My father’s eyes light up. “Everything.”
I say nothing.
“I have a plan,” he says. “One that will require your assistance.In these files”—he nods at the stack in front of me—“is everything you need to know about her illness. Every medical report, every paper trail. I want you to reform the girl. Rehabilitate her. And then I want you to weaponize her abilities for our own use.”
I meet his eyes, failing to conceal my horror at the suggestion. “Why? Why would you come to me with this? Why would you ask me to do something like this, when you know our history?”
“You are uniquely suited to the job. It seems silly to waste my time explaining this to you now, as you won’t remember most of this conversation tomorrow—”
“What?” I frown. “Why wouldn’t I—”
“—but the two of you seem to have some kind of immutable connection, one that might, I hope, inspire her abilities to develop more fully. More quickly.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
He ignores me. Glances at Juliette. Her eyes are closed, her head resting against the wall behind her. She seems almost asleep, except for the tears still streaking softly down her face.
It kills me just to look at her.
“As you can see,” my father says, “she’s a bit out of her mind right now. Heavily sedated. She’s been through a great deal these last two years. We had no choice but to turn her into a sort of guinea pig. I’m sure you can imagine how that goes.”
He stares at me with a slight smile on his face. I know he’s waiting for something. A reaction. My anger.
I refuse to give it to him.
His smile widens.
“Anyhow,” he says happily, “I’m going to put her back inisolation for the next six months—maybe a year, depending on how things develop. You can use that opportunity to prepare. To observe her.”
But I’m still fighting back my anger. I can’t bring myself to speak.
“Is there a problem?” he says.
“No.”
“You remember, of course, the warning I gave you the last time she was here.”
“Of course,” I say, my voice flat. Dead.
And then, as if out of nowhere: “How is Lena, by the way? I hope she’s well.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
It’s barely there, but I catch the sudden shift in his voice. The anger when he says, “And why is that?”
“I broke things off with her last week.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”
Finally, I meet his eyes. “I never understood why you wanted us to be together. She’s not right for me. She never was.”
“You don’t love her, you mean.”
“I can’t imagine how anyone would.”
“That,” he says, “is exactly why she’s perfect for you.”
I blink at him, caught off guard. For a moment, it almost sounded like my father cared about me. Like he was trying to protect me in some perverse, idiotic way.
