If you're reading this, I'm gone. Find the house, find Henry.

Lucas

It was a note I found in a pocket of his pack. Night had fallen, and I'd sheltered for a while in an alcove of rock along the shore, far back enough from the rising tide. I couldn't stay there. I didn't want to be stationary anywhere for too long. I had no doubt that they knew where I was; I was certain that I couldn't hide. But staying still would've driven me mad. Moving meant I wouldn't have to sit with my thoughts.

And my thoughts? They were everywhere. I hadn't liked him--Lucas--but that didn't mean I wanted him to die. He was cold and cruel, but he'd had moments of almost-kindness. He'd been determined and aggressive, and there was something I admired in that, even if I didn't like the way he'd gone about things. And up until the moment I realized he wasn't Henry—when I saw where the scar Jason had given him should've been—I had cared about him, even if only because I thought he was the shell of someone I'd lost. Now that he was dead, atop the confusing sadness, I felt relief and hope, and that made me ashamed.

But there were so many more questions, now. Who was he, actually? Why was he identical to Henry? Was he his twin? And why had he pretended to be Henry? His note revealed that he knew where Henry was, too. So had they met?

Whatever the case, the possibility of answers gave me a new sense of purpose. Henry was still out there; he was in a house; I could find it.

I had laid out all the items in Lucas's pack. Some were familiar, but others were entirely foreign. There were the two hoverboards, a tiny but powerful flashlight, the heating tool, a Swiss army knife, a small cooking pot, some bandages and other first aid items--these were things I'd seen him use. But there was a host of other items, from strange little gadgets to some things that looked potentially edible to a particularly strange pair of things in a plastic bag. One looked like a small telescope, or a piece of a microscope, about half the size of my pinky and very thin; one end of it had a lens of some kind, and the other was open and sharp, just a metal edge, like an open can. The other thing resembled a coin, maybe similar to a dime across, but was clear glass and convex on one side, something like a computer chip in the back. There was condensation in the bag that held the items; I didn't know what that meant. But then what really caught my attention was the bottle of familiar gray powder. On it was written in permanent marker draloline. I knew it was what Lucas had been slipping into my drinks. The bottle appeared to be about half empty, so I guessed that the half-bottle contained about four doses, based on how many times I'd had memories.

I sat back against the rock, sighed deeply. Where was I in all this? I'd always felt that I needed a plan of some sort, but how could I make one when there were so many unknowns, even now? Lucas had had a plan. But he'd obviously understood a lot more than I had. Ugh--I wished he were here with me, now. I didn't trust myself to have to make difficult decisions, and I was certain that Henry was surrounded by them. Lucas hadn't had problems hurting or even killing people to get what he needed to get--I'd been horrified by it, but now I needed to get something, and I wished I had his drive . . .

I realized that I'd probably hurt someone for Henry. Would I kill someone? I didn't know, but I would do almost anything for him. I was like Lucas, after all; I'd judged him a little too quickly. He'd wanted something . . . something in my memory . . . and he was going to do what it took to get it.

I needed to stop thinking about him, but sitting there in the gloom, I started to choke up. It's like I was just realizing that he was dead, and I'd never even really known who he was. I'd thought he was a broken Henry, but maybe he was actually a whole Lucas, whoever that was.

What had he wanted so badly from my memory? Something happened outside of that beach house, on the sand. I'd been there . . . he had not been there . . . but someone wanted him to know what had happened. Someone . . . who? Was it me? The other me--the one being sucked upward and calling for Lucas--I felt in my gut that she wasn't me. If she were me, who would I have been talking to? And it would've meant that I was the one who knew Lucas, I was the one who wanted someone to tell him what happened. I felt sure that wasn't right. But she looked like me . . . perhaps I was projecting myself onto her, and as the memory became clearer, I'd see who she really was, and I'd know what happened to her in the wind against the sky, in front of the beach house. Then again . . . did I care what had happened? Lucas was dead. Even if I remembered what happened, I couldn't tell him what he'd wanted to know.

Tears were streaming down my cheeks, but I wiped them away with ferocity; Lucas would've been disgusted, and I was, too. Crying was not going to solve anything. I had to keep moving. Whatever happened, I had to keep moving.

Grudgingly I got to my feet, shoved the variety of items back into Lucas's pack, and opened one of the hoverboards. As I stepped out into the dying daylight, I thought of the sun setting on Lucas's body, lying there on the sand, his pale face already like a skull on the beach. Momentarily, I considered going back, burying him, pushing him into the ocean, something to get him off that sand. But I had to be realistic; I knew I wasn't strong enough to dig a hole somewhere--and with what? And the ocean would just push him back out. Plus, I'd waste time I might not have--Lucas wouldn't have used precious time to bury me; I was sure of that. He'd have been angry if I'd wasted it to bury him.

Shaking the image of him out of my head, I stepped up onto the hoverboard and set off along the coast, staying closer to the water and away from the treeline, now that it was darker and I had to watch out for impediments. I absolutely loved that hoverboard. I couldn't imagine traveling without it, now. In a way, I liked being on my own, too, because I wasn't so focused on following Lucas but could just speed along however I wanted to. It was a miraculous thing--that hoverboard. And I had two, so once I found Henry, we could get away quickly. All of it was coming together in my head--I'd find the house, I'd find Henry, and we'd escape . . . as far away as possible. Zipping through the cool night, feeling freer than I'd ever felt, I was almost--if I didn't think about Lucas--happy.

I reached the house when day broke. I'd sped on my hoverboard through the night, rested only twice, and been contemplative most of the way. The sun had begun to rise, casting a million fiery triangles on the water, when I saw it, way above. The house was on the edge of the cliffs about a mile away; I could see it clear as day in the distance. The waxing daylight reflected off its apparent walls of glass. It looked huge and modern and forbidding, even at that distance, but it was what I'd seen in my memory, no doubt about it.

I was sure that nothing I did was secret, and yet I was anxious about how to approach. If Henry were there, I had to at least try to be careful. I didn't want to have come all this way only to have them hurt him . . . it seemed like something they'd do. And of course, I had no surety that he was even there. Lucas had written that note, but how long ago had he actually seen Henry there, if he'd seen him at all? So much could have changed. Whatever the reality, though, this was my best hope.

I guided my board into a narrow sheltered area in the rock base of the cliffs. There, I rested for several moments, pondering my options. After not too long, I realized I didn't actually have any. The best thing to do was just head straight up to that house in broad daylight and see what I could see. Waiting around until nightfall wouldn't make much difference if I was being watched. Peeking around the corner of my shelter, I squinted my eyes in the direction of the cliffs on which the house sat, and I thought I could make out a stairway embedded in the cliffside. It seemed to lead down from the house all the way to the sand. That gave me at least one idea: maybe it would be best to approach on foot. If I could hide the hoverboard, I might be able to hang onto it. No doubt if they saw me with it, they'd take it. So, I folded the thing up and slipped it in Lucas's pack along with the other odds and ends and set out to finish the journey on foot.

Thirty minutes of walking along the beach and I was at the bottom of the cliff. The stairs were solid enough, metal planks with a railing bolted firmly into the rockside. I took a deep breath. This was it. Once I started up those stairs, it could be the beginning of the end for me. There was no point trying to hide or to outwit them. They'd be there, or they wouldn't be. Henry would be there, or he wouldn't be. It would be the end for me, or it wouldn't be. At least I'd have some answers once I got there.

From the ground, the stairs hadn't looked too high, but once I was halfway up gazing down, I felt my stomach turn a little. It was definitely steeper than it looked. I focused forward and kept on, switching back over and over again as the stairs wound their way up. I didn't pause, even when I was tired; a force was pushing me forward, compelling me to go on. It was like that feeling you get leaving a dark basement--like you'd better run up those stairs or something indefinable will grab you and pull you back into the dark--that was how I felt. So I moved faster rather than slower as I ascended, and before I could think too much about being exhausted, I was at the top.

A vast lawn, trim and neat with grass that didn't seem to grow anywhere else, stretched on in front of me; the cliff fell away behind. No safety railing rimmed the edge, and a strong wind could blow a child over . . . had there been children here before? Had I been one of them? I'd been here when I was younger, that I felt; Lucas had wanted to know about something that had happened here, down on the beach below, in front of this house, where I'd been.

The house: it rose, massive and glass and angled where the lawn ended. Perfectly manicured hedges lined the walkway I entered, leading to an enormous patio where an infinity pool appeared to flow over the cliff; its waters fell over the edge with a pleasant rippling sound. The ambience was peaceful, with plants of all kinds growing in planters and along trellises, seating that looked relatively uncomfortable, like it was out of a magazine. It didn't look like the kind of pool someone would have a party at, that was for sure. And then there was the house itself. It was like a glass box that someone had opened on all sides, creating strange angles and divisions. I could see into the main floor, across the patio and pool, and what I could make out was a huge white piano and an indoor bar, with seating all over the place. But there wasn't any sign of a person, anywhere. The whole place looked like a show house, like a display where nobody actually lived.

It was the eeriest place I could remember being. Creepier than the pipe leading out of Oliphant, or the Circuit's headquarters in San Judo, or even Animas Forks. It was too quiet, here, as if the house itself were waiting for me to arrive, to eat me up like some creature from an old dark fairytale. Though nothing was moving or making noise except for the water in the pool, I sensed that everything was watching me, waiting for what I might say or do. Maybe there were traps . . . pits I'd fall into, or arrows that would shoot out of hidden holes--but then, if the plan was to kill me, why wait until now? There'd been many opportunities along the way. My apprehensions were stifling, and yet I couldn't go back. There was nothing to do but try the door.

The one I saw was cut right into the glass wall beyond which lay the piano. I approached it slowly, watching my environment, unsure what I should be doing or feeling, but when I got to the door, it easily pushed inward. I'd expected at least a lock, and the ease of it all unnerved me.

Still, in I went. Into the perfect house, where all the furniture was white leather, where there were few walls and everything glistened in its big open spaces--glistening marble counters, glistening glass sculptures, glistening walls and crystal light fixtures and reflective floors. Some inordinately large plants were placed throughout in large white ceramic pots, but other than that, nothing seemed to be alive (and even the plants were a little too shiny to be anything but wax).

I instinctively reached for my jacket pocket, where I'd stowed Lucas's small gun. I'd hated him using it, but he'd hurt people that didn't necessarily need hurting; this was different. People here could be extremely dangerous. I didn't know if I'd be able to shoot someone--kill someone--but it was darkly comforting to hold.

"Our darling has returned to us!"

I spun so quickly that a muscle in my neck got pulled. Standing near the piano, having entered from who-knew-where, was a woman I regretted to recognize. She was different, now, softer, than when I'd last seen her, dressed in comfortable-looking pants and a white button-down, but that poppy-red hair in its thick braid was unmistakable. She just stood there, looking at me with a huge, weird smile, her hands clasped in front of her as if she were praying.

The whole picture of her standing there in this strange, emotionless place was disconcerting. I didn't know what to think or do or say, and it was only after several awkward moments had passed that I realized I was pointing Lucas's gun at her.

"Nadia," she said, flashing her eyes at the weapon and back at me when she saw me glance at it, "that's what you're calling yourself, right? We'll call you that, too, if it's what you prefer. We've been waiting for you for so long!"

I couldn't turn away from her bizarre smile. It was as waxed as all the plants. The gun trembled in my hand.

Her smile didn't budge, but her eyes took on a creepy-doll vibe. She stepped casually to the left, laughed a little as if we'd shared some inside joke; I found it incredibly irritating. "There's no need for violence, Nadia. Not yet."

The last words were tinged with threat. I kept the gun raised. Would I actually shoot her? I didn't think so. Not unless she'd hurt Henry. And even then . . . I wasn't sure I could do it. But it felt in some way safer to hold the gun up in front of me, as if it were a barrier of some sort, protecting me from that woman. I knew she'd been the one we'd first met when Henry and I had arrived at the Circuit base in San Judo. I knew she'd been the one to separate us in the first place, and my anger rose with the memory of it all. In spite of myself and how in-control I wanted to appear, I felt myself beginning to shake. With rage, with fear, with exhaustion--I didn't know. But I certainly didn't want to appear weak in front of her.

She saw it in me, anyway. "Oh, now there's no need to be afraid. Is it that I'm a stranger? You may call me Ms. Indelicato. We've met before--"

"Oh, I remember."

Her smile wavered slightly. "We won't hurt you." She slowly swung her hands behind her back and clasped them there, then began to pace a little. "You see, we value you very much, here, Nadia. You've been lost, but now you're found. You're our . . . our prodigal son. Well, daughter, I suppose." She laughed a little at herself. "You've found your way here, all on your own. And I'm sure you're wondering what all this is. We'll tell you, Nadia, if you would just calm down. Put away your little toy, and let me take you somewhere where everything will be explained."

"Yeah, hard pass." I'd found my voice. It didn't come out as strong as I'd have liked, but it was there, and my words were what I wanted them to be. "The last time you took me somewhere to explain things I ended up in a torture chair. I know what you do to people. You kidnap them, and screw with their minds, and kill the ones who make you mad." I momentarily turned aside as Lucas's name caught in my chest. But I regained my composure quickly. I was still shaking, but it had somewhat steadied. "You're just evil, the whole Circuit."

Ms. Indelicato paused in her pacing, looked at me, and gave me the most infuriatingly condescending smile I'd ever seen. But her tone was cold as ice when she said, "Oh, dear, you have such a forgetful mind. You think all this,"--she reached out a hand and moved it as if she were shuffling golf balls in the air--"is about the Circuit." She froze, all seriousness. "The Circuit is a tool, Nadia. A means to an end. It funds our endeavors--that's all."

I shook my head. "But . . . but the Circuit destroys people--young people, like Slim, and Henry. And you're . . . you're saying it's for nothing?"

"Oh, no. Certainly not for nothing. Quite the opposite. It's for everything."

"No, no. I don't care. I won't play these mind games with you. I don't care about any of it at all. Just give him to me. Where's Henry?"

For the first time since we'd begun talking, that woman's expression appeared genuine. The disconcertion on her face was evident as she tipped her head a little to one side and, quizzically, asked, "Who's Henry?"