Altered(75)
“It’s only a theory,” he sputtered. He brought the straw back up to his mouth, paused, then said, “It could be debilitating. It could render him useless. Uncontrollable. Volatile. I don’t know. There could be any number of consequences.”
I sucked in a breath, trying to stall the tears pushing against my eyelids. “I can’t just leave him.”
“There’s nothing we can do.”
I looked at the notebook and the files sitting on the table by the window. Sam had pushed me to grab them because he knew they were important. That information was the only bargaining chip I had. “Maybe there is something.”
Nick woke with a groan sometime after two in the morning. I’d been watching TV and dozing for the last hour, waking myself every ten minutes or so to make sure he was still breathing.
He eased up to a sitting position, grinding his teeth against the pain. “Sam?” he muttered.
“Hey,” I said, going to him. “Be careful.”
He caught sight of me in the half dark and tensed. “Anna.”
“Yeah. I’m here. And you’ve been shot. So you need to lie back down.”
He grunted. “Probably isn’t the first time.”
“Do you want some water?”
“Tylenol.”
We had that, too. I filled a plastic cup with water from the sink and shook out two pills from the new bottle. I handed them over, watching Nick in the flicker of light from the TV, checking for any signs that he was not okay. He seemed all right, but that didn’t mean he was.
He popped the Tylenol and drained the cup of water. He looked around the room. “Where are we?”
“In a motel outside Traverse City.”
“Who’s that?” He nodded at the lump that was my dad in the next bed over. When I told him, he lowered his voice and snapped, “What the hell is he doing here?”
“I called him. You passed out, and I didn’t know what to do. You didn’t leave me with very many options.”
“Is he on our side now?”
I shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t really know. I think so.”
“Any word on Sam?”
I thought about telling Nick what my dad had said, about the memory flashes, the consequences of another memory wipe, but it’d only fuel Nick’s anger. “No word yet. My dad seems to think he’s gone for good.”
Nick bowed his head. The TV switched to a commercial. “We can’t leave him there.”
“I know.”
“He’s always had my back.”
More so than your own family, I thought. Sam had taken care of all of us.
And I knew what he’d say about us coming to save him: Don’t. Get as far away from the Branch and Connor as possible. Use the evidence against them if they ever come after you.
But I couldn’t just forget about him. I couldn’t let Connor ruin Sam with another memory wipe so they could use him to their advantage. There was an undeniable wrenching in my chest, like being away from Sam, even for a few hours, tore me apart. I wanted to go, go, go, right now. I didn’t want to sit in the motel room for another second.
As if he sensed my train of thought, Nick met my stare. The glow of the TV only amplified the brilliant blue of his eyes. “Sam would say it’s a stupid idea. Rescuing him.”
“But what other option do we have? My dad…” Dad shifted beneath his blanket, stirring at the sound of his name. I whispered, “I think I have a plan. I don’t know if it’ll work, but at least it’s something.”
Nick stood. He made his way to the bathroom, his progress slow and stilted. “Whatever the plan is,” he said, “count me in.”
33
THE CLOSEST BRANCH OFFICE WAS IN a shoreline town—Cam Marie, Michigan. That’s where Riley had taken Sam. A chill westerly wind pushed the hair from my face as we strode down the sidewalk, the crosswalk signal beeping behind us.
Next to me, Nick had gone surly. His shoulders were tight, his hands hidden inside the pockets of his jacket. That morning, over a cup of coffee and a bagel, he’d said, “This is crazy. You know that, right?”
And I’d said, “Yes. A new brand of crazy. But what do we have to lose?”
“Well…” He’d taken a bite of his onion-and-garlic bagel. “Our heads. Our freedom. Or something more creative, like our fingers—”
“Okay. I got it.”
But now we were here and I wasn’t turning back. Dad was pretty sure we wouldn’t be hurt. We had measures in place if anyone threatened to harm us, though none of it would matter if Connor wanted us badly enough.
The Branch building had a cover at the front. MESSHAR AND MILLER ASSOCIATES, the sign read in thick gold letters. A red-haired girl at a circular desk greeted us. Behind her, tall windows revealed an expansive view of Lake Michigan, the waves swelling to whitecaps. To her left rose a staircase, the railings glass, too, so as not to obstruct the view. An elevator bank spanned the wall to our right.