Michael Grant - Eve and Adam

The door opens again and Aislin comes back out, carrying her purse. She brushes by me.

I say… I say nothing. I’m that messed up. I say nothing.

It’s some kind of overload. Too much of too much. I have the feeling I desperately need to cry. And I just don’t have it in me to deal with another crisis.

I hear her shoes moving away down the pier. Then she’s gone.

Self-pity rushes over me. Can’t she see that I need her to stick with me? Doesn’t she know what I’ve been through? I was nearly killed. I found out my mother’s a criminal. I escaped with my life from some creep who works for my mom.

Or at least, Solo escaped. And took us with him.

Am I a hundred percent sure he’s told me the truth? I don’t even know him. One kiss—even that kiss—doesn’t make us best friends forever.

No, bitch, your BFF just walked away.

Well, I’m sick of Aislin’s neediness. And I’m suddenly wondering if I’m just being manipulated by Solo. After all, he’s good with technology. Maybe all those pictures were a fake. Maybe this is all some elaborate fraud to let him hurt my mother. He hates her enough to do it.

Maybe I just need to grab a taxi and get back to Spiker and tell my mother…

No. No, I know that’s bull. I healed in days from something that should have taken months. That much, at least, is true.

And my gut tells me those pictures were real.

They return to me, unwanted, like some hideous slide show. The pig. The girl. That tattooed freak, standing in the room of freaks.

The tattooed guy. It clicks: He’s the same guy who came rushing from Solo’s room.

Maybe he’s the bad guy. Maybe he’s guilty and my mother is innocent.

As bad as that is, it would be so much better than the alternative.

At least I owe her a chance to explain. Right?

I’m freezing. I’m going to get my phone and call her. I’ve turned off the tracking so she can’t use it to find me. There’s no risk.

I have to give her the chance. She may be a cold bitch, but she is, still, my mother.

And if she can’t explain? Then I give Solo the flash drive.

Inside the warehouse it’s not much warmer, but it’s some improvement, at least. I go to my purse.

Solo is no longer on the couch. He must be… He must be where, exactly?

“Solo.” Nothing. “Solo?”

I know then. I begin the careful, then increasingly desperate, search that will confirm what I already know: The flash drive is gone.

And so is Solo.

I am familiar with the ferry, though I’ve never been here before. A driver has dropped me off at the pier. I have a wallet with money. I have a credit card, too. I have a phone that does everything. It even answers my questions.

I know each of these things, just as I know where to buy the ferry ticket, and how to go aboard. I know in advance what the terminal looks like on the other side of the bay—the bay that I also know even though I should not.

The ferry leaves from Tiburon, which is Spanish for “shark.” I don’t speak Spanish, but I know what that word means.

I’m a few minutes early. There’s a coffee shop full of early morning commuters.

Do I like coffee? I don’t know.

Terra Spiker says I absorbed well. My intelligence is functioning well. My body works. But no one has yet told me what I like or dislike. I only know that I love and care for Evening Spiker. She made me.

I walk into the coffee shop. I know how to order. It almost feels as if I have ordered before, but I haven’t. It’s puzzling.

I reach the counter. A woman is taking orders. Her eyes open wide. Her pupils dilate. She swallows hard.

“What would you like?” Her voice catches.

“Coffee. A cappuccino.”

“Anything else? A pastry?”

“No. Not a pastry.”

“That’ll be three dollars and ten cents.”

I count out some money.

I wait for my coffee. People stare at me. Some of the men don’t like me. Some of the men do. All of the women like me. Some of them pretend not to notice me, but they steal a glance, then look away.

A couple joins the group of people waiting for their orders, a young man, maybe twenty, and a girl, maybe a little younger. The girl looks at me and her mouth opens. The boy moves between us, blocking the girl from view. She steps out from behind him. She’s smiling just a little. She bites her lower lip.

My coffee is ready. I take it. I say, “Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” the barista says.

The ferry is pulling in. I can see it through the plate glass. I head toward it. A man holds the door open for me.

I’m aware that people are following me. They are not in a precise line behind me. They form a loose knot, keeping pace with me. They are close, but not too close. Other people are jostled. I am not.

The sun is coming up behind tree-covered Angel Island. The fog lies between us and the city and I know this because I know a great deal about the area, though I’ve never been here.

An idea occurs to me. I try to think of what lies to the east of this area. I make it as far as a city called Berkeley. I have detailed information that far, street by street information, but then the map in my head turns vague. I know that somewhere out there is a city called Chicago. And another one called New York. And a place called Europe. I know a little about them, but only a very little.

Interesting. I’ve been incompletely educated. I know a lot about finding Evening, and I know almost nothing about anything else.

I lean on the rail of the ferry, out on the bow where the salt spray flies up and soon moistens my face. A young woman comes to stand beside me.

“Excuse me, I know you must get this a lot, but are you a model?”

“No,” I say. I’m curious. “Why would you think that?”

The young woman shakes her head ruefully. “You must know.”

“I don’t know a lot of things I should know.”

“Dude, you are the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

“Am I?” I look around and see two girls nodding their heads in unison.

“Oh. Thank you,” I say.

“You should definitely be a model. Or a movie star,” the young woman says. “Or do ads or endorsements or…” She shrugs.

“He could sell me anything,” a middle-aged mom with two kids says. “Anything.”

Their words make me uncomfortable. I hunch my shoulders forward and drop my head a little. Then I stare out at the water and refuse to look behind me until we are docked in San Francisco.

Terra Spiker has given me a list of three places to look for Evening. The first is the family home. It’s a distance away in a neighborhood called Sea Cliff. I know that I can walk, or take a series of buses, or hail a cab.

There’s only one cab and his “out of service” light is on. I will need to walk, or take the bus, unless—

The cab swerves across three lanes and the window goes down.

“You need a ride?” the driver asks.

I’m frantic. I still have my phone, but I don’t have Solo’s number. I ask my phone where I can find a computer for rent. I follow the directions and head toward it at a trot.

This is happening too fast. I can’t let Solo do it.

Can I?

The copy center is closed. It doesn’t open for another two hours. I look around, desperate. I’m in the financial district now, a midget at the feet of giants. The Transamerica Pyramid is in one direction, the Bank of America building in the other. I head toward the B of A, hesitate, stop, wish I had psychic powers, look carefully in every direction. Nothing. No one but a street person, an older woman, who pushes a shopping cart toward me while muttering, “I told her it was okay, I told her it was okay.”