Staring down at his checkbook with fixed focus, Dad shouts, “How much?!”
I jump, my chest tight and uncomfortable. Prickles wash over the skin at the back of my neck. Dad never yells. He’s too dignified for that. Everything about this is wrong.
My stomach churns. I look at Mom. She hovers at the edge of the room, her face pale. Her mouth parts and she moistens her lips as though she’s going to speak, but nothing comes out.
Mr. Pollock rises from the couch, and I see just how short he is. His legs and torso appear almost the same length. His square hands brush over his bad suit. He takes a long, measuring look around our living room, his gaze skimming the furniture, the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the heavy drapes, and grand piano in the corner that I’ve played ever since I sat down in front of it at age three.
Dad lifts his gaze now, watching Pollock with almost hatred. And something that resembles fear. Although obviously not. Patrick Hamilton fears nothing and no one. Certainly not this man with his beady eyes and ill-fitting suit.
Watching Dad, I marvel at the harsh glitter of his gaze . . . the heavy crash of his breath. A part of me wants to go to him and place a hand on his tightly bunched shoulder. For whatever reason. Maybe to just make me feel better. Because Dad like this freaks me out.
Mr. Pollock stops before Dad and looks down at him. My father rises, still clutching his checkbook in his hand, crushing it.
Pollock jerks his head in my direction. “You can’t buy her way out of this.”
I stare, at a total loss. What did I do? Fear crawls up my throat in hot prickles, and I fight to swallow.
“Dad?” My voice is a dry croak.
He turns to me, the whites of his eyes suddenly pink, shot with emotion.
Mr. Grayson moves to leave. He gives me a small, sympathetic smile as he passes, lifting a hand as though to pat my shoulder and then drops it, changing his mind.
Then it’s Mr. Pollock before me, so close I can smell his sour coffee breath. He flips out a small card. “I’ll be your caseworker. I won’t come here again. From now on, we meet at my office. Be there tomorrow at ten sharp.”
The unspoken words or else hang in the air.
My thoughts jumble together. I glance down at the card but can’t focus on the words.
Then the men are gone. It’s just me and my parents.
I spin to face Mom. “Why do I have to see him tomorrow? I have school—”
“No,” Dad announces, slowly sinking down into a chair. “You don’t.”
Mom moves inside the living room, her hand gliding along the back of the couch as though she needs the support of something solid under her fingers.
Dad drags a hand over his face, muffling his words, but I still hear them: “Oh, my God.”
Those barely there words shudder through me.
I wet my dry lips. “Someone please tell me what’s going on? What did that man mean when he said he’s my caseworker?”
Mom doesn’t look at me. She fixes her stare on Dad. He drops his hand from his face and exhales deeply, shaking his head. “They can’t do this.”
“Oh, Patrick.” She shakes her head as if he just uttered something absurd. “They’ve been doing it all over the country. What can we do?”
“Something,” he snaps. “This isn’t happening. Not to my daughter!” He slams his fist down on the desk and I flinch.
My eyes start to burn as apprehension curls through me sickly. Part of me feels the irrational urge to run. To flee from whatever horrible truth has my parents acting this way. Find Zac and hold him, bury my face in his chest and listen to him tell me he loves me again.
Mom looks at me finally. Her lips compress and flatten like it’s hard for her to even look at me. “You can’t go back to school.”
“What? I don’t—”
“Let me finish.” She takes a breath like she’s preparing to dive into deep waters. “You’ve been uninvited.” Her lip curls at this last bit. Everton Academy never expels students. They “uninvite.” As though the gentle euphemism could mask the reality of what being uninvited means.
I slide a step back. My hip bumps into a table holding an assortment of framed family photos. One hits the floor with a loud crack. I don’t even move to pick it up. Shaking my head, I whisper, “Why?”
It’s Dad who responds, his voice biting deep with the words that will change everything forever. “You have the kill gene.”