herself, be discliplined even when it hurts, like holding in her urine in the desert like so many of the female soldiers, so she wouldn’t have to pee, because the toilets were disgusting and there were enemy insurgents and the rapists in your own unit who would lie in wait. She had constant UTIs, they all did, but that was the price you paid.

  She doesn’t know why she’s thinking about the war so much. Maybe because she never left. She’s been at war against the worm all these decades, and this feels like a defining moment. Or maybe because now they all need to hold fast, hold together, the same way you do in battle. Amberlynn needs to do her damn job. They all do.

  And here come the wounded lovebirds, Bridget leaning on him heavily as they emerge from a door like all the other doors in this block, looking wary. Descending the stairs, one at a time, careful, careful; he’s dangling the bat from his wrist, looking around. They clamber into a busted-up Ford pickup with a cracked windshield and snowboarding stickers on the back. She’d clocked it already. Easy to follow. But she doesn’t have to.

  She already called in a favor from one of her buddies still in the force. Advantages of being an ex-cop. The truck is registered to Franco Zachariah Reed, age thirty-seven, on parole for possession and domestic violence, with two restraining orders against him, one issued on behalf of Bridget Kittinger-Harris, age twenty-four, former partner and mother of his children, and, separately, one on behalf of Joanne Kaye for destruction of property and threatening behavior. The address is 449 Calder Avenue, Denver, Colorado. Forty minutes away.

  DOM

  Sonar Radiation

  The elevator is taking too long. They’re bouncing on their heels as it climbs; Tendayi is still stammering out apologies, and Amberlynn is smiling politely, but she’s clearly uncomfortable, arms across her chest, hands tucked into her armpits.

  “I’m so sorry, she said she wanted to lie down, she had a migraine.”

  “She doesn’t get migraines,” Dom says, trying not to snap, because it’s not her fault. Bridge is gonna Bridge. “She lied to you because she wanted to go back. Because she knew I’d make her wait.”

  “It’s dangerous,” Amberlynn mutters, which makes Tendayi even more freaked. When Tendayi opened the door for them downstairs, Amberlynn looked at her intently and declared, “You’re not one of them.” It pinged weirdly for Dom, somewhere deep and dark, but of course Amberlynn would know, right? Who was infected and who wasn’t?

  But in the cold light of elevator LEDs, they’re suddenly seeing her through Tendayi’s eyes: some batty old conspiracy crank with her hair cut too short and her bright yellow backpack. And Tendayi hasn’t even learned about the hellshriek box or how the magic worms can eat their way out from under your skin. And isn’t this exactly like when Dom was young and running on self-loathing, and they fell down the worst rabbit holes in all the internet? Crazy. This is crazy.

  “I think that when you find her, you should probably go,” Tendayi says. “I shouldn’t have brought you in here. I want to help, especially after Jo, but…”

  “Of course,” Dom says. “I’m so sorry, we shouldn’t have—” Despondency is despair’s less dramatic little sister.

  “No, it’s okay.” Tendayi tries to smile. “Maybe another time when things are less hectic.” Tries to mean it.

  “I’ll find her and we’ll head out. No stress.”

  The elevator doors open and disgorge them onto the sixth floor, where there’s no sign of Bridge, but Caden is skulking in the doorway of the lab.

  “You won’t find her,” he says. “I told her the doors were closing. She’s doing what she has to do.”

  “You smug ass-wipe,” they say, and Caden cringes—as if they would ever insult their fist with his face. Or anyone’s. They’re generally the one breaking up other people’s fights.

  “Oh,” Amberlynn says. “It’s you.”

  “Bridge?” Dom calls, striking out across the corridor. She’ll be somewhere quiet, somewhere she wouldn’t be disturbed—offices, kitchenette, maybe a faculty lounge or grad-student hangout? The library, obviously, but it’s not private enough, and they suspect she hasn’t physically left this building. It would take too much time.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Amberlynn says behind them, with resignation. Second ping on their sonar. But it’s the alarm in Tendayi’s voice that gets Dom to turn—“Hey, no, put that down”—and see, utterly confused, that Amberlynn has materialized a label printer gun from somewhere under her jacket and is holding it in both hands. No, it’s not plastic, they realize, scrambling through the shock. It’s dull metal, heavy and solid. It’s an actual fucking gun. This isn’t goofing around, and they’re cursing themselves for being so damn stupid. This is America.

  “Hey, Amberlynn, there’s no need for that.” They use their reasonable voice, calm, warm even, as they move toward her, but the air has thickened, and they’re too slow to react, too slow to stop her.

  Shots burst out, one-two-three. Loud as lightning strikes.

  Someone screams, and screams.

  BRIDGE

  Getaway Girl

  She keeps looking back to see if they’re being followed. There had been a suspiciously anonymous white van in the parking lot of Budgie’s apartment block, but it pulled away by the time they got to the ground floor. Franco hauled her like a human sack over to his pickup. A dark blue Prius behind them seems to have made all their turns for the last few blocks, and she can’t see the driver’s face behind the glare of the sun on the windshield. Or see if there is a little dog with its feet on the dash.

  “I’m watching,” Franco says, like they are in this together. “You think that’s your psycho cunt?” He reaches down, takes a gun—a gun!—from under the seat, and lays it across his lap.

  “I can’t tell.” Staring at the gun. The gun, the gun, the gun.

  “One way to figure it out,” he sneers and swerves two lanes over without hitting his blinker and onto the highway on-ramp, setting off a blister of horns. The Prius doesn’t break pace; it cruises past, and Bridge looks back to see a young Black man head-bopping to the radio, utterly unaware of them.

  “Is this the right direction?” she says. Through the woods to my mother’s house.

  “Drugs did a number on you, huh?”

  “I’d feel more comfortable if we could use navigation.” Quick to add: “Not that I don’t trust you.”

  But the phone in her hand gives her something more urgent to do. Call Dom. No, the photograph of Budgie’s kids staring up at her. Serious Marlon and goofy Jess wearing cat ears. She has to phone the school, make sure Budgie’s kids are safe. She owes her that. Many things, but especially that.

  “Who you calling?” An edge in his voice.

  “The school,” she says. “They’re at day camp.” She should have told him before she dialed, she realizes. Franco doesn’t like surprises; she has figured this out about him in the short time they’ve known each other. It rings and rings and finally a frazzled voice answers.

  “Hi, this is—” Shit, what was her fake name? Thinking back to a hundred otherlives ago. “Jess and Marlon’s mom,” she manages.

  “Ms. Ainsley, yes?” the woman says.

  “I’ve had, uh…” She hesitates, intensely aware of Franco listening in, thumbing the steering wheel to a song in his head. “A family emergency. I can’t come pick them up. But it’s very important that you don’t let them go with anyone else.”

  “Ms. Ainsley, is this about”—the woman lowers her voice, but not softly enough to keep Bridge’s chauffeur eavesdropper from hearing—“the restraining order?”

  “Yes.” Less to explain—to the school, anyway—she just hopes she can deal with Franco. “Yes, thank you for understanding. I’m so sorry. Can they hang out for a bit? I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “We can keep them till five, but then you’ll have to make another plan.”

  “Okay, thank you, that’s great. If anything happens—”

  “I’ll call you. Don’t worry.” The kindness in her voice might just fucking undo her. “Ms. Ainsley, wait, take my number. If you can’t get here by five, I’ll take them home with me. I know what it’s like.”

  “There’s no need, really,” she says, glancing at Franco. She can’t see his eyes behind the knockoff Oakley sunglasses, but there’s a knot at his jaw. She pulls a face and twirls her finger, as in Talky-talky, crazy-crazy, can you believe this bitch, and he grins. She mimes taking down the number, jabby-jabby on an imaginary phone, rolling her eyes. Memorizes it. She will write it down as soon as she can for Budgie, for when this is over, when she’s gone.

  “Whole school knows, huh?” Franco says as soon as she ends the call. Thumbs tap-tapping the steering wheel.

  “I’m sorry.” Careful, Bridge, she thinks. “I made a mistake. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Damn right you weren’t. You didn’t think I’d find you, huh, dum-dum?” He reaches over and slaps her. Hard, not like Amber’s contemptuous flap. Black sparkles and shock. “That was for being stupid. This”—he grabs her face, kisses her hard—“is because I love you. You’re forgiven. Don’t do it again.”

  “I won’t. I’m sorry.”

  “We’ll make it right, baby.”

  “We’ll make it right,” she repeats and sinks down into the seat, half flopping against the window. “Oof, what the hell did she give me?”

  “You all right there? Used to be able to hold your shit better than that. You’ve gotten soft, Budgie, baby.”

  “I know.” She attempts a half laugh. “I think I need food. Can we stop somewhere? We can get it to go.”

  “Chili fries.”

  This seems like part of a routine she doesn’t know the accompaniment to. “You know it,” she says. He doesn’t notice that she’s ad-libbing, lost in reminiscing.

  “Taco grande. Margaritas. When was the last time?”

  “Sounds like a celebration.”

  “Sounds like a Wednesday, baby.” He glances over, a lopsided smile, showing his teeth. “You think your bitch mommy has the guts to move the merchandise herself?”

  “She has no idea it’s even there,” she says, trying to match his jeering tone. Bridge doesn’t know where Jo is. And she needs to know. “Give me the address again, I’ll put it into the navigator. We don’t want to get a speeding ticket on the way to a drug run, right?”

  “That’s my girl. See, you do have smarts.” He grabs her hand and kisses the back of her knuckles. “Shit, what was it? Calder Avenue, but I can’t remember the number. Put that in, it’ll get us close enough. Did they miss me, the kids?”

  “So much,” Bridge says. “They’re going to be so excited to see you.” Almost as much as she is to see the gas station coming up under a silver and blue logo she doesn’t recognize above one she does. Compatible but different. “Hey, pull over here,” making her tone light, “I can grab some Twinkies to tide me over.”

  “If you’re lucky, they’ll have a whole corn dog.”

  He jumps across the lane, again not putting on his turn signal, which is just how he drives it seems. He pulls in to one of the bays in front of the 7-Eleven attached to the gas station chain she’s never heard of. He nods his head at the doors. “Grab me a pack of Marlboro Reds too, huh?”

  Bridge laughs so as not to cry, so as not to reveal her heart ready to drum itself out of her chest. She makes herself as small and floppy and pathetic as she can. “Baby, I can’t walk.”

  “You left your wallet at home too, I’ll bet?” That dark cloud looms.

  “I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you. Margaritas on me.”

  He drums his thumbs on the steering wheel, gnawing on his lower lip as if he’s wondering if she did this on purpose. “Okay,” he says, relenting. He unbuckles his seat belt, opens the door, and swings his long legs out, tucking that gun back into his waistband, under his shirt. He hesitates, and for a moment she’s terrified he’s going to take the keys out of the ignition, which will fuck up everything. Or he’s decided he’s tired of her and she’s never going to learn and he’s just going to shoot her here and now and be done with it. But he’s getting his wallet, battered black leather, from the plastic holder by the handbrake. He wags his wallet at her as if she has been a naughty little girl.

  “But you’re only getting Twinkies.”

  AMBER

  Ding-Dong-Ditch the Witch

  The nice suburbs, like McDonald’s, are comfortingly all alike. The sketchy ones, the not-yet-gentrified, are all distinct, unpredictable. She’s relieved that Joanne “Kaye” lives out past the tree-lined neighborhoods populated with clapboard bungalows and ranch-style houses with double-wide garages and oversize pickups parked outside and sprinklers flickering over the lawns. Behind those cheerfully painted windows, Amber knows there are bored housedads and work-from-home wives ready and waiting to post on one of the neighborhood-watch groups about the white panel van that has been parked outside for a little too long, don’t you think?

  K-for-Kittinger, hardly a genius fake identity, Amber thinks. But then her would-be-son-in-law doesn’t seem like the type to figure it out.

  Amber drives out past the Whole Foods store and the slick new developments of Highland, past the Costco, into what she thinks of as Dollar-Store-Land, the kind of neighborhood where the high schools provide easy pickings for army recruiters offering a better life than this, son. Like hers was.

  She drives still farther, into the scrub hills of whatever former mining shanty this once was, now absorbed into the city sprawl. It’s a mix of historic row houses that have yet to experience the magic wand of redevelopment, although give it five, ten years and a booming economy, and these will be selling for upwards of half a million. But this isn’t where Joanne Kaye lives either.

  “No, she doesn’t, Mr. Floof II,” she tells the little dog in her lap, watching the road.

  He yaps as if to say Well, where does she live, then?

  Amber turns into Calder, finally, a long street to nowhere, parallel to the highway for ease of commute, where the ticky-tacky houses are newer and all built the same, cheap and quick and already worn out, worn down.

  “Has to be one of these…” Watching the numbers ticking up toward the cul-de-sac. Fake gray clapboard or vinyl or whatever they use these days. Not exactly eco-friendly, but better than asbestos. Built like a strip mall around a parking lot, identikit homes, two-story, each with its own wooden patio, high canted roofs. This is what she likes about this kind of neighborhood: Cheap housing, but not a community. No overly friendly deli owner or local landmark who sits on the stairs in his suit and smokes and watches the Goings-On, no gossips all Up in Each Other’s Business or teenagers lurking in packs. People here keep the hell to themselves and expect you to do the same.

  The lawn of number 449 is overgrown, threaded with dandelions. No one answers the doorbell, but no one pokes a head out from any of the other town houses to look either. She rings again, follows it up with three firm raps. A shadow materializes beneath the door, darkens the peephole. Amber holds up her police badge, long since defunct, and puts on her best sorry-to-bother-you smile.

  The front door cracks open and a woman with hollow cheekbones pulling a sweatshirt over her sports bra says, “Help you?” She’s in her early fifties, long brown hair scraped back in a messy ponytail, black workout gear, barefoot: One times out-of-work lady. But she has a presence to her. Confident. This is someone who is accustomed to being listened to, like a teacher or a traffic cop. Amber feels no squirm of recognition inside her. Not infected, then.