“This story that you’re spinning with the ghosts and the possessed ship or whatever,” he continues. “And I get it.”
Max is shaking his head. “… seems to be working. I don’t think that’s a good—”
“You were in an impossible situation,” Reed says. “The company was done with you, replacing you. You had no viable career options left with your history. The world was changing without you.”
“Shut up,” I say, trying to focus on Max’s words.
“… unstable, and might further regress…”
“I don’t think you set out to hurt anyone. You just needed options,” Reed says. “Right? And then maybe things got just a little out of hand. Because once you start down that path, it’s hard to stop. You can’t put the peel back on an orange.” He sounds so pleased with his analogy. As if anyone who’d spent the majority of her life on an outpost and then a corporate-sponsored group home, andfinally an isolated and tiny sniffer would have more than a passing familiarity with the luxury of citrus, grown in greenhouses now at great expense. But I’m guessing that isn’t an issue for the Darrow family.
“I do think that’s a possibility, yes sir,” Max says, turning to glance back at me. He gives me a reassuring nod that does nothing to reassure.
“Just tell me what I need to know and this can be over with,” Reed says soothingly. “You can go back to your room, and we’ll leave you alone.”
Until the lawsuits filed by the passengers’ families reach court, and I’m hauled out as a witness for each and every one.
And… maybe I don’t want to be left alone. Not with theAuroracurrently limping its way back here. Beneath the doubt and guilt and shame, a tiny spark of hope still exists in me. Not that anyone left alive would want to see me, after I left them. So, it seems I’m stuck with two equally undesirable possibilities—either I got everyone killed or I left someone to die.
Either way, what I had is lost, but if one of my crew, my de facto family, is still alive… Kane or Nysus. I can barely breathe for the possibility of it.
“Come on, Claire,” Reed says. “It’s a burden you don’t want to carry. Just tell me what happened.” But his overt ambition shows behind the thin veneer of civility and compassion he’s constructed in the last five minutes. Like a shark trying to hide its teeth. Does he really expect me to fall for this?
His panic is genuine, though. I can feel it pushing at me from across the table. Reed Darrow is aware of some timetable that I am not.
When he glances back at Max, still on his call, it’s a micro-fraction of a moment, so quick it barely exists, but it snags my attention, pulling like fingernails dragging across my skin. Reed Darrow sees his window closing, and it has to do with whoever Max is talking to.
“Clear your conscience, Claire. Get it off your chest,” Reed urges,but his façade is cracking and the pleas come out sounding more like commands. “Stop with the aliens and ghosts bullshit, and tell the truth.”
“Yes, sir,” Max says. “I understand, sir. It shouldn’t be a problem.” His conversation is wrapping up.
I lean forward a little toward Reed. He immediately mimics the movement, expecting a confession.
“The tall man behind you, over your right shoulder. Gray hair, thinning on top. Black suit, vintage watch. Verux pin, just here.” I tap my chest just above my heart. An old first-gen pin, I’m guessing, based on the simplicity of the design—a shield-shaped bit of shiny metal with an engravedVin a curving, flowy font. Nothing like Reed’s expensive piece of pressed gold and diamonds.
Reed sits back, his face flushing, but his eyes wider than before.
My heart thunders in my chest—Inevertalk about what I see—but I press on. “He’s very disappointed to learn that you think he’s bullshit,” I say.
In reality, he is no such thing as disappointed. Or much of anything. He’s a fragment, a barely there shadow tagging after Reed. He doesn’t seem to speak or gesture, beyond the pacing. I don’t even know if he’s with Reed all the time or he’s simply drawn to Reed whenever Reed shows up here. It’s impossible to say for certain. All I know is I see him only when Reed comes to visit.
“Do you feel him there?” I ask Reed, leaning forward, imitating his “you can tell me” confidant posture. “When you’re alone? Always at your shoulder, looking down on you in disapproval?”
“Shut up,” Reed snarls, spittle spraying across the table. His skin has gone pale. Interesting. He believes me for some reason on this, but not on anything else.
I cock my head to the side, watching him. I wonder if Reedrecognizeswho I’m describing. The thought raises a chill across my skin. That would definitely put a different spin on what I’m seeing. Maybe this older man in the suit isn’t just the result of my malfunctioning brain. Maybe none of them are.
“What’s this?” Max returns to the table, eyeing both of us.
But I’m distracted for a moment. On the other side of the room, motion catches my eye.
“She’s—” Reed starts in an accusing tone, then cuts himself off.
“Claire?” Max asks.
I ignore him. Kane is back. He’s fully visible this time, rather than impeded by the couch. Blood is smeared across the front of his white shirt, but not enough to be fatal. His blood? Someone else’s? It takes me a moment to recognize the five uneven lines outside the main blotch as fingers. It’s a handprint. Kane’s expression is grim determination. He leans down toward something I can’t see. I sit up straighter automatically, for a better look, and my perspective suddenly tilts wildly.
I’m on the floor, my head throbbing so hard I can feel it in my teeth. The carpeting beneath me is rough, and I reach up for him…
