The Memory Painter

Thankfully, the drive to South Boston didn’t take long at night. Michael entered a low-income neighborhood and double-checked the address. Conrad had never invited anyone to his apartment. South Boston was home to some of the oldest housing projects in the country, and most were in need of major repair. It was once a primarily Irish community, but Polish, Lithuanian, Puerto Rican, and Cuban families had begun to settle there and carve out their own territories, creating a blanket of racial tension. It made him wonder what people would do if they suddenly found themselves with the memories of someone they had vowed to hate.

Maybe the world did need a dose of Renovo. It might trigger some empathy and compassion. Michael didn’t know what the right course was anymore. All he knew was that Renovo had the power to change human existence, and the responsibility that came with being its creator was paralyzing. Was he a monster or some sort of hero? He didn’t know.

Forcing his thoughts back to the present, he located the apartment building and parked, getting Conrad’s belongings from the car. Michael had gone to the lab that morning and packed Conrad’s things in a box and changed the locks on the doors. He knew Conrad would demand access to all the files now that he was off the team, but those would soon be destroyed. Anything connected to Renovo must not survive.

Michael went inside and found Conrad’s apartment. He knocked and sensed someone gazing at him through the peephole.

The door opened. Conrad looked ravaged, as if he hadn’t slept, eaten, or bathed in days. He stared at the box with a contemptuous look that reminded Michael of George d’Anthès, the man who had killed Pushkin. Michael took a deep breath, forcing himself to try not to imagine Conrad as anyone else. It was the only way he could get through this meeting.

Conrad’s face turned red with anger. “You can’t kick me off.”

“I’m terminating the project. Do you want to do this in the hallway or are you going to let me in?” Michael asked. But then maybe the hallway was better—if things got ugly, it would be easier for him to leave. Perhaps even coming here had been a bad idea.

Conrad took the box and let him inside. Michael hesitated but followed, remaining close to the door. He glanced around. A large desk dwarfed the small room, and hundreds of books lined every inch of wall space. He assumed the closed door led to the bedroom.

Conrad took a minute to clear the papers from his desk, stuffing everything into folders. Michael could see his hands were shaking. “You can’t just shut us down,” he said.

“Finn and Diana are in agreement.” A boldfaced lie. Michael hadn’t even talked to them about it yet. He looked at Conrad’s desk again and froze—all of the books referred to Egypt. A feeling of alarm gripped him. What did Conrad know?