Chapter Twenty-Two
Name: Dominique Lane (Diesel)
Source of referral: U.S. Marine Corps
Presenting concerns: Depression; grief; hypervigilance; sleep disturbances
Assessment: Patient was exposed to significant trauma overseas and is struggling to adjust to civilian life.
Note: Do not reassign. I’ll try to help him, whatever he needs.
—Seattle Veterans Medical Complex patient records, filed by empath therapist Cora Falcon
“Ms. Marist?” Vivian Marist’s American assistant, Leah, poked her head around the door of the office. “We have your new schedule
for today.”
Marist looked up from her email, lips pinching together. “And how many meetings has Senator Braun scheduled for us?”
Leah winced. “Eight.”
Marist took a breath through her nose.
“But I do have some other news.” Leah looked down at her phone. “Gretel Macy just responded to your condolences. She said she’ll come by Stone Solutions today.”
“Oh.” Marist blew out a breath. “Good, that’s good,” she said. “I don’t care what Braun has planned—send Gretel straight to
me when she gets here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And have someone bring me a second latte.”
“On it.” Leah slipped back out the door.
Marist steepled her fingers. She was sorry for Gretel’s loss; that wasn’t a lie. But Gretel was also now in a position of
immense power: the sole heiress of all of Beau Macy’s money, her own Eyes on Empaths blog poised to attract more attention than ever, and smart enough to take a leadership role in American Minds Intact, if
she wanted.
They needed to talk.
After talking with Reece’s sister, Alex had gone to find Cora. St. James had obviously been looking for missing people when
she’d called—people she’d assumed Alex had hidden from her. Pair that with her increased concern when it’d become clear Alex
wasn’t behind this disappearance, and it wouldn’t have taken an empath to connect the dots and surmise the missing people
were other empaths.
And that whoever might be responsible for their disappearance was potentially more distressing to St. James than the corrupted
empaths.
Reece was still out, but Alex and Cora sat together at the table in Jason Owens’s kitchen turned war room, Evan’s laptop open
between them and the spreadsheet of empaths and their suspected trigger points on-screen as they began to search.
“So Reece’s sister is missing some empaths.
” Alex checked yet another social media site, but Mireya Gomez hadn’t posted in the past two weeks.
“I don’t like that. And I don’t like that I haven’t heard from Traynor yet this morning, and he’s not answering my calls.
How long does it take to get to the bank? ”
“I don’t think we’re supposed to know Reece followed him.” Across the table, Cora was also bent over her phone. “But no word
from Reece either. And nothing unusual for Chand Gupta.”
Alex looked at Evan’s laptop to see who was next on the list. “I’ll take June Hao.”
“That gives me Dawson Jones.”
They looked their empaths up in silence. Alex scrolled through June Hao’s social media posts, checking the various pictures
and captions. June was a Southern California girl who spent a lot of time cleaning up beaches. Her last post had been a week
ago about her planned travels to Mexico.
Across the table, Cora suddenly straightened up. “Oh, Dawson. What were you thinking when you posted this?”
She held out the phone to Alex. On-screen was a popular photography-based social site. Dawson Jones, a twentysomething with
brown hair and blue eyes, was taking a group selfie at what looked like an airport gate. There were at least five others beaming
at the camera with him, some of them making hearts with their hands or peace signs.
Every single one of them wore empath gloves.
Meeting my new friends in Las Vegas! read the caption. Next stop, Bellingham, Washington!
The post was time-stamped the evening before.
“Oh my God,” Alex said. “The naive little idiots.”
“They have no idea Stone Solutions tracks their every post online.” Cora was shaking her head. “No idea what kind of creeps
would be interested that a whole cadre of empaths were congregating in Bellingham.”
Their eyes met. “I bet Evan and St. James were trying to move them somewhere safe,” Alex said. “But someone out there interfered.”
“And we know exactly what kind of someones want their hands on empaths.” Cora was pulling the laptop close. “I’m sending us both a copy of this spreadsheet for our
phones. We want that list of names and then I say we head to Bellingham ourselves. Because someone out there might be messing
with these empaths—but that someone isn’t counting on us.”
Grayson stopped for more coffee a little past Bremerton and the signs for the USS Turner Joy. The snowflakes were bigger on this side of the sound, and just starting to stick to the ground. His weather app was warning
of more snow to come that night; he’d definitely be keeping this to a day trip.
As he stood for a moment, stretching his spine before he folded himself back into the Smart car, his gaze fell on the black
Tahoe that was pulling into the gas station across the street. The Tahoe didn’t stop at the pumps, but drove around the side
of the station, out of sight. Same color and body style as the one that had been parked on the street outside the studio’s
high-rise.
Grayson watched for another minute, but the Tahoe didn’t reappear.
After a long moment, Grayson got back in the car. He pulled back out onto the rural highway, heading off through the evergreens
with their light dusting of snow.
After three or so miles, he checked his rearview mirror.
A black Tahoe was behind him, matching his speed.
Gretel hadn’t lied to Jamey; she did meet with her family’s lawyer.
For all of twenty minutes, long enough for Mr. Carrollton to tell her that she’d inherited every last dime, and then, when she’d mentioned the police didn’t want to hear her theories, he’d gently suggested that she should let the police do their job, and wasn’t it time to put her own projects aside and focus on the real work of AMI, like her dad would have wanted?
She hadn’t been able to get out of there fast enough.
Now she sat on a leather couch on the eighteenth floor of Stone Solutions, in a former conference room that had been temporarily
transformed into an office suite. The windows framed Mount Rainier, the light snow lending a softness to the view. It was
awe-inspiring enough it could have maybe granted her racing thoughts a second of peace.
If she weren’t sharing the office with Stone Solutions’ media director.
“—my condolences about your father: He was a great man, and of course everyone’s so curious who’s going to fill his shoes,”
Anthony, the director, went on, apparently oblivious to Gretel’s grinding teeth. “Your blog has always been one of AMI’s best
publications, and naturally this sad event will mean your readership will only increase. It’s really going to be all eyes
on you now, and if you were to, say, write an article that was, say, endorsing a particular senator, well, I’m sure everyone would
be reading. We’re backing Senator Braun to take up Hannah Hathaway’s anti-empathy mantle now, you know, and it just feels
like you’re uniquely positioned to use this tragedy to shine a light in dark places—perhaps it’s even what your father would
have wanted—”
Gretel’s fingers tightened on her coffee cup.
“Anthony.” That was Vivian Marist’s voice, breaking in and finally stopping him. Marist was stepping around the couch, closer
to Gretel’s side. “Have someone get Ms. Macy another coffee, won’t you?” Her voice was friendly but with a note of steel.
Gretel’s coffee cup was still mostly full. But Anthony was already scrambling up to his feet. “Yes, of course.”
The office door opened and then shut somewhere behind Gretel as Marist took a seat at her side on the leather sofa, the embodiment of feminine corporate chic from her pumps to her smooth French twist to the softest hint of perfume. “How are you holding up?” she asked, her voice much kinder.
Gretel set her coffee cup on the coffee table. “I’m not,” she said flatly, too tired to mask and find something more socially
acceptable to say.
Marist gave her a sad smile. “I’m sorry. I considered both of your parents my friends. It’s a great loss.”
She sounded sincere enough, but it didn’t help Gretel get answers. “The police won’t let me see my parents,” she said, watching
Marist. “I wish someone would tell me more about what happened to them.”
“Murder is such a terrible, shocking crime,” Marist said, which was true and also completely evasive. “And I’m sure you must
be going mad with all the bureaucracy around the investigation. You’ve obviously got a sharp mind—it’s evident in all your
writing.”
Marist picked up the coffee cup and pressed it back into Gretel’s hands. “I read your blog, you know,” she added.
What a neat little trick, turning the topic right back to Gretel. “I talked to our family lawyer today,” Gretel said. “Mr.
Carrollton was sympathetic, of course, but he said I should just listen to the police. What a strange answer from a lawyer
to their client, don’t you think?”
“I’m afraid I’ve never known much about criminal law,” Marist said.
“I think you probably know Carrollton, though,” Gretel said. “He used to be Stone Solutions’ general counsel.”
“It’s such a small world around the empaths,” Marist said with a rueful smile. “As you well know, of course: Eyes on Empaths has always been a key player.”
It should have made Gretel proud to hear Marist praise the blog she’d worked so hard to build, to be included in the elite
circle with AMI and Stone Solutions. But it felt hollow compared to Jamey’s sympathetic hugs and warm mugs of tea, her concern
that Gretel have a safe place to stay and her promises to help.
“Have you thought about your own future role with AMI?” Marist asked. “All your members are looking for guidance now. They
know you and trust you. And of course, AMI and Stone Solutions have always had such a close relationship.”