Gotcha. And so easy. Damn, she was good.
“What you don’t know is a lot,” Thorne said, standing. “I hope you don’t publish that nonsense and feed public hysteria. People are scared enough.” To the closed door he called, “Kev!”
As if she didn’t know the mood of the people, with monsters on their doorsteps, their children at risk. Her story was for them. “I’m here to learn.”
“I have neither the time nor the patience to educate you,” he returned.
The guard was back. Interview over. She could sit there like a dumb rock or meet Thorne at eye level.
“This way, ma’am,” Kev said.
Thorne’s eyes were cold gray. Last chance. “When you experiment on wraiths, do you consider them to be human test subjects or something else? What protocols do you follow? I’d like to see the wraiths you have here in captivity.”
“If you want to see a wraith, Ms. Mathews, you will surely meet one, up close and personal. One last time: I advise you to stop looking.”
Which was how Layla found herself on a small Segue plane headed back to New York. They must have known she’d been hunkered down in the woods for a while. Someone from Segue had had the time to go to the inn in Middleton, pack her bag, and have it by her seat when she boarded. With her camera.
How thoughtful.
Layla pressed the power button and queued the saved images. Of which there were none.
Not so thoughtful. She turned the camera off and stuffed it in her backpack.
Seated across from her was a young woman in a mood more foul than her own. The woman was in her midtwenties and was very pretty in spite of dull black hair with too long blunt bangs over hazel eyes. Her gaze was heavy and angry.
The woman responded to no verbal overtures—How are you connected to Segue? Do you know the Thornes? Have there been local wraith attacks?—so Layla finally rested her head back to enjoy the incessant, teeth-grating kat-a-kat between her ears.
At dusk they landed at a private airstrip somewhere in Jersey. A cab was waiting to take Layla into the city. Thoughtful again. Segue’s heavy boot would take her all the way back to her apartment.
She was just getting in the vehicle, shivering in the gusty, frigid November evening air, when she felt a poke on her shoulder. She turned to find the creepy-moody woman from the plane, her features stark, eyes vivid in the diffused evening light. The contrast punched the woman out of reality, made her gleam with some kind of strange soul aura.
Either this woman was not normal, or Layla needed to go back on her meds. No more putting it off.
The visions had plagued Layla all her life, usually occurring at the worst moments when she’d have to strain to ignore whatever hallucinations popped up in order to look normal herself. They seemed so real. Ultrareal. Like now. This weird woman was surrounded by pulsing black light. The aura was part of the impression, but Layla could feel it as well, as a pressure on her chest.
Layla squeezed her eyes shut. Two times in one day. This was really bad.
“You pissed off Adam, right?” the woman asked.
Layla opened her eyes. The soul-glow was gone, thank God, so she answered, “I sure did.”
“And you want to find out how the wraiths got started, right?” The woman had been on the Segue Express; it followed that she knew about Segue’s work.
Layla straightened fully. “Yes.”
The woman glanced over her shoulder, back toward the small airport, nervous. “The public doesn’t know anything. I mean anything. And why the fuck not? Because Adam-fucking-Thorne says so.”
“What doesn’t the public know?” Layla wasn’t cold at all now.
“And what burns me is that I actually helped that man once. Him and his wife. And now he’s got my sister under lock and key.”
This got better and better. “Is she a wraith?”
“Abigail?” The woman looked at her, hesitating as if Layla were stupid or crazy. “No. She’s sick. Adam’s got doctors all over her. And last week some Navajo medicine man.”
Layla tried to get her back on track. “What doesn’t he want the public to know?”
But the woman ignored her question. “Try the docks. I think he’s there.”
“Adam?” He was in landlocked West Virginia. “Which docks? Where?”
The woman smiled bitterly. “No. The one who started everything.”
“Started what? How?”
“And if you live long enough to break this story, you put my name in your article. I want that controlling bastard to know.”
The bastard had to be Adam. “Which docks? Who started it?”
“I want him to see my name in black-and-white. Zoe Maldano. If you survive”—Zoe laughed there—“you tell the world how this happened, and you put my name in your article.”
“Yeah, sure, but . . .” Zoe was already striding toward another car, sleek with Thorne money. She slammed the shiny door shut and was taillights before Layla came out of her surprise.