“Lyric!”
“I knew it!” Bex cries.
The reporter returns with Bachman. She’s looking at the camera, and her eyes are talking right to me. You made the wrong enemy.
“Governor, I don’t think these images are really proof of some kind of plot to create the tragedy that’s occurred in Coney Island this week. If this is your theory, it’s a little thin.”
“Not by itself, but when you combine it with the fact that Lyric Walker and her mother are not human beings, things become a lot clearer.”
“Not human?”
“Lyric’s mother is a woman named Summer Walker, or at least that’s the name she uses. I can’t tell you what her real name is because Summer Walker doesn’t exist. I believe her husband, who is a Coney Island police officer, helped her hide this fact so that she could spy on us. She’s one of the originals.”
I turn to Bex. She’s horrified.
“Bex, give me a chance to explain.”
“You’ve had our whole lives to explain,” she cries.
“No, I didn’t know until a few years ago. I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you’d freak out.”
“I think I get to freak out about this,” she says. Her eyes dart toward my mother and then me. “Just tell me if it’s true.”
“Some of it is true. My mother is Alpha. I’m half Sirena.”
“You’re spies?”
“We’re not spies,” my mother says.
“And I didn’t conspire with Fathom. He doesn’t even know what I am.”
“Your father?”
“He’s human. I’m mostly human. I don’t have any of the Alpha traits. I’m just like you,” I say as I try to take her hands, but she jerks them away.
“Governor, if you have all this information, why are you sharing it here? Why aren’t the police involved?” the reporter asks.
“The police in Coney Island have problems of their own right now. I wouldn’t call them a reliable source for justice. There are alternative organizations better suited for this kind of thing, groups that the locals trust and respect.”
“Are you suggesting the community should handle this? Civilian justice?”
“Oh, no. I would never condone vigilantism. Though I could totally understand if the people in the Zone decided to take matters into their own hands.”
“Lyric, we’re going—now,” my mother says. “Bex, you have to decide. Are you coming with us or not?”
She’s huddled behind the table like a frightened animal. “What else are you hiding?”
“Nothing, Bex. Nothing. Try to see it from my point of view. I didn’t want to be arrested and disappear. I didn’t want you to have to carry this crap around too. It sucks being me, and if I had to do it without you by my side, I don’t know what I’d do.”
As I try to explain, my mother’s phone buzzes.
“Your father is on his way,” she says, then shoves the couch aside. It flies against the wall and breaks into four different pieces.
“I am not going to miss the IKEA furniture,” she says.
Bex’s eyes are bigger than hubcaps.
“She works out,” I say. I can explain all the weird things about my mother later.
Mom gets the money from the toilet tank and stuffs it into her bag. As she’s returning, I hear a knock at the door.
“Is that him?” I ask.
My mother shakes her head. “He’s halfway across town,” she whispers.
The second knock sounds like someone is slamming the door with a bat.
“We know you’re in there, so just open the door,” a man shouts from the other side. Something about his voice is ex-cited, almost maniacal. “It will go a lot easier if you don’t fight.”
“For us,” someone else shouts, and then I hear a large group of men laugh.
“Open the door, Mrs. Walker,” says another voice. It belongs to Mrs. Novakova.
“What do we do?” I whisper.
“Do you still have the gun?” my mother asks Bex.
She shakes her head. “It’s gone.”
“What are you doing in there?” someone shouts from outside.
“We’re coming out,” my mother says, then looks to us. “Stay behind me.”
“What if they have guns?” Bex asks. “Can you dodge bullets, too?”
She shakes her head. “This is the only way out.”
Each pound on the door sounds like an explosion, and they shake my stomach.
“There’re three of us in here,” my mother shouts. “Two young girls and me. The girls have nothing to do with any of this. Don’t hurt them. They’re innocent.”
“Just open the door, freak,” another voice shouts impatiently.
Someone starts kicking the door in and gets help from his goon squad. We watch in horror as the deadbolt is torn out of the wood and the door flies open. In walks a man with a bat. He’s got a shaved head and a paunchy belly, but his arms are thick as tree trunks. He’s wearing his red shirt, just like the seven other thugs he brought with him. Mrs. Novakova stands in the hall, peering in and looking defiant and justified.
“No more hiding, fish head,” the leader says.