“Who are they?” I ask. Because they are not my dad’s friends. That’s obvious now.
“The ‘spiritual’ part of their group has actually been much less disturbing than I expected. I needed The Collective to give me some kind of meaningful context,” he says. “But it gives you a sense of the groups who will want your father’s research, Wylie. The Collective is harmless, but other groups won’t be. That’s precisely why we need to be prepared.”
The Collective. The Collective. The Collective. The Spirituality of Science, I can see it now on the green flyer under our door. But I trusted Quentin because of Dr. Simons. He was the one who knew so much about my dad and even me—our trip to California, my anxiety. But already I can feel the ground beneath my feet giving way. Data breach, Level99. Could they have learned all of this from my dad’s emails?
“That man isn’t Dr. Simons, is he?” I ask. And how would I know for sure? The last time I saw him I was a kid. Even the pictures of him I’ve seen were all from years ago. I believed he was Dr. Simons because of what he knew, not the way he looked. And because my dad told me to trust him.
Quentin shakes his head. “His name is Frank Brickchurch. Biggest and best paid acting job of an otherwise fairly spotty career. I gave him a lot of information, of course, but he’s had to improvise quite a lot,” he says quietly. When he looks up from the table he frowns, regretfully. “I am sorry for the subterfuge, Wylie. But I needed you to take the time to get to know me. Without getting distracted by whatever preconceived notions you might have.”
“Who are you?” I ask.
“I am someone who cares deeply about your dad’s research,” he says, looking at me hopefully now. Like he’s glad to get to this part. “I care about your dad as a mentor and a friend. I would have given up everything to see that he was protected, that his research got the recognition it deserves. I did lie about some things, but never that.”
And the expression on his face is simultaneously so sincere and so terrifying that it lifts the hair on my arms.
“Who are you?” I ask again. “Where is Cassie?”
“She’s fine, I promise,” Quentin says. “She’s safe in the cabin, like I said.”
“And what about my dad?” There’s no way he knows about any of this—not The Collective, not Quentin. “Is he even coming?”
“Yes, of course,” Quentin says, and he looks pleased to be telling me that. “He should be here very soon, Wylie. And when he does get here, I’m hopeful that he can keep an open mind, too.”
“He is not going to go along with this.”
“I believe he will,” Quentin says calmly. “I warned your dad that his data and his email weren’t secure, that there were going to be people who wanted to use his research the wrong way. But he didn’t want to hear about practicalities and implications. He wanted his science to be so pure, but that’s not the world we live in, Wylie. As his research assistant, I felt like it was my job to make him see that. But he fired me before I got the chance.”
His research assistant. The floor rocks hard to the right. Dr. Caton, that’s who Quentin is. Fanatic. Unstable. Irrational. At one time or another, my dad called him all of those things and more.
“He fired you,” I say.
Quentin frowns and nods. “And I was devastated at first. I cared about your father quite a lot on a personal level. My father was not shot buying orange juice for me, but he did die a long time ago. I’ll admit I saw your dad as a kind of surrogate. Like he sees Dr. Simons, I think. I thought he felt similarly attached to me. And he did share personal things, stories about you and Gideon. That’s how I knew he called you Scat when you were little. We were close, your dad and me. Or so I thought. And so I’ll admit I didn’t take it well when it became clear he saw me as an employee.”
I pull in some air and send it out in a shaky exhale. “I want to see Cassie.”
“Yes, we’ll bring you to her,” Quentin says, but he makes no move to get up. “But there is something else you need to know first, Wylie.”
And he has this look on his face. Like excitement but harder to identify.
“The things I told you, about my dad being dead, about my fears and the escalator. Those things were all true—not the details, of course. But I have always been anxious, just like you. That is something we share,” he says. And I feel sick, because he’s right. We did share something. “And now what you and I have struggled with our whole lives can be turned into this incredible gift, Wylie. If your father won’t listen, I’ll prove it with my own research. But study subjects aren’t nearly as easy to come by once you’re no longer associated with a university, any university—something your father has helped ensure.” His jaw clenches, but I watch him shake the anger off. “But none of that will matter if I have your help. You can unlock all of it.”