Chapter 9 - The Mother Who Wasn't DeadI couldn't speak.
My mother's name had been Elena.
The woman on the phone knew things only my mother could know.
But my mother was dead.
I had seen her coffin.
I'd watched it lowered into the ground.
I'd stood beside my father.
I'd carried her ashes home.
“Prove it,” I whispered.
The woman laughed softly.
“You had a scar on your left knee from falling off your bicycle at age nine.”
I froze.
“Your favorite bedtime story was about a red fox.”
My hands began shaking.
“You hated peaches but pretended to like them because I loved them.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because Emily is in danger.”
“Where are you?”
“I can't tell you.”
“Why?”
“Because they will find me.”
“Who?”
“Mark.”
I swallowed.
“He already knows you.”
“He believes I'm dead.”
My heart stopped.
“You let him think that?”
“I had to.”
“Why?”
“Because your husband was working for them.”
I closed my eyes.
“What is ‘them’?”
“The organization that funded the research.”
“What do they want?”
“You.”
“I’m not fifteen.”
“No.”
Her voice became cold.
“They want what you carry.”
I felt dizzy.
“My genetic marker?”
“Yes.”
“But I thought they needed Emily.”
“They need both of you.”
“Why?”
“Because Emily's condition isn't inherited the way they told us.”
I stopped breathing.
“What do you mean?”
“They altered it.”
I couldn't understand.
“Who?”
“The researchers.”
“For what?”
“To create something.”
I hated the vagueness.
“What?”
“A treatment.”
“For whom?”
“For millions of people.”
I almost laughed.
“That sounds like a justification.”
“It is.”
She sighed.
“Rachel, they discovered a genetic pathway that could potentially prevent dozens of inherited diseases. But they needed living human subjects.”
“My daughter.”
“And you.”
I looked toward Claire.
She was staring at me.
I asked:
“Why did Mark marry me?”
Silence.
Then:
“Because he was assigned to you.”
The room went completely still.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“From the beginning.”
My memories began rearranging themselves.
How we met.
How quickly he pursued me.
How strangely interested he'd been in my family.
How he'd asked about my mother.
How he'd encouraged me not to investigate her death.
I had mistaken control for concern.
I had mistaken surveillance for love.
My mother whispered:
“There is one thing you need to know.”
“What?”
“Emily wasn't supposed to survive this long.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“The original protocol predicted severe symptoms by fifteen.”
“So you knew?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you save her?”
“I tried.”
“You abandoned me.”
“I protected you.”
“No!”
My voice broke.
“You let me believe you were dead!”
“I had no choice.”
“That is exactly what Mark says.”
Silence.
Then she whispered:
“Mark isn't the worst one.”
“What does that mean?”
“Sarah Vance.”
I froze.
“She is not a doctor.”
“What?”
“She is the director of the program.”
“Then what is she?”
My mother exhaled.
“She is the person who made the final decision about your daughter.”
“Decision?”
“Yes.”
“What decision?”
My mother's voice trembled.
“Whether Emily would be treated…”
She paused.
“…or harvested.”
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone.
Claire whispered:
“What does harvested mean?”
May you like
I didn't answer.
Because I already knew I never wanted to find out.
