Every other day(68)

The hard drives offered scant cover, but in this room, there was nothing else. As Bethany’s father came into view, I realized that I’d left Beth there, out in the open. I flexed my fingers, razor-sharp nails ready to tear through human flesh if he gave me even half a reason to think that she was in danger.

I shouldn’t have worried.

Bethany leaned back against the wall and crossed one ankle over the other. She looked down at her watch as if she’d been waiting for him to arrive. And when her father and the woman he was talking to—the woman from the school, the one from the ice rink—stepped into the room, Beth reoriented herself so that she was standing between them and us, giving us what little cover she could.

I lowered myself into a crouch, bringing Skylar with me, pushing back into the cover of the hard drives as far as I could.

“Well,” a female voice said. “What have we here?”

I’d heard her voice before, at the school, but we were closer this time, and for some reason, the sound of it filled me with dread, the hairs on the back of my neck standing straight up, my stomach churning with … something.

“Here,” Bethany said, responding to the woman’s rhetorical question, “we have a teenager. And she’s pissed.”

Leave it to Bethany to play the queen bee card with a woman who had, in all likelihood, ordered my killing. A woman who might have sent zombies to Bethany’s house with the intention of cleaning up loose ends.

“Here I was, minding my own business, and my house—where my father left me alone, I might add—was overrun with zombies. Excuse me, test subjects.”

From the tone of her voice, you would have thought Bethany was talking to the populace back at school. She was the queen, and they had displeased her.

From the cover of the hard drives, I couldn’t quite make out her father’s response, or that of the woman who’d accompanied him, but I was going to go out on a limb and guess that it wasn’t good.

“Bethany,” Dr. Davis said calmly, “what are you doing in my lab?”

“Are you kidding me?” Bethany spat. “This is the most secure place in the entire house. Where would you go if the place was overrun with zombies?”

I could practically hear the woman in heels smiling. “So you’ve been here the whole time? You have no idea how the subjects’ transmitters malfunctioned or, say, where their bodies are now?”

I registered the woman’s words and drew the logical conclusion: Skylar’s brothers worked fast. Either Chimera didn’t know they’d been here, or Ms. Malik was playing dumb—either way, Reid had taken care of the bodies exactly the way Vaughn had said he would.

“Do I look like a zombie slayer to you?” Bethany asked. “This has been, like, the worst day ever.”

“Yes,” the woman said, a measuring tone in her voice. “I understand you had an accident this morning.”

Skylar made a face that I interpreted to mean I’ll show you accident, lady. Unfortunately, she looked more like a puppy than a pit bull, so even if the object of her glare had been able to see it, I didn’t think it would have done much good.

“Look, you guys asked me not to call the police, I didn’t call the police. You told me to stay home from school, and then zombies attacked. There had better be a Christmas trip to Saint Barts in my future, or else I’m going to get cranky, and you seriously do not want to see me cranky.”

“Bethany,” her father said. “Calm down. Ms. Malik assures me they had nothing to do with this unfortunate incident with the zombies, and I’m assuring her that you know the meaning of the word discretion. Now, if you could go upstairs and check on your mother, she’s had a really taxing day.”

That was a low blow, and everyone in this room knew it. Bethany weathered it like a pro and flounced off, without once breaking her cover. If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn she was a spoiled, shallow little princess who would forget all of this for a trip to St. Barts.

I just hoped the woman in heels bought it as well.

“She’s charming,” the woman in question told Bethany’s father. “Really. I can see why you enrolled her in the protocol.”

“She wasn’t supposed to be there when we attempted inoculation,” Dr. Davis said, a vein in his forehead bulging. “It was a mistake—very nearly a tragic mistake.”

I didn’t know whether it was comforting that Bethany’s father hadn’t specifically infected her, or whether it was disturbing that he thought infecting other teenagers was okay.

“Shall we proceed to round two?” he asked, moving on. “Or should I expect to be retired soon, like Dr. Vincent?”