Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
And now?
Now it feels like the end.
I open the Jeep’s door.
Mercer puts a hand on my shoulder. “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know. Just… leave without me.” I shrug him off, get out, and walk towards the woods.
I have no idea how he will respond. And for the first time in my life, I hope he leaves me. Because then it will be done and I won’t have to do it. I won’t have to face that final truth.
Mercer gets out of the Jeep. “Just… stop, Locke. Just stop.”
“No.” I walk into the woods.
Mercer runs after me. And isn’t this always how it goes? The moment you give up—the moment you finally accept that this relationship is never going to work—that’s when the other person begins to make an effort.
I whirl on him. “Do you know what I fucking hate about you?”
Mercer looks surprised. Blinks. And there is a pause. Kind of a long one. A chance for him to think. To work things out. To figure out his next move. “Tell me.”
“I hate the way you use me. But even more than that, I hate the way you taught me how to use.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Olsen and Nova. I used him, and I used her, and you taught me how to do that. Because you take, Mercer. Until a girl called Nova comes along and then…” I pause. Then what happened? I don’t have this final piece of the puzzle.
I don’t get it.
I don’t know what happened between them. I don’t know how she got pregnant. And this really bothers me.
Before today I was a hundred percent sure that I didn’t care who Veda’s father was.
It didn’t matter because it wasn’t Mercer.
And for some reason, this made sense to me.
But now he is, and so it no longer makes sense.
Silas Mercer is a weird guy. He’s got all kinds of rules. This stuff keeps him happy, and calm, and generally normal. So breaking rules—it’s a big deal for him.
He broke the rules.
He had sex with her.
Not a handjob, sex. And maybe I could understand it if I was there. But they did this without me.
How did it happen?
Was it her?
Was it him?
Was it both of them?
There is a huge section of puzzle missing. What I have pieced together looks nothing like the picture on the box.
Many seconds have passed since I stopped talking, but Mercer just stares at me. Like the next time I open my mouth, the world will end.
“You said that too,” I say. And my voice is low and sad now.
“Said what?”
“That Nova was going to ruin my life.”
He’s staring at me intently. “She will.”
Why? How? What am I missing?
We go silent again. There is no sound except the scream of hawks high up in the sky and the whooshing of mountain wind.
This lasts for way too long but there is almost nothing left to say.
“You know,” Mercer says. Finally breaking the silence. “You’re the kind of man I want to be.”
And these words do something to me.
Change me.
Trigger me.
No. Crash me.
CHAPTER NINETEEN – NOVA
FIVE YEARS AGO
When Olsen and I arrive back on the island, I feel like I’ve made a mistake. His plan—our plan—feels good. Like it will work. But coming back to this place after learning what it really is feels like a trap. Like the building I was sent to on my first day.
Fireflies blink in and out of existence as we walk across the Square, heading towards the library, and I do nothing but take steps and deep breaths. Olsen isn’t holding my hand, but I wish he were.
Travis, Nova. This is Travis.
I am a prisoner here, but I am a willing prisoner. There is no way around that. I signed on to this program. I agreed to everything. They have vids of me stating very clearly that I am a willing participant in a clinical trial for the rewiring of memories in the brain.
But some of what has happened to me over the past several years is starting to come back. Olsen’s letter mentioned something called ‘crashing out’. The letter didn’t really explain it, but one does not need to be a brain surgeon to make correct inferences.
My heart hurts a little when I realize I’m not a neuroscientist.
What was I doing all month with the cases upstairs in the lab? Was I just… making shit up? Did they program me to do that? Whatever I did, it was nonsense.
I’m not the person I thought I was and this… hurts.
I might not be a genius, but I’m not a stupid girl. So I can infer what ‘crashing out’ is. It’s when the drug wears off and the memories come back.
Crashing, though. It’s a very specific word. It implies impact.
Something fast, and hard, and final.
So it’s not a leaking of memories, it’s a flood.