I was four, maybe five, by then. I’d already been modified. The change had long since been made.

“Hello, Evening,” my mother says coolly.

“Hello.”

Her eyes go to my leg. There’s a flicker, but barely. “I see your leg is better.”

“It’s more than better. It’s perfect.”

She holds my gaze. I’m determined not to be the first to look away.

I look away.

“When were you going to tell me?” I ask.

“Tell you what?”

“That I’m one of your genetic experiments.”

There’s a long silence, during which I can hear the soft rushing of the water and the steel gears in my mother’s head. Well, the water, anyway.

“I’m curious as to how you arrived at that conclusion,” she says. She stands, arranging her suit, which is already perfectly arranged, and steps out from behind the Desk of Doom.

As has often been the case with my mother, I feel the urge to take a step back. But I resist.

“It’s obvious,” I say. “My mother runs a biotech company with a reputation for cutting corners.”

She steps closer. “Would you rather have the pain? Would you rather have the scars? The lifelong limp?”

“What else have you done to me?”

She’s close now. “Done to you? You mean, what other great gifts have I given you?”

“I—”

“How else have I made your life better than other people’s lives? How else have I protected you?”

I’m breathing hard. Her certainty and confidence is stifling. I start to answer but my throat is dry.

Do I really want the answer?

“What is it you came for? Sweetheart?”

“I need nine thousand dollars.”

“For your loser friend? I gather she found you last night? Do I have Solo to thank for that?”

I nearly panic. I can’t put it on Solo. He trusted me. “She found her way to me,” I say. “And she’s staying. As long as she wants to.”

I’m proud of the steadiness in my voice.

“Those are your demands.” It’s not a question. “Nine thousand dollars and a suite for your idiot BFF.”

I don’t see much point in quibbling about her description of Aislin. Not the time. “Yes.”

“You have to stay here another week, at least,” she says after a moment. “For appearances.”

“Fine.”

She takes a deep breath. She cocks her head, looking at me curiously, as if it’s the first time she’s met me. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

Oh, she’s clever. Oh, she is so very clever.

“Anything else?” she asks. Smug. She knows she’s outplayed me. She knows she just bought my silence and my acceptance. For pocket change.

So that’s how she got to be a billionaire.

– 22 –

SOLO

I’ve got to get this right.

I pause in a hallway, clenching my fists. My heart’s slamming against my chest.

I’ve got Tattooed Tommy’s poppy-seed bagel ready. What happens next will be vital. If I screw it up …

“Hey, Solo.”

I practically leap out of my skin. It’s Ben, one of the research assistants.

“Where’s what’s-his-name?” Ben asks. “The coffee dude.”

“Jackson. He got food poisoning at the wedding. At least that’s his story.” I try to smile. “I’m filling in.”

“Beats school, I guess.”

“Barely.”

Ben grabs a doughnut. He starts to leave, then, with a guilty grin, grabs another. “Big project. Carb loading.”

I’m so buzzed, so exhausted, I’m wondering if I can pull this off. For the past hour I’ve been pushing the stupid cart around like a zombie, handing out muffins and chai tea while I answer questions in monosyllables. Grunts, practically.

I’ve had too little sleep, too much adrenaline.

But it’s time.

I was going to wait till Eve was gone.

But something about last night, seeing her face when I told her the truth about why she’d healed so fast … I don’t know. She won’t be here much longer, and I feel like she deserves to know it all.

Maybe I just want someone else to be doing this with me. I brush the thought away.

No. That’s not my style.

I wheel toward Tommy.

“Bagel boy,” he says, not looking up from his screen.

His computer’s in use. There’s no way for me to get into it. He’s added an alphanumeric password, almost as long as the one I use, backed up with retinal scan. Hack-proof, unless I can get hold of a supercomputer, ten years, and Tommy’s right eyeball.

“Here’s your bagel,” I say.

I can see his screen. He’s playing fantasy football.

Better than solitaire, I suppose.

“Any feelings on that new Jets quarterback?” he asks. His version of egalitarianism, talking to me about sports. I know nothing about sports and couldn’t care less.

“Not really. Bagel?”

“No, his name’s not bagel, it’s Jibril.” This is a huge joke. So I laugh. My laugh sounds strained and hysterical to me.

“Just put it down,” he says, already bored by me.

I place the bagel beside his keyboard. “Capp?”