Unravelling
I want to say something else, prolong this moment, but words fail me. And it doesn’t matter. She’s already turned back to the mixing bowl and begun a long explanation of why she decided to also make a batch of raspberry muffins and how they’ll be different from the blueberry ones, even though she’s using the same baseline recipe. I text Alex, Struz, and even Jared’s water polo coach to let them know there’ll be muffins on us for anyone who’s interested.
And then I just listen to her talk.
It’s not that I’m particularly interested in the art of baking muffins or that I don’t have a ton of other things I should do. I just love how animated she looks—so opposite of yesterday and the day before and the day before that.
I have a second chance to fix all this. To try harder.
My mother offers me a spoonful of batter, but I shake my head. The problem with days like this? They’re just enough to remind me what I’m missing. I don’t have a mother I can talk to. I will never be able to tell my mother about Ben Michaels, that he saved me somehow, that he’s denying it.
So after she finishes the raspberry batch, I grab the Clorox wipes and head to her bedroom. I throw the curtains wide, roll up the shade, and open the windows as far as I can. Once I’ve got some air in there and the ceiling fan is attempting to circulate it, I start picking up the clothes on the floor.
And when I’m rearranging the picture frames—putting the picture of Jared and me at Disneyland after we rode Space Mountain back on her nightstand—I see it.
My dad’s laptop, plugged in, still turned on, and resting on the bed, buried in her bedspread. He has his own room. My parents stopped sleeping together forever ago. She needed her own space for peace and quiet, and frankly, if they had to stay in the same room, he never would have come home from the office.
Which means he spent the morning in here—with her.
I sit down on the bed and pull the computer into my lap, open it up, and log in. His password would be complex. To anyone else—even someone who knows binary code. But I can hack anything my dad has passworded. I know him too well.
As it loads, I hear my mother’s singing underneath the thrum of the fan, and I can’t help wondering if this is why she’s awake and in a good mood. I know she’ll come down from this high— she always does. But could it be this easy to pick her back up again?
Scrolling through my father’s history, I open up the last files he viewed. One is a performance eval for Barclay, T. I don’t know the name, so he must be a new analyst. At first it appears to be anything but average. In fact, the first part is straight-up glowing. A hundred percent on handgun and rifle qualifications—it means he hit dead-center on all fifty shots. His computer skills are fantastic, and his actions directly led to closing a recent investigation. Only my dad is recommending he be moved to a different unit. Apparently T. Barclay doesn’t respond well to authority, and he blatantly disregarded an assignment my dad sent him on. That’ll probably ruin T. Barclay’s career. You can’t just not do what your boss tells you to when you’re in the FBI. Even when your instincts are good and you end up being right. The ends don’t justify the means in a bureaucracy.
The next file is paperwork on a gang case that goes to trial later this year. Normally I’d be all over that. But the third file is the autopsy report for Torrey Pines Doe 09022012. My John Doe.
Jackpot.
This is, of course, illegal. Just looking through my dad’s files could come with some pretty stiff penalties if the government found out—for me and for my dad. And even though I’ve been snooping through his files for a long time, my heart still races uncontrollably every time.
I glance at the bedroom door again and listen for anything out of the ordinary, but the only thing I hear—other than my own hammering heart—is my mother’s off-key version of an old Whitney Houston ballad.
Taking a deep breath, I turn back to the report.
My John Doe is still unidentified. They don’t even have an alleged identity next to his case file (which reduces him to the location and the date of his death). They’re putting him at approximately twenty-five to forty-five years, height and weight not applicable. That, I agree with. That I understand. What I don’t is what I read next. The physical examination.
FINDINGS:
01 Global burns consistent with radiation with extensive body
mutilation
02 Perimortal crush injury of right thorax
03 Head injury cannot be ruled out
What. The. Hell.
How can that even be possible? He wouldn’t have been exposed to radiation on the side of the highway—or in his car, for that matter. There’s no reason burns should have shown up on his skin postmortem. I’m not exactly up on medical science, but burns with extensive body mutilation are bad, and they tend to show up immediately. And if the crash killed him and not the burns . . . maybe that was why he was driving so fast. He could have been trying to get to a hospital. Or running from something.
Next page.
CAUSE OF DEATH:
01 Global burns
02 Perimortal crush injury, right chest
So far, the medical examiner is the only person who’s signed off on the autopsy. Maybe they’re getting another opinion. Not that I blame them—it seems more likely that someone switched up the bodies than that this is actually my John Doe.
EXTERNAL EXAMINATION:
The body is presented to the county morgue in a blue body bag and wrapped in a white to tan sheet. The remains are those of a Caucasian male and consist primarily of a severely burned body. Burns are consistent with chemical burns or radiation. There is no charring, but there is complete burning of the fl esh from many sites, massive destruction of bony tissues, and resultant profound mutilation of the body. Soft tissues of the face, including nose, ears, and eyes, are absent, with exposure of partially destroyed underlying bony structures.
My stomach turns at the possible image—I get the idea— and I scroll down to try to see more.
And the smoke alarm screeches.
I jump to my feet, automatically sniffing the air for smoke. My skin itches at the possibility of burns. I shut the laptop and toss it back onto the bed before I run to the kitchen.
Thankfully, nothing is on fire.
But the muffins in the oven are burning—and smoking— and my mother is standing in the center of the room looking at a broken coffee mug, black eyeliner tears streaking down her face.
I shake my head and take a sip of the mocha frappe I grabbed from It’s a Grind, thankful I managed to get out of the house and away from my mom’s latest episode. I worry a little— or sometimes a lot—about leaving her alone, but every once in a while I also just have to get away. Since Alex’s house is next door, I tell myself I won’t be gone long, and I won’t be far in case she needs me.
Alex and I are sitting at the dining room table in his house with just about every textbook he owns spread out on the table, and he’s buried in a slew of physics problems.
I can’t talk to him about Ben Michaels, so I’m focusing on the accident.
“They could have mixed up the bodies . . .” There could be more than one John Doe who died in San Diego on Monday. It’s less likely than people would think, but it’s possible. And despite the eighty-seven different conclusions my brain latched on to the moment I started reading the autopsy, it has occurred to me that I’m supposed to be looking at evidence and letting the conclusions fall into place as a result, rather than speculating.
“But if it is him, it means he crashed because he was already dead.”
Alex doesn’t even glance up from his physics book. “And then you could stop being a moron and blaming yourself.”
I don’t want to get into that again. “Just listen to me,” I say. “Three still-unidentified victims in San Diego thirty years ago, COD severe radiation poisoning. Then nothing. Now suddenly there are at least three new cases, all in the span of less than two weeks. And one of them might have died while driving.” Driving the truck that killed me.
I don’t say that because Alex has made it clear he thinks the whole Ben Michaels thing is in my mind. Instead I say, “Think about it. My dad’s got all these case files, and now by some freak coincidence a truck hits me and the driver might be related to the same case.”
This time Alex closes the book and leans back in his chair. “What do you think’s causing the radiation?” he says, reaching for the espresso I brought him and lifting it to his lips. Only it’s empty because he downed it the second I got here, and caffeine isn’t going to magically appear just because he hopes it might.
“Sorry, I should have gotten you a double.”
He shakes his head and tosses me the empty cup. “No, it’s cool. Hide it before my mom comes in here and sees it.” I crumple it and stick it in my purse with a smile. “So the burns?” Alex prompts.
“Right. The burns are severe—hard-core severe.”
“So the obvious answer is some kind of nuclear radiation.”
I shrug. “Right, but from what?”
He’s chewing his lip, and I know my mission has been accomplished. Alex Trechter has completely abandoned his homework. A little contraband caffeine and something interesting to distract him is all he needs. “Could it be some kind of virus?” he asks. “Like an injection of something radioactive?”
“You watch too many bad movies.”
“I do not—”
“You still owe me for the two hours of my life that I lost watching Mission Impossible 2. I can never get those back.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m serious.”
“Um, I’m serious too. What is with John Woo and those slow-motion doves?”
“Janelle, a virus would explain the late onset.”
I shake my head. “Not really. And wouldn’t the gamma burns manifest on the inside of the body, in the organs and body tissue?” I shiver a little at the mental image. “These burns were on his face and hands—exposed skin.”
Alex shakes his head. “It could still be some kind of virus— did you get the chance to read the internal examination?” When I shake my head, he continues, “I read viral terrorism is all the rage now. And it would make sense that your dad is involved— wasn’t he part of the team that investigated the viral hemorrhagic fevers two years ago in L.A.?”
“Yeah, they brought him and Struz in on that.” The virus in L.A. was like Ebola. It started with low-grade headaches, but within an hour or two the symptoms progressed to a debilitating fever and muscle pain. Within twenty-four hours the major organs, digestive system, skin, eyes, and gums of those infected would break down, deteriorate, and bleed. Then they were dead. The virus was caused by a bacteria terrorists had somehow managed to insert in select toothpaste tubes that were imported from China. I know people who still use baking soda instead of real toothpaste.
As much as I want to insist that Alex is wrong, I can’t. Just because I don’t know how someone would make it work like that doesn’t mean it’s not possible. I mean, some kind of bioterrorism in the form of a radiation virus fits a little too easily. Easily enough that it’s terrifying.
“How would someone make a late-onset virus like that?” I ask.
“J, I don’t know,” Alex says with a laugh. “I mean, contrary to popular belief, I’m actually not harboring a secret desire to grow up and become a bioterrorist.”
“Hello, Miss Tenner, have you come to do your homework here?” Alex’s mother, the formidable Annabeth Trechter, breezes into the dining room carrying a heap of folded pastel-colored towels. Despite the laundry, she looks like she just fell out of a business meeting in her skirt and suit jacket with her black hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. She pauses in front of me and waits for my answer.
“No, ma’am,” I say, looking down to avoid her eyes—and I’d be embarrassed about that except Annabeth Trechter is the only woman who scares my dad. And she likes him.
“I actually dropped by to see if I could borrow Alex’s physics book when he’s finished,” I say. It’s only half a lie. “Eastview messed up my schedule and I’m not in the right classes, so I don’t have the books yet.”
She turns her attention to Alex. “You’ve finished your reading for English and your Spanish homework?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You have forty-three more minutes before dinner, and afterward you’ll be able to go to the Tenners’ to drop off your physics book, then you’ll come back promptly to study your vocabulary for the SATs.”
“Janelle and I were going to—”
“No, you studied vocabulary together last night. Tonight you’ll study with me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I can’t help smiling at that. Alex looks right at me, and I know my expression says, Sucks to be you. Only then it doesn’t, because suddenly his mom’s attention is back on me, and I’m fighting to keep from shrinking down in my seat. I swear, she’s some kind of human lie detector, and any second she’s going to start berating me for keeping Alex from his real work. “How is your father?”
“He’s good,” I say, then force myself to elaborate. The more information you volunteer with Alex’s mom, the less likely she is to think you’re hiding something. “He’s been up late working on a new case, but you know him. He’ll solve it.”
Mrs. Trechter nods. “You can go home now, Janelle. Alex will bring the book by after dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say as I get up from the table and grab my purse and mocha frappe. “Thank you.” I turn and leave without looking back at Alex. Because we might make each other laugh. And because I know his mom is watching me leave, and she terrifies me.
Someday, I sort of hope I’m just like her.
I flash my student ID and the pass at the librarian and settle in at one of the computers. I should try to do some of the work I’m missing in the classes I’m supposed to be in, but I check my email first. There’s nothing interesting, so I open up Google, and because Alex’s theory has been on my mind, I type “radiation burns.”
Naturally, most of what comes up has to do with cancer patients and treatments for sunburn, which is hardly what I’m looking for. And I don’t really want to check out any of the pictures, thank you.
When I try “radiation poisoning,” a link for a story about the Chernobyl disaster pops up. In 1986 a nuclear power plant in Ukraine had a meltdown. It was considered the worst nuclear power plant accident in history. Twenty-eight people died that day, more than three hundred thousand people had to be evacuated to avoid the fallout, and it’s estimated that almost sixty thousand were exposed and five thousand of those exposed died. And if my John Doe was one of those first twenty-eight people, his autopsy would make sense, maybe. But he wasn’t. And that kind of exposure can’t be solitary.
No wonder the FBI has my dad on this case.
A group of freshmen escorted by a teacher I don’t know comes into the library. They’re loud and awkward, and occupying the librarian’s time. I’m tempted to keep reading about radiation poisoning, specifically how someone could harness radiation into some kind of viral form—if that’s even possible.
But I’ve only got about an hour until I’ll have to head out, so I pull up Eastview’s intranet, log into Alex’s account, and go to work downloading the notes and information I need. The librarian escorts the freshmen into one of the classrooms and begins some sort of presentation—most likely the “How to Use the Library” speech all freshmen have to sit through. I pull out my phone and make a to-do list based on the priority of the assignments.
“So your schedule sucks?”
My heart literally leaps into my throat, almost choking me, as I turn to see Ben Michaels slide into the chair next to mine. His hoodie is white today, but he wears it the same as before—over his head, pulled low enough to shield his eyes even though a few stray floppy curls of brown hair stick out. He’s giving me a wry, one-sided smile.
I want to ask him a million things all over again.
But the whole clogged-throat thing keeps the words from coming, so I do the next best thing and pull my shitty schedule from my pocket and hand it to him. His schedule probably doesn’t look any better, and he probably doesn’t care—I know that. But somehow, from the way he slumps into his seat and sighs, I think he just might understand. Or at least empathize.
He doesn’t even give me time to explain. “Algebra?” He laughs. “What, do they want you to teach the class?” He shakes his head and turns to the computer in front of him.
And that’s it.
I guess part of me hoped he’d say something else. Volunteer information. Start a conversation. After all, he’s the one who sat down next to me. It’s not like there aren’t thirty other computers in here.
I wait for a second before deciding, Screw it. I’m going to keep asking until I get the answer I want to hear. I turn to Ben’s profile and open my mouth, but pause as I realize he looks almost classically beautiful from this angle—his profile, the shape of his face—it just seems so perfect, and I’m frozen with surprise that I could see someone on campus for two years and not ever take the time to really notice him. He’s handsome in that kind of tall, dark, mysterious, and tortured way. It’s his eyes. They’re brown, but they’re so dark they sometimes look black. And the way he holds himself, it’s like he knows and takes advantage of his bone structure, the fact that his eyes are deep set—they look shadowed. His face is almost strangely blank, and it makes him look sad, like he has some kind of tragic secret, and for some ridiculous reason I wonder what it is.
He might hide behind the dark, brooding stoner thing, but his face is actually just as perfect as Nick’s or Kevin’s. I can’t help wondering if he gets the same kind of play.
I squelch that thought down. It’s none of my business what Ben Michaels does on his own time, so I try to look away and decide what I’m going to say, but I can’t seem to concentrate on my computer anymore. I want to keep staring—like if I look at him long enough, I’ll unravel the enigma that is Ben Michaels.
Then I see his computer.
He has the school mainframe open and my schedule on the screen. A few keyboard shortcuts, and it’s completely wiped. A blank slate.
“What are you doing?”
“Changing your schedule,” he answers, as if accessing the mainframe couldn’t get him expelled.
“But you can’t—how’d you—”
He shrugs. “I stole the password off Florentine as a freshman. I’ve been fixing schedules for a couple years now.”
I look around the library. No one’s paying attention to us, but we aren’t exactly hidden from sight, either. Anyone could glance this way and see the screen.
“Janelle,” he says, and just the way he says my name—like I matter—makes me turn back to him. There’s no tension lining his eyes; now they look like they could be smiling. “What classes do you want?”
Junior year is supposed to be the most important year for applying to colleges. And I did follow all the rules—I submitted my class requests on time, I got the paperwork signed off on. It’s not my fault the schedule is all messed up.
So I tell him.
Ben clearly knows his way around the software, deftly searching for the course titles. I point to the teachers and class periods I want—and effectively match my schedule with Alex’s.
When I pick Poblete’s third-period class, Ben cracks a half smile. But I have a moment of panic when he tries to insert me into the class and an error message pops up to declare the class is too full.
Ben chuckles beside me—I must have gasped or something— and I realized how close we are, how much I’m leaning into him. Close enough that I can feel his body heat next to me. Close enough that I can smell the faint mixture of what I’m coming to know as pure Ben—mint, soap, and gasoline. Despite the fact that we’re not actually touching, I’m leaning over his shoulder, my mouth dangerously close to his ear.
If he turned his head just a few more inches in my direction, he could kiss me.
I have no idea where that thought came from.
I lean back, shifting in my seat.
“Don’t worry, I got this,” Ben says, gesturing to the computer. “You think you’re the first person who I needed to override to get them into Poblete’s class?”
Obviously not. He enters an override code, and a class roster pops up.
“Wait,” I say, reaching for him. “Don’t take anyone out. That isn’t fair.”
“I won’t,” he says, but he’s looking at my hand on his arm, and I pull it back, my face heating up. “I just need to manually add you in, see?” He copies and pastes my student ID into the class roster.
Which is when it hits me that he has access to EVERYTHING—even grades.
“It’s so wrong, right?” he asks, as if he can read my mind. “That it’s this easy to hack into the system. To steal a password?”
“How often do you do this?”
He shrugs. “I’ve changed schedules for a few people who were freaking out about shit, but mostly I just change a couple of friends’ schedules at the beginning of each semester. Avoid the counseling office.”
“Have you ever changed . . . more than schedules?”
“Like grades?” he says with a laugh. “Of course not.”
I’m so relieved, I let go of the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“Although I think you’re the first person to recognize it’s the same program,” he adds. “None of my friends have put that together.”
“If they knew, would they ask you to do it?”
His head cocks to the side, and I can tell he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek. For some reason that makes me smile.
“I don’t think so. I mean, the guys who are my friends wouldn’t—they know I wouldn’t do it. And most of the other guys we hang out with, they don’t care enough to ask.” I’m tempted to tell him not to befriend any AP students because nobody cheats as much as they do, but I don’t. Because technically that’s me—I’m an AP student.
“What do you want last period?” Ben asks.
After I’m inserted into the right Spanish class, Ben prints my schedule and looks down, refusing to meet my eyes. My breath catches, and I wonder if he’s going to say something about the accident.
“So I’m not saying you would, but usually when I do this I make the person swear they won’t tell anyone.”
My insides plummet. “What, you don’t want eight hundred people asking you to schedule them?”
“No . . . it’s not about how many people are asking,” he says. “It’s more about why they’re asking, if that makes any sense. If it’s ‘Oh, counseling messed up my schedule and won’t fix it,’ okay. If it’s ‘I want a teacher who will let me cut class and not take attendance,’ I don’t want to bother.”
“Honor among cheaters?” I ask. And immediately regret it, because he glances up at me and looks pained—like I’ve insulted him.
“It’s just . . .” He sighs. “I don’t always make the right decisions, and I get that.” He shrugs. “But at the end of the day, I want to be able to look myself in the eyes and say I believe in them. I want to know I’d make each one again.”