coming back to Miami every two weeks but leaving again soon after. The way heâd set up the Yard so it wasnât in her name until she turned eighteen. It also explained why she couldnât get her belongings or visit her friends. All those things sheâd accepted and forgotten about. Until now.
It also explained why her grandfather kept his distance, something that had always hurt. But that would mean Cyntag was telling the truth. She flipped through the follow-up articles and was even more stunned: her father painted a villain, having sabotaged the physics work he had been doing at SUNLAB. One theory was that heâd stolen his research to sell to the highest bidder. Another was that heâd gone on a rampage before taking his family to sea to their deaths.
The man she remembered was kind and soft-spoken. Never once had she seen him lose his temper, and, God no, he wouldnât have killed his family.
So the alternative wasâ¦someone had killed her parents. All these horrible allegations were a setup to cover the murders.
She sat back in the chair, feeling so cold she was shivering. How had she survived? She remembered being on the boat, the jarring thud that knocked her out. The next thing she knew, she was at Bromâs, about to get the worst news of her life.
As she absently rubbed her neck, she realized she was still feeling the weird warmth. She searched for nearby vents. Except it was summer and the heat wouldnât be on. Something odd prickled through her. This library branch was a small building, but it was eerily quiet. Though sunlight came through the windows near her, the interior looked dim. The electricity hadnât gone out, or the microfiche machine would have died.
Earlier sheâd heard a couple of thumps and someone coughing violently, but now she heard nothing but a low-level hissing. She lurched to her feet. Danger bristled up the back of her neck. Her rash felt as though it was literally on fire.
A shadow moved in the corner of her eye. She twisted to the right. Nothing. Or maybe it was something, like that creature in Cyntagâs office.
She reached for the gun she still had tucked into her waistband, keeping it down as she walked to the middle of the library. The fluorescent panels were dark, yet lights twinkled from a computer behind the checkout desk.
Not one person in sight. She raised the gun, ready to shoot. Something knocked it out of her hand, sending it skidding across the carpet. Something she couldnât see.
Hell.
Hot breath pulsed against her neck. She spun around, banging into the end of a book aisle. The gun lay only a few feet away, but what good was the damned thing going to be if she couldnât see what threatened her?
You cannot see â¦
The shadow moved again. She strained her eyes, trying to discern an outline, anything. It, whatever it was, shoved her. She felt pressure against her upper chest a second before she tumbled backward to the floor.
It wasnât small like Allander.
A book toppled from an upper shelf, landing several feet in front of her. She scrambled to her feet, eyeing the door. Not again. As she dashed toward it, something hot pushed her from behind. She kept her balance, darting down the aisle to the checkout desk and coming to a bone-jarring halt. A man lay sprawled on the floor, his hand clutching his chest. His face was frozen in an expression of pain and shock. She knew, even without checking, that he was dead.
The sound of metal rattling against metal pulled her attention to the front door again. Cyntag! Trying to open the door that was obviously locked. Could she really be happy to see him?
Armsâat least thatâs what they felt likeâwrapped around her. She dove forward, out of the thingâs grasp. It pushed, sending her rolling across the hard, carpeted floor. Even with the room still spinning, she could see that Cyntag wasnât at the door any longer.
Maybe sheâd imagined him.
It also explained why her grandfather kept his distance, something that had always hurt. But that would mean Cyntag was telling the truth. She flipped through the follow-up articles and was even more stunned: her father painted a villain, having sabotaged the physics work he had been doing at SUNLAB. One theory was that heâd stolen his research to sell to the highest bidder. Another was that heâd gone on a rampage before taking his family to sea to their deaths.
The man she remembered was kind and soft-spoken. Never once had she seen him lose his temper, and, God no, he wouldnât have killed his family.
So the alternative wasâ¦someone had killed her parents. All these horrible allegations were a setup to cover the murders.
She sat back in the chair, feeling so cold she was shivering. How had she survived? She remembered being on the boat, the jarring thud that knocked her out. The next thing she knew, she was at Bromâs, about to get the worst news of her life.
As she absently rubbed her neck, she realized she was still feeling the weird warmth. She searched for nearby vents. Except it was summer and the heat wouldnât be on. Something odd prickled through her. This library branch was a small building, but it was eerily quiet. Though sunlight came through the windows near her, the interior looked dim. The electricity hadnât gone out, or the microfiche machine would have died.
Earlier sheâd heard a couple of thumps and someone coughing violently, but now she heard nothing but a low-level hissing. She lurched to her feet. Danger bristled up the back of her neck. Her rash felt as though it was literally on fire.
A shadow moved in the corner of her eye. She twisted to the right. Nothing. Or maybe it was something, like that creature in Cyntagâs office.
She reached for the gun she still had tucked into her waistband, keeping it down as she walked to the middle of the library. The fluorescent panels were dark, yet lights twinkled from a computer behind the checkout desk.
Not one person in sight. She raised the gun, ready to shoot. Something knocked it out of her hand, sending it skidding across the carpet. Something she couldnât see.
Hell.
Hot breath pulsed against her neck. She spun around, banging into the end of a book aisle. The gun lay only a few feet away, but what good was the damned thing going to be if she couldnât see what threatened her?
You cannot see â¦
The shadow moved again. She strained her eyes, trying to discern an outline, anything. It, whatever it was, shoved her. She felt pressure against her upper chest a second before she tumbled backward to the floor.
It wasnât small like Allander.
A book toppled from an upper shelf, landing several feet in front of her. She scrambled to her feet, eyeing the door. Not again. As she dashed toward it, something hot pushed her from behind. She kept her balance, darting down the aisle to the checkout desk and coming to a bone-jarring halt. A man lay sprawled on the floor, his hand clutching his chest. His face was frozen in an expression of pain and shock. She knew, even without checking, that he was dead.
The sound of metal rattling against metal pulled her attention to the front door again. Cyntag! Trying to open the door that was obviously locked. Could she really be happy to see him?
Armsâat least thatâs what they felt likeâwrapped around her. She dove forward, out of the thingâs grasp. It pushed, sending her rolling across the hard, carpeted floor. Even with the room still spinning, she could see that Cyntag wasnât at the door any longer.
Maybe sheâd imagined him.
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