He’s on his feet, moving toward the glass, staring at the readouts with an intensity that makes my stomach drop.
“Dad, what is it? What’s wrong with Nate?”
He turns to look at me, and he looks amazed, like a scientist who’s just had a notion confirmed in the most impossible way.
“I think my theory about Vanguard might be right.”
And then he’s gone, rushing out of the observation room, the door swinging shut behind him.
“What theory?” I say but he can’t hear me.
I’m on my feet before I can think, following him, my heart pounding against my ribs. Through the door, down the short corridor, into the imaging suite where Nate is still lying in the scanner, eyes now open, looking confused.
“What’s going on?” he asks, sitting up. “The machine started making noises?—”
My father is already at the main console, pulling up screens, his fingers flying over the keyboard. The images that appear make no sense to me—cross-sections, neural maps, something that looks like a skeletal structure but not quite right.
“Dr. Reeves,” Nate says, his voice harder now. “What did you find?”
My father doesn’t answer. He just stares at the screen, at whatever impossible thing it’s showing him, and I watch his face cycle through emotions too quickly to name.
“Dad,” I say. “Tell us. What’s wrong with him?”
He turns slowly, looking at Nate like he’s seeing him for the first time. Like really seeing him.
“Nothing’s wrong with you,” he says quietly. “At least, not in my eyes.”
“Then what?—”
“We need to do a more invasive test.” My father’s voice is clinical now, all business, but I can see his hands shaking. “I need to see what’s underneath.”
Nate’s eyes go wide. “Underneath what?”
My father doesn’t answer.
“Underneath what?” I repeat, my voice rising.
He looks at Nate. “How is your pain tolerance?”
CHAPTER 49
VANGUARD
The question hangsin the air, and I don’t like the way James is looking at me. Like I’m not a person anymore. Like I’m a problem to be solved.
How is my pain tolerance?
“Pretty damn high,” I say carefully. “Why?”
“Because I need to do something that’s going to hurt.” He’s already moving around the imaging suite, pulling open drawers, gathering instruments. Scalpels. Clamps. Pointy things I don’t have names for. “The scans are showing me something I need to verify. Something I can’t verify without seeing it, well, directly.”
“Seeing what directly?” I ask, the pitch of my voice getting higher.
He doesn’t answer. Mia is standing in the doorway, her face pale, her eyes darting between me and her father.
“Dad,” she says. “What’s going on? What did you see?”
“I’ll explain everything. But first I need to confirm.” James turns back to me, a syringe in his hand. “This is a local anesthetic. It’ll numb the area, but you’ll still feel pressure, possibly some discomfort. I can give you something stronger if you’d prefer to be unconscious for this.”
