So I tell Dominic the story. I tell him all of it, about the letter I tried to send and her order to duérmete and the accident. And at the end I shrug and say, “Did they tell you about Genevieve? Is she in jail? Why don’t you ask her?”
Casey and Cameron share a quick look, and Dom’s head tilts just the slightest bit to the side, and he examines me as if he’s trying to understand something. “I would, Alina. I would. But that woman is dead. They told us this story during our training. She died in the van, crushed from the impact. Don’t you remember?”
But no.
That’s not what happened.
That’s not how I remember it.
The threat neutralized. No.
Genevieve is dead. I try the phrase on, watch my memory shift as it does. The van rolls and I am screaming, but I’m the only one screaming. They use a crowbar to pry me out with an urgency I don’t understand, because I’m fine. Genevieve doesn’t try to stop them, she doesn’t resist, she doesn’t run. The threat has been neutralized.
She is dead.
She’s in the front seat, crushed, and she is dead.
I feel the nausea roll through me, like I’m trapped in the container again. Like I’m being tossed about, and when the motion stops I’m completely disoriented.
There was never any further story about this. It was dealt with by security on the island. I never knew her last name, so I couldn’t find her even if I wanted to. There was never anything about her punishment, or a trial, because she was dead. Neutralized.
I don’t like the fact that they lied in their omission, in their word choice.
I don’t like the fact that my mind created a story that was wrong, that missed something, that was a single camera angle.
I feel even smaller. I didn’t even understand everything about my island.
“I was ten,” I say as an excuse once again. And I shrug like it’s not a huge deal. Like my universe isn’t shifting as we speak. Like I don’t feel myself losing a grip on something, on myself.
“I bet her name wasn’t even Genevieve,” Casey says, which makes me feel even worse. I am responsible for another person’s death, and I don’t even know who she truly is.
“Duérmete,” Dom mumbles. “Go to sleep? Seriously? Are you sure she wasn’t trying to kill you both?”
That’s what people thought at first, I think. Because they raised the bridge to stop her, and she didn’t stop. What did she really believe was going to happen?
“You’re contained because you can find the shadow-database, or you can figure out how to hack the original again,” Dominic says. I kind of like that he believes the status quo statement is crap, but I don’t like this alternative. “June left you clues,” he says. “There are clues, Alina. There have to be.”
“Why?” I ask. “Because otherwise I’ve been contained for some other reason, right? Because this is all some huge mistake, and I’m the only one who has to pay for it!”
“There are clues. There is money. I’ve staked my life on it, that’s how much I believe.”
I can’t imagine believing something so strongly that I would stake my life upon it. I can’t imagine trusting in an idea that much. I think of what June believed and where it got her. Where it got me.
“It’s an urban legend,” I say. “There are no clues.”
I don’t want there to be clues. I don’t want to think of June using me. I don’t want to think of me and June in the same sentence ever again.
But I see her mouth, and it’s pressing closer to my ear.
35.31 –83.65, she says. And I wonder if this is the start.
They question me for hours. Mostly it’s Dominic. But every once in a while, Casey will pick up on something I say and dig and dig at the sentence until it’s completely dissected and we’re all sure it’s useless.
They want to know about maintenance workers, but if they came, I never saw them. They ask what happened in the hurricane. Where did I go? An underground bunker. Who talked to me? Nobody.
They ask about my tutors, but that conversation quickly goes nowhere when I explain that I take distance-education courses that have been taped years in advance. They know how the homework thing works, since they were able to hack it.
They want to know if the doctor is the same every year—she is—and what she says. Exactly. She’s someone who’s allowed to be alone with me, who has the opportunity. But I can’t take their concern seriously. This is how my doctor visits go: Any complaints? Let me list them. Any questions? Many.
It had become a game for me, to try to make the doctor uncomfortable. And I do. I make things up, and she knows I do it, but she has to take them seriously, just in case. I see only the color red. My left arm acts on its own accord. I think there’s something living inside my right lung. I can feel my heart throwing off extra beats. I can’t feel my toes. I say ridiculous things in the hope she will have to take me to a medical facility, but she never does. They bring it to me instead, in a medical transport vehicle. So I gave up on that and started asking her ridiculous questions instead, which she insists on answering, just in case. But I make her uncomfortable, I can tell. It is not the doctor.
Dom asks about the humanitarian group—but I’m never present for their assessments—and about the media in years past. Do they shout things? Pass on information? Anything they say could mean something.
They exhaust every facet of my life, any contact I might have with the outside. They have run through the list, when Casey says, “What about your parents?”
“What about them?” I snap. She jerks back, and I try to play it off that I snapped because they’ve been questioning me for hours.
“Your mom was released ten years ago, and your dad was released five years ago, before being recommitted for breaking parole. Have they ever tried to make contact?”
“Never.”
“Are you sure—”
“Don’t you think I would know if the only people I want in the world had come back into my life? There’s nothing. There’s nobody else.”
And then, at least, the questions stop.
Casey paces back and forth across the room, and Dominic follows with his eyes. “Hey,” he says, but she’s still pacing. “There’s always the money. And that price? I guarantee it’ll go up. I’ll give you your share, enough to get out of here, go anywhere you want.”
Casey stops and spins to face him. “I don’t want the freaking money. You promised me.”
“What do you want me to do? Shake it out of her?”
They’re talking about me, right in front of me, as if I were a thing to extract information from. I think of Casey doing my hair, running with me, holding my hand. Casey protecting me and sticking up for me, and then all those moments are replaced with a bitter swipe. Her, using me. Of course she was using me. What did I expect?
Cameron clears his throat, and Casey looks over at him. He makes some slight expression, something so slight only someone who knew him intimately would be able to decipher it. I have no idea what it means, but Casey seems to relax, or at least she pretends to relax.
Dominic faces me again. “Don’t you want the money?”
“No, I don’t want June’s money.”
“Your money,” he corrects.
“June’s money.”
“She said she doesn’t,” Cameron says. “So she doesn’t. Why is that so hard to believe?”
Dom shakes his head, leans closer. “Want to know why people believe you’re still the same person? Why they think you’re June?” he says. “This is why. I see what you’re doing. It’s been two days, and already they listen to you.” He gestures at Cameron and Casey. “They wait to hear what you’re going to say, and they believe you. They don’t see what you’re doing.”
“I’m not doing anything,” I say, but Dominic keeps going like I haven’t spoken at all.