Prologue
TEN YEARS AGO
Jonas Masonpractically floated as he left the post office with his offer letters in his hand. Arranging to pick up his post had given him time in private to absorb whatever came next without having to hide his excitement or disappointment from his mum. As it was, excitement buzzed through his veins like fizzy pop.
Both Oxford and Cambridge had offered him a place. His teachers had said he might manage one, but both? It was almost unheard of. Most people didn’t apply to both for that reason, but he’d always been different.
His pulse thrummed with disbelief and pride as he read the letters again.
Dear Mr Mason, we would like to formally offer you a place at Oxford University this coming term…blah blah blah. Computer science had been his passion since he’d discovered how to take his mum’s home computer apart when he was eight years old.
Securing the scholarships, though, was what made it possible. He wanted his master’s degree, but not at the price ofputting his mum in debt. A future he’d barely dared to dream of was suddenly right there in his hands.
He cycled home fast, the cool evening air sharp in his lungs, rehearsing how he’d tell his mum. She’d cry, he knew. Probably insist on a proper roast with all his favourite trimmings to celebrate. His mouth watered at the thought of roast beef with Yorkshire puddings and gravy.
He shoved open the front door of their little semi-detached flat, grinning wide, only to falter. The silence was deafening, the air muted, a sadness weighing it down.
His mother was at the kitchen table, her posture heavy, shoulders slumped as she gripped a shredded tissue in her hands. Penelope Mason’s usually bright eyes dulled with something he didn’t understand at first. She looked wrecked.
“Mum?” His voice cracked; suddenly his news felt insignificant, wrong in a room which felt so heavy with grief, almost. “What’s wrong?”
“Sit down, love.” Her voice was soft but trembled at the edges, the usual formidable strength lost.
A chill threaded his excitement as he sat at their small kitchen table, his heart thudding wildly in his chest.
She reached across the table and took his hand, her palms rough from her job cleaning nearby office buildings. “I went to the doctor.” A pause, which felt like a lifetime, allowed every horrid, devastating thought to run through his mind. Was it cancer? Something rarer? Was he about to lose his mother? He didn’t know for only moments, but he was right; he was about to lose her, just not in the way he’d imagined.
“Jonas… It’s Alzheimer’s.”
“How is that possible? You’re not even fifty.”
She gripped his hand tighter, giving him a wan, sad smile. “Early-onset. They think it will be slow, and drugs will help, but it’s confirmed.”
The words tore through him like glass. His breath left him in a rush, pride curdling into a cold, helpless ache. “No.” He squeezed her hand, desperate. “No, Mum. We’ll fight it. There’s medication. Trials. Something.”
Her smile was brave and heartbreaking all at once. “We’ll manage. We always do.” Her hand cupped his cheek, and he felt like a young boy again. His heart broke for her, for him, for what this meant to their small family of two.
Jonas blinked hard, his vision blurring. He thought of Oxford, Cambridge, scholarships, all suddenly meaningless in the face of this news. He couldn’t leave her, not now. “It’s okay,” he whispered, wrapping her in his arms. “You looked after me all these years. Now it’s my turn. I’ll get a job. We’ll find a carer to help. It’ll be okay.”
She leaned into him, fragile but warm, and he held her until she was ready to go upstairs, the emotion of the day having worn her out. He tucked her into bed like she used to tuck him in when he was small.
“I love you, son.”
His throat closed with emotion. “I love you too, mum.”
He held her hand, suddenly seeing a frailty he hadn’t noticed before. Watched her breathe until she drifted to sleep, and then he let the enormity of the news wash over him like a tidal wave.
The house was silent as he slipped out into the night, easing the trapped, drowning feeling. The streets were hushed, lamplight spilling over pavements slick with rain. He walked aimlessly, his mind spinning with futures that now seemed out of reach.
“Jonas Mason.”
He froze. A man stepped out from the shadows beneath a streetlamp. Tall, lean, muscular, with the sort of self-possession that spoke of danger as much as authority.
“My name’s Jack Granger,” the man said. “I’ve been watching you.”
Jonas stiffened. “That’s not creepy at all.”
Jack’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “You’ve got a rare gift, Jonas. Not just intelligence, but application, control. You could be extraordinary with the correct guidance.”
