The Dark at the End Read online

  She raises a hand to everyone else, strides to the ladder, and disappears.

  I’ll find you, she said. Because no matter where we go, she’s confident she can find me. That’s scary, but not surprising anymore. Especially without Dedushka to help us hide, we’d probably be pretty easy to find.

  I scratch at the stubble on my cheek, thinking about her proposal. If I accept—if we accept, and we’ll all have to talk about it—we’ll be protected from anyone who might still know about me, and might still try to use my power for the wrong things. We’ll be able to start a new life, together. And I really will be able to use my power for what I feel it’s meant for, helping people.

  That sounds like something I can work with. I look at my family, together, Lucas talking to Mom, Rachel hugging Myka. They’re broken, some. By this place, by being confined, by the trauma of Smith, by the horror of Dad’s work, and Dad’s death. I’m broken too. But we’re here, and we can start again.

  We Lukins stick together like glue. Until we shatter, and then we come back together on our own, and put ourselves together. We don’t need no stinkin’ glue.

  Yeah. That’s better.

  56

  RACHEL

  UC Berkeley

  Dreams by the Cranberries

  I look around my dorm room, making sure I’ve got everything. I’m still not quite comfortable being on my own, in one place. Not responsible for other people. All I have to do every day is get myself up and to class, and then to work at the Institute of Government Studies. It feels too easy, like I’m missing something.

  Not that my schedule at Berkeley is easy. After some deep thought, and a conversation with Dedushka, I decided to stay in the political science major I was enrolled in before. To make a difference in government from the inside, from a position of knowledge instead of fear. I don’t know if I’ll ever actually run for office—that would require background checks I might not pass now—but I can still make things happen.

  And I still love it. When I imagine studying something else, like library science or English, it feels flat. This was the right choice.

  Liesel says my new identity will pass any background check, that it’s made for that. But I don’t know if I’d trust it. I’m still getting used to the identity too. No more Rachel Watkins. I’m Andrea Brett, from Providence, Rhode Island. I don’t have any family living, but I’m a good student. Good enough for Liesel to pull whatever strings she did to get me here. I just have to live up to Andrea’s reputation.

  Of course I do have family living. Liesel had me call my parents, both of them, to tell them I was safe and well, that I was going out of the country with the Peace Corps and I wouldn’t be able to be in touch. They were awkward, uncomfortable phone calls. Dad said that was great, and then there was silence. Mom cried, moaning about how I was abandoning her, then yelling about how I was a worthless daughter. I stood there and listened, numb, until Liesel took the phone and hung up.

  “That’s done,” she said. “If you want it to be. You’re your own person now.”

  I’m my own person. Andrea Brett. Poly Sci major. Normal. Andrea didn’t escape from a secret military base or run from the police in Florida. She’s never seen a dead body. Andrea didn’t have her fingers broken in a dirty hotel room by a madman. I try to remember that when I talk to other people, when I walk around campus. Andrea has no reason to look over her shoulder in the cafeteria, to have nightmares about guns and knives and big men in suits.

  I do look over my shoulder, and I do have nightmares. But I’m here, a fresh start, and I’m determined to make the most of it. To move forward.

  There’s also still Jake, and all the rest of them. Dedushka, Abby, Myka, Lucas. I get to see them most weekends, and that’s like coming home to my real family. I don’t have to hide anything with them. I belong.

  I send Jake a quick text on my way to American Politics. Even though I’ve been in classes for a month, it’s his first day at Stanford. I know he’s nervous. His life over the past year is even harder to shed.

  I have a feeling he’ll be okay, though. That all of us will.

  I grab my backpack, with books and a wallet that say Andrea Brett (normal person), and step into the bright sunshine.

  57

  MYKA

  Safe & Sound by Taylor Swift

  I love my new school.

  I didn’t think there was any way I could like it as much as my last one, but I do. It’s called Nueva School, it’s in Hillsborough near San Francisco, and it’s awesome. There’s a design and engineering lab! And a chemistry lab! And music, which I never did at Nysmith but I wanted to. I’m going to do African and Brazilian drumming next year. And in the spring, the eighth grade gets to go to Spain!

  I’m Chloe Freeman now. I picked Freeman when Liesel gave us a list of last names to pick from, because…duh. Free.

  I said it really should be Freewoman, but I’ve never heard of that as a last name. And Lucas—he’s Oliver now, which is weird—had to share the name too, so Freeman works.

  Lucas is at Nueva also, though he’s at the high school, so I don’t see him during the day. I think he likes it, though he still doesn’t talk a lot. About anything. But he smiles more. And I think sometimes he talks to Mom. He’s still super shy with Jake.

  Mom says we’ll get there. I may not ever be able to tickle him like I do Jake, but I’m working up to hugs.

  I hug Jake all the time. And Mom, and Dedushka. Sometimes I can’t get enough.

  The bell rings and I head into math, my second-favorite subject. My new best friend Ming-An is in my group, so it’s fun.

  The memory of Dad teaching me math all those nights fills my head. His face so serious, so intense. Then his face at the end, so desperate to keep Jake.

  “Here I am,” I whisper.

  I sigh and shove all of it away. Chloe Freeman’s dad died a long time ago. I sit with Ming-An, laugh about a picture she sent me this morning, and then we settle in to class.

  I can do this. I can do anything now.

  58

  JAKE

  Stanford

  The End Is the Beginning Is the End by Smashing Pumpkins

  Stanford is both exactly what I expected and not at all what I thought it would be. I guess if you hold something in your head for so long, especially when it seemed impossible, it gets a shiny brochure quality to it. Sitting in the white cell in Montauk, or the gray concrete rooms in Dad’s base, I pictured the quad with students sprawled on the grass, all posed in collegiate perfection in the sun.

  There are students, and it is sunny. Hot, even. It’s Palo Alto in September. But right now at least, on the first day of classes, nobody’s lounging on the grass. There’s a definite buzz, a sense of purpose. People walk fast, talk fast, seem like they know where they’re going. I overhear conversations I don’t understand at all, and a couple I do.

  I can’t believe I’m really here, a backpack on my shoulder, a real enrolled student. It’s not a temporary cover or a dream. Not under my name of course, but with my major, my background (roughly), my transcript. Full scholarship. Internship at the California Historical Society next summer already approved. My future back in place, shiny. With just a little detour.

  Jason Connors. It has a nice ring to it. I stole the last name from Jimmy, one of my favorite players ever. Maybe it will help me get on the tennis team too.

  I lift my face to soak up the sun for a second—I can never get enough sun—then stroll across the Oval to my first class, a freshman seminar: History of Science.

  I wonder if we’ll cover any psychology, or parapsychology. Probably not. They’d probably say it isn’t real, with all the failed experiments. But no one knows about me.

  My phone buzzes with a text from Rachel.

  Good luck today. Love you. See you this weekend.

  Love you. It’s still new, puppy-awkward, like we’re getting to know each other for the first time again, even though we’ve been through so much. I will see her thi
s weekend. Nearly every weekend—we meet in San Francisco, with the rest of my family.

  I text it back, grin like a complete and total idiot, and slip the phone back in my pocket. There are good-luck messages from Mom, Myk, and Lucas in there too. The only contacts in my phone, and the only ones I need.

  There’s no text from Dedushka. I snort at the thought of it, and a guy with a blue bandanna on his head looks at me funny, then shrugs. Dedushka would never use a cell phone, not in a million lifetimes. But he’s okay, recovering, and I know he wishes me well today. That’s all he ever wanted. Use it for good.

  I go up the steps and under the arch of Building 200, History Corner, and swallow down another lump in my throat. My hands tremble a little, but not because I’m inside. This time it’s pure adrenaline.

  I go up to the second floor, past other history majors, and find the room. It’s massive. Tiers and tiers of brown seats, sloping down to a big open space in front. There’s a wide desk with four screens behind it. It smells like old books, and a little bit of sweat. The room is about half-full, and the Professor’s not here yet. I’m early. Of course I’m early.

  I pick a seat about five rows up, a few in. Not ridiculously teacher’s pet-ish—Myk would be in the very front row. But interested. I drop into the seat and look around, not even trying to be casual.

  “Is this seat taken?” asks a musical voice, with a Spanish accent.

  I whip my head around. No. It can’t be.

  But it is.

  Ana. She was my first DARPA handler, a lifetime ago, the only one who wasn’t tainted by everything that came later. I liked her, even in the midst of everything else. She was kind, but all business. Her dark hair is pulled into a knot at her neck like it always was, though she looks a little younger this time. Less housekeeper, more mature college student. She smiles at me, all white teeth, with real pleasure. She holds out her hand to shake, a new silver charm bracelet dangling from her wrist, jingling. “I am Emma. And you?”

  I laugh, a low, short laugh. Too weird. Liesel brought her back to be my handler this time too, my protector. Like nothing else ever happened. But it did. I’m different. And now my talent is mine to control, not theirs.

  I have a feeling Ana will understand that. Equal partners. My choices. I shake her hand.

  “Jason Connors. Nice to meet you.”

  We smile again, at all our shared secrets. Then we turn back to the front as the professor comes in and starts writing on the board.

  Let the new life begin.