Chapter Thirty-Two
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
For years, readers have come to Eyes on Empaths to get the TRUTH. But today we’re coming to you to say that we think that we might not be getting ALL of the truth.
Why are so many of our tax dollars going into anti-empathy defense? Who decided the organizations that monitor pacifists should be connected to the military? When were these decisions made?
And most importantly: What’s really going on with the empaths?
Eyes on Empaths promises to find out.
—GRETEL MACY, BLOGGING FOR EYES ON EMPATHS
An hour later, Grayson was sitting on a bench in a park along the dark water’s edge, watching the lights of the boats bobbing out in the black. It was cold and wet, the dampness seeping into him, but he hadn’t moved.
Finally, he heard the approaching footsteps. He stayed in place. He’d wanted her to find him.
“I am furious with you,” St. James said tightly, from behind him. “Just so you know.”
Grayson grunted in acknowledgment.
She sat next to him on his bench. There had been a thickness to her voice that wasn’t usually there, and her eyes were puffy and bloodshot. She’d lost her brother to corruption. He hadn’t just failed Reece; he’d failed her too.
They were silent together for a moment, then St. James said, “You came here after the empaths. To do your job.”
“I did,” he admitted.
“But you let Reece go.”
“I let him go.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “Why?”
A small skiff was just visible in the edge of the city lights, chugging along, never minding that it wasn’t as big or fancy as the other boats. “It’s—complicated.” Grayson watched the little boat for a moment. “He and I are—we’re—well. I’ve made some complicated memories, when it comes to him.”
“Mm,” she said. “You know what else is complicated, though, right?”
“What?”
“Feelings,” she said, her voice still tight, still too thick.
When he closed his eyes, he could still see Reece on the other side of the gun barrel. He didn’t remember having any memories, but he must’ve. What else could have stopped him from pulling that trigger?
“I can’t have feelings,” Grayson said. “They’re gone. Alex destroyed them.”
“Alex was also supposed to be dead,” she said. “How’d that work out for Vancouver?”
They went quiet again, except that Grayson could hear her quiet swallows, a sniff she’d probably blame on the cold.
“I don’t know how Reece became corrupted,” Grayson confessed. He owed St. James the truth. “He told me to join Vivian Marist, not Director Traynor, and then switched our phones and went after Traynor himself. I still don’t know why. I don’t know if my word is worth anything to you, but I swear, if I could have stopped it—”
“You never would have let him fall, even if it meant putting yourself in a bullet’s path again. I know. I believe you.” St. James blew out a very long breath. “And maybe that’s part of the answer.”
Grayson looked at the phone in his hand again, like the dark screen held any answers.
St. James stuck out her hand. “Give me Reece’s phone.”
Grayson tilted his head but held it out. She took it, typed something in, then handed it back. “Here. Nice selfie; watch me not ask why my brother has it.”
The screen was lit up and unlocked. The wallpaper was set to the picture Grayson had sent Reece from the gym back in Vermont. “How’d you unlock this?”
“Reece hates passcodes. When he has to set one, under duress, he only ever uses the exact same thing.”
“Which is?”
“It’s 123456.”
“I really ought’ve been able to guess that,” Grayson muttered. His thumb went, unbidden, to the text message icon, opening up their text chain. He looked at the last message between him and Reece: the selfie Reece had taken of himself at the hotel, in the bear hat and pajamas, Grayson fast asleep in the background. Reece had been happy enough that night to project it onto others; if you looked for it in the photo, you could see the true happiness in his smile, the way it extended all the way to his bright eyes.
Grayson turned off the screen and set the phone on his lap. “I gotta be honest. I don’t know what to do next.”
“Yeah, well, lucky for you, you’ve got me on your team,” said St. James, and Grayson turned to look at her. “Because I know what we’re doing now. We’re going to find them.”
“Corruption is permanent,” Grayson said. “Irreversible.”
“So was your brother’s supposed death, but he’s still here,” she said. “So was becoming the Dead Man, but you just let Reece go. Maybe I’m choosing to believe none of it is as permanent or irreversible as you’ve always believed.”
Grayson lit the phone screen again, illuminating the picture. His gaze lingered on Reece’s smile, and when he licked his dry lips, he could almost imagine he still tasted Reece’s kiss.
“Empaths made us who we are,” she said. “I say we use all our empath-given skills to find them. My brother. Your brother. The world’s scariest therapist.”
There weren’t supposed to be pictures of the Dead Man out in the world. Grayson touched the picture, so it filled the screen. His thumb hovered over the delete button.
“We’re not gonna be the only ones looking for the empaths,” he pointed out. “They targeted the Empath Initiative. They set fire to Stone Solutions. They’re gonna have the world after them.”
“So we get there first. We find them, we save them, and we bring them home. Pinky-swear on it.” She held out her hand again, this time with her little finger extended. “I mean, come on,” she added, raising her chin, her eyes defiant and daring. “You’re supposed to be an empath hunter. Cowboy the fuck up and hunt some empaths.”
Grayson wasn’t like St. James. He didn’t feel hope that they could save Cora, or Alex, or Reece, because Grayson didn’t feel anything. He couldn’t.
He touched his chest, over his heart, where he’d felt a twinge the moment the gun had faltered. And then, instead of hitting Delete, he replaced the wallpaper of himself with the picture of Reece, where he’d see that smile every time he opened the phone.
“We bring them home,” he vowed, and linked his pinky with hers.
Reece sat in the driver’s seat of Grayson’s F-150, phone in hand, Alex in his ear.
“Cora and I found a yacht,” said Alex, which was probably a nice way to say they’d thralled the owner and were now having a luxury ride back to the States with Director Traynor and their ten thralled Canadian foot soldiers. “You’re sure you’d rather drive?”
“Yeah,” Reece said. “We’ll want the truck in Seattle.”
“And you’re sure it’s not just that you need time to clear your head after running into Evan?” Alex said shrewdly.
Reece cleared his throat. “I handled Evan. He won’t be a problem for me.”
Lie .
Reece froze.
“Good,” Alex said, sounding pleased. “We’ve got big plans, Reece. We can’t let him get in the way. See you in Seattle.”
“See you.” Reece hung up. He palmed the phone for a moment, then looked up at his own eyes in the truck’s rearview mirror.
More slowly, he repeated, “Evan isn’t going to be a problem for me.”
Lie .
“I’m not attached to what happens to him.”
Lie .
“There is no part of me that still wants him.”
Lie .
Reece took a breath through his nose. There was no part of him that was still a pacifist. Corruption was complete. Irreversible. He had evolved.
If you’re so certain, say it out loud , said a little voice in his head.
Reece tightened his jaw. But before he could say it, Evan’s phone—Reece’s now—went off. He glanced down to see a text from his own name on-screen. Evan must have finally figured out how to unlock the phone.
Reece opened the message up.
You know I’m not gonna let you go that easy.
Reece considered the words, gaze lingering. Then he sent two texts back and put the truck in gear, tires pealing as he left downtown Vancouver behind.
Come and get me then.
And hope I don’t get you first.