“How could anyone do that?” I ask, not because I’m particularly surprised but because I’m sad for all of us in the program, and for those of us who aren’t.
“He’d have to be a sociopath,” Mason says. “Which, I guess he is.”
“And what about Cassie?” I ask, horrified.
“We always knew she was a genius who graduated early and was recruited out of college,” Mason says. “But the truth is that it started much earlier than that.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, confused.
“Daisy, when God called Cassie Jesus that day in Texas, it wasn’t much of a stretch,” he says. “Cassie is God’s daughter.”
I gasp, then shake my head. Mason fills in the blanks.
“Her mother left when she was little, and I guess God saw that as an opportunity to mold Cassie into the person he wanted her to be,” he says. “When the director figured out their relationship through DNA tests, he went back through Cassie’s records more closely. She was rigorously homeschooled and never allowed to have friends. She was trained on weaponry and military tactics as a preteen. She was pushed into early graduation. Basically, she was bred to be an agent.” Mason pauses. “With a man like that raising her, she didn’t have a chance. She always wanted to please him, and I guess she never grew out of it.”
“Why do you think he placed her with us?” I ask.
Mason sighs. I know he feels bad for not sensing that something was very wrong with Cassie.
“I don’t think we’ll ever know for sure,” Mason says. “But my guess is that it was because of you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. I think God was a little obsessed with you,” Mason says. It sends chills through me. “Back when the bus crashed, he wanted to find you another place to live. He didn’t want an agent taking on a child. But I fought for you.”
“Why?”
“Did I ever tell you about my wife?” Mason asks.
“No, but I know,” I say quietly. I’m not proud of it, but I’ve snooped in Mason’s personnel file. I did it regularly until I found out that he had a wife who died in a skiing accident. After that, I was riddled with guilt and never opened his file again.
“Good,” Mason surprises me by saying. “I’m not always the best at talking about personal stuff, but I’m glad you know.” He pauses. “You would have liked her. She was really funny. And she was a hell of a cook.”
I smile. “I’m sure she was great.”
“She always encouraged me,” Mason says. “She supported me through med school. Then, when the program first tried to recruit me, I thought I was too inexperienced to take part. I declined at first and she was upset; she said that I was blind to my own potential.”
Mason looks distracted for a second, then comes back to earth.
“But she died, as you know. We were on vacation in Colorado. She lost control on her skis and hit a tree. It was immediate.” Mason’s eyes cloud over. “But what’s not in the file is that she was pregnant at the time. It was so early that even she didn’t know.”
“I’m so sorry,” I nearly whisper.
“Thank you,” Mason says. “It was awful. But her death brought me to the program. I decided to pursue what she’d wanted me to. And then when you showed up, a child without a home, I saw it as my opportunity. It was as if I could feel Zoe pushing me forward, telling me to do it.”
“I’m glad you did,” I say.
“Me, too. I just hope that I didn’t negatively impact you in some way, like God did to Cassie,” Mason says, worried. “I’ve tried my best, but you’ve hardly grown up in a typical household.”
“But no matter where it’s been, it’s been a loving one,” I say. “That’s all that matters. And you’re nothing like God. You’re a real father. I’ll always be thankful for your decision.”
Mason holds my stare for a moment and smiles warmly.
“It was the best decision of my life.”
When I turn off the light on the day, my conversation with Mason fresh in my mind, a sick thought plagues me: If God was willing to go to such great lengths as purposely killing twenty-two people to start and protect his pet project, what else might he have done?
If, for example, he wanted Mason in the program but Mason wasn’t interested, would God give him—or his wife—a little push?
Could he—would he—kill Mason’s wife to lure him in?
And what about me and my accident-prone tendencies? Has it really been all about me? Sure, I’m forgetful, and yes, I do silly things. Everyone does. But I was under the thumb of a maniac and his ambitious daughter.
The thought that runs through my head much too late at night is this:
If he killed me once…
Did he do it again?
forty-five
In Audrey’s skinny jeans and a deep purple top, I walk through the doors of Alameda South High School feeling giddy and jittery at the same time. Everyone eyeballs the new girl but, thanks to the tour after registration, I don’t have to embarrass myself by asking anyone for directions.
A shorter girl with long blond hair and green eyes not quite as lovely as Mason’s smiles at me from her locker, which is next to mine. A pit forms in my stomach as I think of meeting Audrey for the first time. But instead of turning away, I force myself to smile back before going to work on my combination.
“First day?” the girl says, striking up conversation. I look at her.
“Yep,” I say. “We just moved here.”
“I’m Elsie Phillips,” she says, smiling again. “I moved here from Portland in August.”
“Nice to meet a fellow transplant,” I say. “I moved from Omaha. I miss it, but what can you do?”
“I hear you,” Elsie says, tossing her bag in her locker. “I pine for Portland.”
I laugh a little and so does she, but then there’s an awkward pause in the conversation when it seems like neither of us knows what to say. Again, I think of Audrey. We never struggled. Then again, Megan and I didn’t say five words to each other the first time we met.
“Well, I guess I’ll head to class,” Elsie says. “You know where you’re going?”
I screw up my face in concentration and look around a bit. Then I point to the left. “I think I’m headed that way.”
“Don’t worry, it’s an easy layout. The kids are pretty cool. You’ll do great.”
“Thanks,” I say. We turn away from each other, and then I hear her voice call me back.
“Hey, what did you say your name was?” she asks. My stomach rolls. The FDA made me change it, and not just the last name this time, in case they kill the program and this is my permanent home. They claimed Daisy was too distinctive.
This is the first time I’m saying my new name aloud.
“Oh, sorry,” I say casually. “I don’t think I did. My name is Sophie. Sophie Weller.”
Mason had suggested Sophie because it was his mother’s first name. And I didn’t know until last week, but Weller is his real surname.
“Nice to meet you, Sophie.”
Elsie turns and leaves, and I can’t help but notice as I walk to first period that I don’t mind being Sophie Weller. It doesn’t feel like an act. I straighten up and walk a little taller in my brand-new patent flats, hoping that someday soon, the pull of Omaha won’t feel so unbearably strong, and that I’ll feel like Sophie Weller all the way.
Epilogue
It’s late May; my sophomore year is nearly over. In a few short weeks, Matt will arrive in nearby San Francisco for his summer-long music camp. We’ll see each other at night and on the weekends, and I’m so excited I can barely contain myself. The thought of feeling his lips on mine again gives me chills; the thought of twirling my fingers through his curls is almost enough to make me skip finals and hop a plane to Nebraska.
Surprisingly easily, Matt and I have managed to stay together with seventeen hundred miles between us. We talk on the phone, text, and email every day; on weekends, when we have more time, we Skype. He told his parents that he was devastated when my dad was abruptly transferred to Alameda; they let him visit over spring break for five whole days. Though distance is often the kiss of death for relationships, somehow with Matt and me, it works. Maybe because both of us know what real loss feels like, physical separation isn’t catastrophic.