“But Eden,” he says again.
Now is the time. Holly starts to tell him, starts to say the words. “Eden . . . ,” she begins. And stops. What can she say? She doesn’t know if Eden is alive or dead. She doesn’t know if they’ll ever find her. And if they do, if Christopher Cooke somehow manages to bring her home, what if she’s awake? That’s the question that’s been keeping Holly up at night with both anticipation and terror. Will she see what Holly’s done and understand, or will she decide that ten years of being a living science project is too much to forgive? Holly doesn’t know. And it’s not fair to put that burden on Jack.
“Eden,” she says, “Eden loved you so very much. She would have done anything for you, Jack.”
And as she leans over to kiss his forehead, she prays that it’s still true.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The next day dawns bright and clear. When Jack straggles downstairs, he’s rubbing his eyes, but his color is good and he has no trouble downing the plate of eggs and bacon Nan puts in front of him. He takes one look out the window and perks up.
“Think there will be practice today?” he asks hopefully.
Nan shakes her head.
“Ed told me he’s bunking off today. Some new movie came out and he can’t wait till the weekend to see it. I think he’ll be giving you a call after school,” she says conspiratorially. She looks at Holly. “That is, if it’s okay with your mum.”
“If you get your assignments done,” Holly says. She can’t make it look too easy. “And only if it’s the early showing.”
When Jack leaves to go shower, Holly shoots Nan a sidelong glance. “Thanks,” she says.
Nan shrugs. “No worries. Ed could use the break anyhow. He’s turning into a total lax-head.” She looks down at the kitchen table she’s scrubbing. “Was yesterday . . . did Jack feel like that because he played? Because of that condition he has?”
It’s Holly’s turn to look away. “Probably,” she admits. “Jack is prone to overdoing it, and he hasn’t been at his best since he’s been here.” She doesn’t go into details. There’s no point.
* * *
Holly spends the morning in the office. She has a huge stack of marketing items to sign off on, and she’s getting serious pressure from Barry to fly home. She knows she needs to consider it. But she’s afraid to leave Jack. It’s clear that he’s struggling, between his discovery about Eden and the news of his own health.
She could take him back to the States with her, but she wouldn’t be able to watch him if she’s in meetings all day. And she’s worried about how air travel would affect him. The normal hormonal changes of adolescence may be behind some of what he’s experiencing in terms of the injection wearing off so quickly, but it’s also possible that flying, or the time change, or jet lag contributed to his current weakened state. And if she takes him home with her, what happens when she needs to fly back? She could force him to stay with Barry, but what if he gets worse? Or starts hanging out with his friends again and makes another stupid decision?
Christopher Cooke had better earn that enormous retainer soon.
She works through the rest of the day, signing documents, writing emails, packaging her thoughts into crisp sound bites for her PR team. And all the while, the germ of an idea is growing. It’s a bad idea, she knows, but she doesn’t have any others. And so, when she’s finished for the day, before she heads downstairs, she calls the lab and asks for Elliot Benton.
There’s a long wait. She sits on the edge of the desk, twining the phone cord through her fingers and imagining the scene on the other end—Elliot deep in research, shaking off the first call, then the second, looking up when someone finally tromps all the way to his office. It makes her smile, on a day when very little else has. If things had turned out differently, she imagines, she would have been quite like Elliot.
At last he comes to the phone. He’s flustered, she can tell, but that doesn’t stop him from launching into an excited monologue about his current projects. She listens patiently. Finally he draws a breath.
“Elliot,” she says before he can continue, “that’s all fascinating. Especially the latest bit about the sea cucumbers. But I may be in London for longer than I’d planned, and I’d like to keep working on something I’m researching myself. I’m calling you because I know you’ll understand. Would you do me a favor?”
There’s no reason for him to be suspicious, but still, she holds her breath.
“Of course,” he says jovially. “We scientists have to stick together.” He’s flattered, as she’d counted on him to be.
She walks him through the procedures, her private lab, the secret vault. She’s toyed with the idea of bringing Elliot in on her research, but it’s too much to explain, too complicated. Plus, he’s a stickler for protocol, and what she’s done violates almost every rule available.
Once Elliot understands what she wants, she has to explain how to get it to her. “Because it’s human blood, you can’t just have the lab send it out,” she says. For that reason, and because it is the last of what she has from Eden, she’s considered paying someone to hand-deliver the vial. But it’s too risky—too many people would have to know about the transaction.
She describes to Elliot how to package it, promises to send him a link to a checklist he can use.
“It’s . . . human blood?” he says, as if he’s just realizing this.
She wonders again if she’s making a mistake. “Yes. It’s . . . it’s a type of genetic study I’m working on. A personal one. And Elliot?”
“Yes?”
“I’d really appreciate if you’d take care of the whole thing yourself. It’s a private situation, and I’d prefer not to let anyone else know.”
“Of course,” he says again. She has to trust that he means it.
When they hang up, she calculates how long it will take him. She’s told him not to start the process until the morning, when he can mail it out promptly. A day to process and package, another two days in transit . . . She figures it will be here by the end of the week, if she’s lucky. Which lately she is not.
* * *
In the meantime, she needs to keep Jack healthy. She spends the next few days alternately working and mother-henning him. She feeds him all the iron-rich foods she can, requesting steamed spinach, liver and onions, even kidney pie, on the theory that it can’t hurt. Nan looks at her as if she’s crazy and Jane declares herself revolted, but Holly doesn’t care. She practically forces Jack to eat, until she catches Jane smuggling in fish and chips one day after lunch.
“You’re not helping,” Holly growls when she discovers the subterfuge.
“Believe me, I am,” Jane says, snagging an errant chip that’s dropped onto the counter. Despite her alabaster skin, chips have always been her weakness. “You want him to eat, don’t you? The poor boy is going to waste away on whatever foolish diet you’ve concocted. And Nan is truly going to quit if you keep making her cook these revolting messes.”
“There are other housekeepers in London, you know,” Holly says. But it’s half-hearted.
“I do know,” Jane says, dousing the errant chip in vinegar. “I’ve tried most of them. And I’m not losing this one.”
* * *
Holly is settling into the office when her mobile rings. She glances at it and does a quick time calculation, expecting Barry or perhaps Elliot. But it’s Christopher.
“Please tell me you have good news,” she says.
“That depends,” he answers. “I haven’t found your Peter yet. So I decided to approach it from a different angle. I talked with Maria.”
It takes Holly a moment to process what he’s saying. And then it hits her. She has to sit down.
“You went to Cornwall? But how did you . . .” She trails off.