James 8 #2
I’m worried the man is going to have a stroke.
“The girls will be happy to do it,” I interject, shamefully inserting myself into their business.
Warner looks over at me, surprised.
Then grateful.
I might be mad at him, but I’m in full agreement with him on this point, and it’s clear he needs a little backup.
It’s not ideal for Juliette to have round-the-clock babysitters, but shit is crazy right now.
We have no idea whether there’s going to be another attack, we’re still reeling from all the most recent chaos, and Warner is drowning in work.
He does a pretty decent job trying to shield his wife from his demons, but the man is so stressed out all the time I’m actually starting to feel bad for him.
Besides, I meant what I said.
I spent years training with Sonya and Sara, developing my own healing skills under their guidance. They’re some of the kindest, most selfless people I’ve ever met.
They’re also, like, genius smart.
Polymath smart.
The kind of smart where they can play any musical instrument and can solve all the mathematical equations and can communicate complexly with their twin without needing to speak out loud.
Among other things, they’re responsible for building out the framework for the entire medical system we currently rely on.
They spend most of their time in the lab these days, developing healing serums and new biomedical technologies, but I can say without a doubt that they’d rather be a little inconvenienced than wake up one day to find out Juliette is dead.
I surprise myself with that dark thought.
“Trust me,” I tell my sister-in-law, forcing a smile. “I think I know the girls better than anyone in this room. They’d be offended if you didn’t ask them to stay.”
Juliette frowns. “Really?”
Not really.
I might be exaggerating.
“Really,” I lie, resisting the urge to clear my throat.
Warner narrows his eyes at me, like maybe I’m laying it on too thick, and I decide to turn my attention to the fresh hole in the wall.
I can sense Juliette looking from me to Warner, then back again. I’ve got her all confused. First she was worried about asking for too much from the girls. Now she’s worried about hurting their feelings.
Her empathy has collapsed in on itself.
She hesitates, then looks up at Warner. “Will it really make you feel better to have the girls here all the time?”
“Yes,” he says immediately.
She laughs at his breathless response, then shakes her head on a sigh. “Oh, fine,” she says. “But only because I love you so much.”
Warner practically transforms.
He breaks into an enormous smile, dimples popping, white teeth flashing.
After all this time, his rare smiles still surprise the hell out of me.
He looks instantly ten years younger. Fresh-faced and golden.
Like he’s never touched a machete in his life.
Like he might be the kind of guy who has no idea how to field strip a semiautomatic rifle.
Like maybe he would be interested in eating an ice-cream cone in public.
I know better.
But I’m guessing Juliette sees a lot more of this version of him than the rest of us, because she doesn’t seem surprised at all.
She beams up at her stuffed-animal husband like he’s never hurt anyone in his life. I nearly roll my eyes again.
Finally, she turns in my direction.
“Okay,” she says to me. “You can ask the girls to come.”
“You got it.” I fish my pager out of my pocket before reality decks me between the eyes.
My entire body stiffens.
A single glance at the silenced screen and I’m reminded that my pager is now a fucking toilet.
“What is it?” Warner asks, tuning instantly to my shift in mood. “What’s wrong?”
“Uh—”
I scroll through the backlog of notifications, blowing past phrases like choke me a little only to pause on the quieter messages that catch my eye.
Hello Mr. Anderson!
This an inquiry regarding Kenji Kishimoto.
No one seems to know if he’s single and many of us are interested in the answer! I would be grateful for a response at your convenience.
Thank you for your time!
Huh.
I almost forward that one to Nazeera.
Hey, you probably don’t remember me, but we used to go to school together
I’ve always thought your story was really inspiring, and a lot of us are proud of you
It’s so cool to see how far you’ve come
Is it true, what everyone is saying about you?
“Is everything okay?” Juliette asks me.
“Yeah,” I say, sounding surprised. I briefly look up at her, then return my eyes to the messages. That last question was a little confusing, but overall this one wasn’t too horrible. “Yeah, there’s something going on with my pager, but it’s actually not as bad as I—”
You’re just another arrogant piece of shit
Just like your older brother
Even your garbage father didn’t want you
Your mother died just to get away from you
How does it feel to be a worthless bastard?
I take a tight breath.
I fucking hate that I felt that. Hate that it nicked me in the lungs. Hate this heat climbing up my neck.
“James?” Warner again. He takes a step toward me. “What’s going on?”
You’re just repackaged street scum
You were never born to be anything more than trash
Everyone fucking hates you and your family
Watch your step James ANDERSON
Wouldn’t want you to accidentally blow yourself up
My mood goes violently black.
The full force of my earlier frustration reenters my body through this sudden fissure in my chest, and I feel like I’m bleeding beyond my edges all over again.
My heart tightens into a fist.
I know better, but now I can’t stop scrolling through these messages. I’m hunting for more anonymous threats, finding them tucked between the explicit and the mundane—
AARON WARNER ANDERSON IS A WAR CRIMINAL
HE’S COMPLICIT IN HIS FATHER’S CRIMES
THE ENTIRE ANDERSON FAMILY SHOULD BE EXECUTED
YOU SHOULDN’T BE ALLOWED TO brEED
“James.”
Warner is standing in front of me now. His voice is hard. His eyes are hard. “Tell me what’s happening.”
I finally look up at him, my heart pounding. I’m so stiff with anger it’s difficult to speak.
“There’s been another security breach,” I tell him, handing over my pager. “Something is wrong.”