Sarah made a noise that might’ve been classified as a snicker.
Michael kept going, the memories pouring out of him in a rush. He didn’t have to dig deep; they were all there, close to the surface, most of them pleasant, fun to talk about. Hacking into places they shouldn’t have been. Being chased by VNS agents before such things had literally become life or death. Gaming stories, good and bad. Sharing it all made him feel warm inside—not just remembering all the good times they’d had, but knowing that the Mortality Doctrine process had truly transferred everything that made him … him.
“Okay, you can stop now,” Sarah said. “I believe you.”
Michael was in the middle of a story about a game called Deceit and Destruction, but he happily shut up midsentence. His face was warm, almost hot. She knew it was him; he’d stopped worrying about that almost from the get-go. But now he felt like a heavy chunk of steel had been placed on his heart. He had to tell her the truth: that the friend she knew as Michael was trapped inside a guy once named Jackson Porter.
The HoloProj continued on the wall, showing news story after news story. Michael had almost forgotten about it, the noise drowned out by his hammering thoughts. He stared at the images for a minute, needing the distraction, then looked at Sarah. She could tell something was wrong.
“Why do I get the feeling there’s something you’re holding back?” she asked. “And not just about what happened on the Path after I died.”
Michael sighed. It was now or never. It had to be now. “You’re right. I haven’t told you all of it by a long shot. I don’t even know if you’re going to believe it. I wish you could just read my mind.”
“Spill it, kid.”
The words had barely come out of her mouth when the house rocked with a gunshot in the kitchen. They heard a woman’s scream, followed by the clanging of pots falling to the floor and the loud cracks of dishes breaking. Then the gun fired again. This time no one made a sound.
Sarah was up off the couch, moving before Michael could grab her. She was across the room, heading for the kitchen, Michael on her heels.
“Sarah, stop!” he yelled. “Stop!”
She didn’t even slow down. Michael imagined someone waiting for her, gun loaded, ready to kill. He tried to catch her, but she was too far ahead. He slipped into the hallway, ran toward the kitchen. Sarah stood frozen just past the doorway. His heart lurched: he was expecting another gunshot. Expecting his world to crumble in front of him.
But nothing happened.
He threw his arms around his friend, pulling her back several steps. Then he saw what she saw. The kitchen was a disaster—drawers and cupboards thrown open, pots and pans everywhere, broken dishes scattered across the tile. The back door had been rammed open and hung crookedly on one hinge, swaying slightly. And there was blood. Not much, but it was definitely blood.
Her parents were gone.
Sarah trembled, raised her hands to cover her mouth. But she didn’t make a sound. Michael ran into the backyard—a wide patio and a lawn with a few small trees—and looked around but didn’t see anyone. He went back in, found Sarah, tried to pulled her into his arms. But she resisted. Instead of being wet with tears, her face had reddened with anger.
“What …,” she started to say, but didn’t finish. Michael felt just as speechless.
He searched the kitchen for clues. On a granite island in the middle, in a clearing in the debris, lay Sarah’s father’s gun. It looked as if it had been placed there deliberately, on top of an envelope. The envelope seemed so foreign—people hardly used paper anymore. Michael was sure there was something horrible written inside; he just knew it.
“They left a note,” he whispered to Sarah.
“What?” she asked, understandably dazed. “Where?”
He pointed and she grabbed it.
It was as if they’d been shifted back into the Sleep, immersed in a VirtNet game. Sarah seemed to be moving in slow motion as she picked up the envelope, tore it open. Even the words of the NewsBop anchorwoman seemed warped as they echoed down the hallway. Michael’s vision blurred as he stared at Sarah’s hands, removing the message.
She unfolded the paper and scanned it quickly. Then she looked up at Michael, tears welling in her eyes.
“What does it say?” he heard himself ask. His voice sounded like it was coming through a tunnel—it seemed barely louder than the anchorwoman’s. He couldn’t focus on anything, and there was an odd ringing in his ears.
Sarah had gone even paler. She looked down at the paper again and read the words aloud.