“Why does your father need private security?”
“Death threats and such. The usual.”
It was my turn to be confused. “Doesn’t he work in biotech?”
A wry smile formed on Noah’s lips. “A euphemism for ‘playing God,’ according to the religious and environmental groups that hate his subsidiaries. And you’ve seen our house. He doesn’t exactly maintain a low profile.”
“Won’t he notice?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “They don’t all work for my father, so I doubt it. What’s more, he wouldn’t care.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “It’s amazing.”
“What?”
“Your freedom.” Even before everything happened—before the asylum, before Rachel died—my parents had to know everything about my life. Where I was going, who I was going with, when I was coming back. If I went shopping, my mom had to know what I bought and if I went to the movies, she insisted on talking about what I’d seen. But Noah floated in and out of his family’s palace like air. He could go to class, or not. He could spend money like water or obstinately refuse to drive a luxury car. He could do anything he wanted whenever he wanted, no questions asked.
“Your parents care about you,” Noah said then. His voice was soft, but there was a rawness to it that shut me up. Though he said nothing else and though his expression was still glass-smooth and unreadable, I heard the words he didn’t say: Be grateful you have them.
I wanted to smack myself. Noah’s mother had been murdered in front of him when he was just a kid; I knew better than to ever act like the grass was greener on the other side. I was grateful to have my parents, even though the hovering was out of control, even though they didn’t believe me when I told them the hardest truth there was to tell. It was a stupid thing to say and I wished I hadn’t said it. I looked up to reach for Noah, to whisper I was sorry against his skin, but he had pulled away.
He sprawled out on my bed and returned the subject to Jude. “If we can find out where he lives—”
I took Noah’s former place and leaned against my desk. “Wait, where is he living? He’s legally dead. It’s not like he could just get a job and rent an apartment.”
Noah raised his eyebrows.
“What?”
“It’s Miami,” he said, as if it was obvious.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning there’s no shortage of methods by which to acquire money and housing without a social security number. But I do wonder. . . .”
“You wonder . . .?”
“Might he have gone back to his parents? After the collapse?” Noah stared at my ceiling.
“You think they know he’s alive?”
He shook his head. “If they did, they’d have told others by now, and we’d have heard.”
My voice turned quiet. “Daniel said his hands were cut off.”
“He told me.”
I gripped the edge of my desk. “It doesn’t make any sense. How did he survive? How is that possible?”
Noah bit his thumbnail as he leaned back against my pillow. “How is any of this possible?” he asked under his breath.
How was it possible? How could Noah heal? How could I kill?
The room had grown dark, and the subject made me uneasy. I peeled myself away from my desk and edged carefully onto my bed. Closer to Noah, but not quite touching.
I looked down at him. Not even a week ago, I was lying next to this disarmingly beautiful boy, feeling his heart beat against my cheek. I wanted to be there now, but I was afraid to move.
So I spoke instead. “You think he’s like us?”
“That, or the remains they found weren’t his.”
I shook my head. “Wouldn’t they do DNA testing?”
Noah’s eyes narrowed as he stared at nothing. “Only if they had reason to believe it wasn’t him. Regardless, records can be fabricated and lab rats can be bought.” There was an edge to his voice now, one that wasn’t there before.
“Who would—?”
My question was cut off by Daniel calling our names.
“Be right there!” I called back.
Noah swung his legs over my bed, carefully avoiding my body and my eyes as he rose. “I don’t know, but we aren’t going to find out in your bedroom.”
“And I’m not allowed to go anywhere without a babysitter.” I couldn’t help but sound bitter. “So you’re on your own.”
Noah shook his head and then, finally, looked at me. “I’m not leaving you any more than I have to.” He was on edge again. “Not like this.”
I wished it was because he didn’t want to be apart more than because he thought we had to stay together.
“So . . . how long are you staying?” My tone was more tentative than I intended. Much more.
But my favorite half-smile appeared on his mouth. I wanted to live in it. “How long do you want me?” he asked.
How long can I have you? I thought.
Before I could say anything, Daniel called us again.
“Alas,” Noah said, glancing at the door. “I’m afraid that’s my cue. Your father wanted to spend your first night back as a family.”