“But what about your dad?” Vivienne took a drink of milk.
“He’s one of us.” Max scratched the back of his hands. “And he’s in England.”
“Why isn’t he with you?”
“Because he has Alzheimer’s and doesn’t even know I exist.”
Alzheimer’s? Wasn’t that something people got when they were really old? “But he’s only eighteen.”
“His body is eighteen, but his mind is eighty-seven.” Max finished his milk and sighed. “They showed me pictures of him. He looks just like one of us, like there’s nothing wrong. I thought about going to see him after Thanksgiving.”
Vivienne wished she could spend even one more hour with her parents.
Max ran his hands through his hair and rested his elbows on the table. “I mean, he won’t know who I am, but I want to meet him at least once.”
“I definitely think you should—”
The front door flew open and cracked off the doorstop.
Emily stood in the doorway, her face red and splotchy. And she was . . . crying?
Vivienne sprinted over, checking for cuts or bruises or blood or some visible reason why her roommate was sobbing. “What happened? Are you hurt?” Should she call a doctor? Was there one on campus?
Stumbling forward, Emily ripped off her coat and scraped her nails along her arms, leaving angry red streaks on her skin. “My dad’s a damn liar and I hate him.”
“Okay, you need to take a breath.” Vivienne wrapped her arm around Emily’s waist. “Come sit down and tell us what happened.”
“Us?” Emily stiffened. “Who else is here?”
“Just me,” Max said, grabbing a glass from the cupboard and filling it from the faucet. He carried it over, his eyes wide with concern, and handed it to Emily.
Vivienne sat next to her on the couch, and Max took a seat across from them on the edge of the coffee table. Emily didn’t say anything. She just sat there, staring at her shoes. Vivienne glanced at Max; he nodded as if to say, “Go on.”
“Emily?”
“You want to hear some crazy shit?” Emily leveled angry, tear-filled eyes at her. “My dad neutralized himself.”
“What?” Vivienne’s adrenaline spiked, and her own arms started itching. “I thought your dad’s Nevergene wasn’t active,” she said hesitantly, not wanting to make things worse.
“Yeah. Because he,” she spat, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands, “deactivated it on purpose.”
Max pulled a pack of tissues from his pocket and handed them to her.
That made no sense. Why would someone with an endless life want to give that up?
“Dad told me he didn’t want to have a life without…” Emily ripped a tissue in two then pressed her fists to her eyes. “He didn’t want to live without my mom.”
Vivienne hugged her, not knowing what to say. Deacon had been so amazing after her appointment; she felt like she was failing Emily when she needed her most.
“He wouldn’t stop apologizing for…for abandoning me,” she sniffled. Tears fell on Vivienne’s shoulder.
“But he didn’t abandon you,” Vivienne pointed out. “They’ve both been with you for your entire life.”
“You don’t get it,” Emily snapped, pushing away. “He neutralized himself after they had me. There was only a small chance that my Nevergene would activate, and my dad made the selfish choice to have one lifetime with mom instead of chancing an eternity with me.”
Max asked where he’d gotten the poison.
“Does it even matter?” Emily blew her nose into what was left of the tissue and cursed. “This is all a bunch of shit.”
Max put his hand on her knee. “It sounds like you should go talk to—”
Emily knocked him away. “No way.”
“Emily…” Vivienne reached for her but stopped. Maybe she didn’t need comfort. Maybe she needed time to be pissed off.
“Didn’t you guys hear what I said?” Emily’s hands clenched in her lap. “I’m never going back home. Ever. I don’t care what they say to me. They can have each other for the rest of their short ass lives. I don’t need them.” She rocketed to her feet and stomped toward the bedrooms.
A swirling November wind lifted what remained of the leaves into cyclones along the gravel path. Deacon enjoyed the fall best of all, and the darker evenings meant longer flights. He tucked his hands into his pockets and waited for Vivienne to show up. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t the one who was late.
The main door to the flats opened, and Vivienne came running out, her dark hair tangling about her shoulders. He hadn’t slept for worrying about her.
He wasn’t sure how she’d act after last night . . . after yesterday.
He couldn’t have been more clear about what he wanted. She had seemed into it at first, but he’d pushed his luck by suggesting they go to her room. At least he knew her cut-off point now.
“Hey, Deacon.” There were circles beneath her eyes and her smile looked forced.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Not with me anyway.” She brushed her hair back from her flushed face. “Emily just had her genealogy appointment.”
Emily Liller’s father had been one of the ones who had volunteered to help with HOOK’s research in exchange for their “treatment.” One of only two individuals in PAN history who chose to give up his immortality for love. Some people probably thought it was romantic. Deacon thought it was foolish. He couldn’t imagine anyone worth being grounded for, let alone losing their life over.
“How is she?” he asked.
“Pretty upset.”
Barry, Ricky, and Jason nodded to him on their way to The Glass House. Deacon didn’t miss the looks of appreciation they shot Vivienne before going inside. He should’ve offered to order takeaway.
“Do you need to go back to your flat so you can be with her?”
This time her smile seemed more genuine. “As long as I bring home fries, she’ll be all right.”
The Glass House was nearly full, so they sat across from one another at one of the smaller tables near the door. In the center of the table, a display frame listed the hours for the upcoming holidays—not that the hours made a difference to him. He’d be gone the day after Thanksgiving.
“So…this is different.”
He slid the tablet across to Vivienne so she could order first. “What do you mean?”
“We’ve never shared a meal before,” she said, keeping her eyes on the menu as she scrolled.
“Of course we have.” Her order was still up when she handed him the tablet. Eggplant parmesan for lunch? Actually, that sounded good. He ordered the same.
“No we haven’t,” she insisted.
“In Ohio, remember? You ordered half the menu.”
Vivienne rolled her eyes and leaned back in her chair. “That didn’t count.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was half afraid you were going to murder me.”
Had she really been afraid? He’d been friendly enough, hadn’t he? Confusing as hell of course, but that was the nature of recruiting. He was only permitted to give certain details before the mark was in Neverland. The joys of secrecy. “And do you make a habit of dining with murderers?”