He comes to a stop and waits for me to say something. I formulate my question carefully.

“Why would you come after me—one of the clan children—if Whit . . . Mr. Graves is the one with the information you need?”

“I was told by a reliable source that you are Mr. Graves’s understudy—that he is your mentor. I was told that if I couldn’t find him, you may be able to give me the same information. I don’t know if Mr. Graves went directly to one of my competitors, but I certainly won’t lose both of you to another drug company.”

“How did you know I wasn’t with the rest of my clan?”

“A tip from the same credible source,” he says, and then sits silently again, waiting.

“Exactly what information are you trying to get?” I ask.

“As I mentioned before—the chemical makeup of the drug Amrit,” he says. “The formula for the drug.”

“See, that is what confuses me—what I haven’t understood since I overheard Miles talking to you. My clan doesn’t make drugs! We don’t use any kind of medicine besides first aid!” I say, trying to steady the anger in my voice. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, but I think you do,” Mr. Blackwell shoots back. “Tell me something. Are there others in your clan with the same iris deformation you have?”

Through all the rage and frustration and betrayal, I am beginning to feel something new. A genuine interest as to what the hell is going on.

“All the children have the starburst,” I respond, raising my chin to show him that he can’t bully me into telling him anything I don’t want.

He nods, considering what I’ve said. “A drug as strong as Amrit is capable of producing this severe of a genetic abnormality . . . maybe ‘mutation’ is a nicer way to say it—in the offspring of those who take it. Mr. Graves was very vague with the details, but did mention the necessity to develop the drug further in order to avoid severe aftereffects. I see now what he means.”

“Our starbursts are from being close to—” I stop myself before I tell him anything about the Yara.

“Being close to what?” he prods. “A nuclear testing site? A water source containing biohazardous materials? There are other things capable of causing a genetic mutation like yours, but I don’t believe it for a second. I think your parents and their friends took Amrit as a part of a test, and now their children bear its mark.”

As I listen to him, something tugs deep inside me. I suddenly think of Tallie and of how she urged me to think of what I learned from my past and weigh it against what I feel is true. And though I don’t want to believe a word this man is telling me, something about his theory rings true.

And then everything falls together and then falls apart and I can’t think, can’t talk, can’t move, can’t breathe, as the fictional pieces of my past begin flashing before my eyes and re-form themselves into facts.

A loud buzzing rings in my ears, and my vision is gradually reduced until the blackness around me is as dark as a cave. I can’t move. I’m no longer here.

I hear Mr. Blackwell’s voice, as if from a long ways away. “Ms. Newhaven? Are you okay? Ms. Newhaven?” Someone is patting me—lightly slapping my face. I hear a voice say, “Quickly. Send a doctor to my suite. I have a visitor who is having some sort of attack. A teenage girl. Make it fast.”

59

MILES

I PULL INTO MY DRIVEWAY AT 7:00 A.M. DAD’S CAR is there, along with another I don’t recognize. I leave all my crap in the car and march through the front door yelling, “I’m home! Where is she?”

I gave up trying to call my dad after Vegas, and knew he wouldn’t answer in the middle of the night. But judging from the car outside, he’s home, and if he’s not awake, I’m ready to do the honors.

No one’s in the sitting room, so I stride on through the double doors into the open kitchen area. A wall of windows at the far side of the room overlooks Holmby Hills. My dad sits in a chair, gazing out as he sips a cup of coffee. This in itself should warn me that something’s wrong. Dad never relaxes. Never takes in the view. Normally he drinks his coffee while walking out the door and would be halfway to his office by now.

“Dad,” I say, and he turns around and looks at me, genuinely surprised.

“Miles. You came home.” He stands and moves toward me.

“Yeah, after your cronies snatched Juneau right from under me, I figured I should probably make my way back.” I take another step toward him so that we are an arm’s length away from each other, staring eye to eye since we’re practically the same height.

“What. Have. You. Done. With. Her?” I ask, each word a challenge.

“What does it matter to you?” Dad quips, and setting down his cup, puts his hands in his pockets.

“I care about her,” I say. Fuck explanations. Fuck Dad’s expression now that he looks like the cat that ate the canary. I’m done tiptoeing around him, hoping he’ll approve of me. Wanting him to act like a real dad for once instead of a CEO who happens to have a teenage boy living under his roof. Wishing he’d say something . . . anything . . . about Mom. It’s like she never existed. But all that is in the past, because there’s someone else I care about now, and he’s the only one who can tell me where she is.

“Juneau is in one of the guest bedrooms,” he says. “She’s being taken care of by a medical assistant.” He crosses his arms as if daring me to challenge him.

“What happened?” I yell, taking a step closer to him. “What did you do to her?”

He backs up and puts his hand on my shoulder to keep me from bulldozing into him. “All I did was have a little chat with her. Unfortunately, I seem to have brought up something that distressed her. Greatly. She has been receiving sedatives throughout the night, and a nurse has stayed on call in her room in case she tries to hurt herself.”

“Juneau would never hurt herself. All she wants is to save her family.”

“So after a few days with her, you think you know her?” he retorts.

“Better than you do, obviously,” I say. “When I talk to her, she doesn’t have a breakdown.”

“Sometimes stating the facts as directly as possible is the best way to make someone respond,” he says. “To shake their answer loose.”