Swift Escape - Tara Jade Brown(ang.)

Table of Contents Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24

Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53

Epilogue

SWIFT ESCAPE by Tara Jade Brown

Swift Escape Copyright © 2017 Tara Jade Brown All rights reserved

Tara Jade Brown asserts the moral rights to be identified as the author of the work.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Editor: Sarah Kolb-Williams Book cover design: Damonza

To my husband

Table of Contents Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19

Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42

Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Epilogue About the Author

Prologue

My palms are sweaty. I wipe them on my skirt, pressing against my thighs. I take a deep breath again and look behind the curtain. The speaker in front of me is just answering his final questions. He’ll be finished soon. This thought alone raises my heartbeat a notch. I swallow and close my eyes. Calm down, Jane. Just calm down. You know this best. No one else knows it as well as you do. That’s all you need to remember. I open my eyes again and see the speaker leaving the stage. I touch my messy bun, then quickly tighten it one more time, hooking a loose strand behind my ear. Then I look down, checking to make sure all is in place. Red pumps, black stockings, and black long-sleeved dress. I straighten. Outside: all good. Now let’s show them the

inside. The conference moderator steps to the podium and leans in a bit to get closer to the microphone. “Our next speaker didn’t have to travel far. In fact, she works just across the Charles, at the Science and Technology Institute of Boston in the laboratory of Professor David Wright. Please welcome Dr. Jane McGregor.” There is applause. I take a deep breath and walk onto the stage, forcing a smile onto my face as I look at the audience. The moderator turns toward me and hands me the laser pointer. Looking at the gadget, he says in a low voice, “Here is forward, here back. If you have any videos, press here.” He looks at me. “You’re good?” Of course not. But I widen my smile and nod. “The stage is yours,” he says quietly, then leaves. I turn toward the audience.

Oh, boy! There are more than two hundred people in front of me. Almost all of them are in the dark. In the back, I see three small bright squares: open doors at the back of the hall. Someone just enters— a shadow dimming one of the squares for one moment—and then he moves to the side again, finding a free seat in the last row. I take a small step forward to look at the audience. The first two or three rows are scarcely lit, light from the stage reflected off their faces. David is there, and so are Miyako, Frank and Chris from the lab. Miyako has her palms pressed together, her fingers touching her lips as if in prayer. She isn’t quite displaying a vote of confidence when she looks at me like that, but I know she’s only empathizing with me. Frank keeps fiddling with his glasses and I know he does that whenever he’s anxious. I think Miyako got him all worked up. The side of my lips curls into a smile. It feels good to know they are behind me. Then I look

down at the laser pointer and click forward to the first slide. An image of an eighteenth-century painting covers the entire back wall behind me. I am not going to talk about art, but this painting gives me the punch-line introduction to the biological question I’m about to answer in my speech. “This is the siege of Constantinople. The year is 1453. Seven thousand soldiers defending the city with fifty thousand civilians, and more than one hundred thousand soldiers attacking from the outside. “Constantinople fell in the end. To historians, this marks the end of the Byzantine Empire and the end of the Middle Ages. But it took fifty-three days for the army of the Ottoman Empire to conquer seven thousand not-very-welltrained defenders of the city. So the real question here is this: how could a city resist a force more than ten times bigger than their own for fifty-three days?” I point with my laser to the wall surrounding the city. “One of the main reasons is that the city

was surrounded by an almost impenetrable wall.” I turn to my audience. “Now, I’m not going to tell you anything more about this monumental battle, mainly because I’ve already told you everything I know about it—” Laugher from the audience. “—but I’m going to switch gears and downsize the story a lot. In fact, I’ll reduce it to a microscopic level. Let’s imagine the city is actually Bacillus subtilis, also known as hay or grass bacillus, commonly found in the soil as well as in the digestive system of humans. Now, let’s say it finds itself in a very hostile environment.” I point to the army outside the city walls. “Normally, the bacterial cells would die in such an environment, but some strains have the ability to build a wall, making a so-called endospore. These strains can save their valuable genetic material”—I point the laser pointer at the inhabitants of the city—“inside this impenetrable wall. In this state, a cell can survive for thousands of years. “Once the cell is surrounded by a friendly

environment again, the endospore breaks the impenetrable wall and continues a normal existence as a living bacterial cell.” I change the slide and show a microscope image of the Bacillus strain I’ve been working with: many blue rod-shaped cells. Among those, a few are colored a striking fluorescent green. “These are the endospores, the protected cells,” I say, pointing to green cells. “These are the ones resisting the siege.” “But”—I turn toward the audience—“what if we had a way to weaken some of the bricks in that wall? What if we made some of the connections of the endospore cortex so thin that they collapse under the first impact?” I pause. On purpose. Everyone is quiet now. They expect the answer, the big revelation. And I love it. I bask in this expecting and eager audience for a second longer, then continue. “The city resisted fifty-three days before the walls shattered, but for my Bacilli endospores,

the walls came down within a minute. Now let me show you how.” I switch the slide and show them the first of my experiments. And I talk. I have rehearsed this speech more times than I can count. I’m at the point where I can actually think of something else while I’m talking about the slides behind me. David knows this. He has seen me rehearse. He’s leaning back, sitting sideways, as he would do in a lounge bar while discussing the latest game of hockey. He looks very relaxed. Every now and then he looks down at his notebook and writes something down, then looks back. The research I am talking about has been published already and, thanks to David, in a very prestigious journal. I think he has some connections high up that I’ll never understand. Whatever the case had been, this publication has just made my path to becoming a lab head a few steps shorter. And this is where I want to be. Leading a lab of my own. My twenty minutes are almost over.

“To summarize: We have found that using this reagent, we managed to alter the structure of the endospore cortex of Bacillus subtilis. With this treatment, the resistant bacterial cells became vulnerable again, making them susceptible to their environment, most notably, susceptible to antibiotics. Thank you for your attention. I’d be happy to take your questions.” The applause is huge. Miyako, I think, is the loudest of all; she’s jumping in her seat and clapping twice as fast as everyone else. I smile from ear to ear, unable to hide my joy. The moderator comes out to join me on the stage, and a person to the left raises her hand. One of the assistants rushes to her and gives her a microphone. “Great research, Dr. McGregor!” “Thank you!” “Could you tell me, the reagent you used— could it be used for human treatment, you know, for cases when dangerous human pathogens make endospores? It would be great to use it in combination with antibiotics!”

“This would have to be confirmed with clinical trials. We don’t have the setup to do it in our institute, but that research step is open to whoever wants to embark on it. I can tell you, however, that the same reagent was successfully used in a fruit fly and some nonhuman primates without adverse effects.” At that moment, several people raise their hands and start talking at the same time. “One at a time,” the moderator says. “The gentleman on the right first, perhaps?” He points to a man with his hand raised and the assistant closest to him hands him a microphone. The questions pile up, and so do my answers. After the tenth question, I realize I am suddenly tired. It must be the adrenaline leaving my system. Finally, the moderator raises his hands and says, “I think it’s time for an afternoon break. If you have any more questions for Dr. McGregor, you can approach her during the break. Thank you.” The lights come up. People start to stand

and slowly move to the back of the hall, all converging at the three exits in the back. The moderator turns to me. “Well done, Jane. That was the best speech I’ve heard in a while.” “Oh, thank you. That’s very nice of you to say.” He nods with a smile and starts to leave, but then turns to say, “By the way, we have a lovely buffet outside. I’d encourage you to give it a try.” “Thanks, I’ll be right there,” I say, my tummy rumbling in agreement. *** All the people from the audience are in the foyer by the time I arrive, grouped around high standing tables with beautifully arranged appetizers. I approach the first one, several people crammed around it. “Excuse me!” I say as I reach behind a woman to take a one-bite sandwich. The woman turns. “Jane, what a wonderful speech! And great research too.”

That’s when I realize who the woman is. “Dr. Rosenberg, thanks very much! I had very good guidance.” “Evelyn, please. And it’s not all due to your boss. Not all of David’s students make such great discoveries. Well done!” “Thanks, um, Evelyn!” I find it strange to call her by her first name. Whenever I’ve talked to her in the institute, I’ve always used her surname. She’s one of those icons who commands immense respect. Even other lab heads have a hard time switching to a first-name basis. I stuff the sandwich in my mouth. Bite-sized it may be, but my mouth seems to be too small. “Have you met Dr. Grant?” Dr. Rosenberg asks, pointing to a tall man standing next to her. I close my mouth, trying very hard to make it look graceful. I fail. Then I look up at him. He’s more than six feet tall; his head is bald with some gray hairs on the side, and his thick glasses make his eyes so small I can barely tell their color. He’s—what’s the

polite word?—overweight. His extra storage of energy bulges over his belt. He’s got three folds under his chin too. And he’s looking at me. I refrain from talking with a full mouth and offer my hand, hoping I’m not being too impolite. Dr. Grant shakes my hand and says, “I’m pleased to meet you, Jane. I liked your talk a lot. You are . . . very passionate about what you do.” His voice is a deep baritone, warm and serene. I nod, desperately trying to finish the mouthful so I can finally say something. Dr. Grant raises one eyebrow at me. “Speechless, I see.” Then he turns to Dr. Rosenberg. “I often have that effect on woman.” I start to laugh but then choke on the bread crumbs. Dr. Grant pats me on the back. “Are you okay?” Finally, I manage to swallow. “I’m sorry . . . Dr. Grant . . . a bad moment for a joke with all the food in my mouth,” I say with a smile. He looks at me, raising both of his eyebrows. Oops! I quickly look down, avoiding his

gaze. Perhaps he didn’t mean that as a joke. “At any rate, Jane,” Dr. Rosenberg says, her voice a bit harsher than before, “Dr. Grant managed to come to the conference despite his prior arrangements.” She turns to him and smiles. “Which I am so happy to see. You know, Brian, I’ve been so eager to finally meet you. We need to find some one-on-one time to discuss your recent paper.” Dr. Grant answers but keeps looking at me. “Yes . . . yes . . . but I’d much rather hear about new discoveries.” He finally turns to Dr. Rosenberg. “My work is boring.” “Oh, nonsense, Brian!” Dr. Rosenberg touches his shoulder. “It is the most exciting research I’ve read in a while.” I look at Dr. Rosenberg, then at her hand— still on Dr. Grant’s shoulder—then at her. Huh, I guess she must like him. I narrow my eyes, looking at Dr. Grant again, trying to see what she sees. He’s quite a lot older than her. But he does have a wonderful voice and is strikingly tall.

Ah, well. He wouldn’t be my type, but—to each one’s own. “Jane!” comes a voice from behind me. I turn around and see Miyako rushing over to me. I look at Dr. Grant. “It was nice to meet you, Dr. Grant. Dr. Ros—Evelyn, thank you for organizing the conference and for giving me the opportunity to show my research.” “Pleasure, Jane.” Dr. Rosenberg politely smiles before returning her full attention to Dr. Grant. As soon as I turn to look at Miyako, she hugs me, her dark, straight, shoulder-length hair swinging around me as well. She’s so tiny you almost don’t see her if you look at her from the side, but she nevertheless almost knocks me off balance with her force. “That was brilliant! Why were you so afraid before? You were great!” “I’m always anxious before a talk, you know that. But thanks!” Frank is right behind her, a head taller than both of us, his overgrown curly black hair

shadowing the sunlight coming from behind him. “May I?” he says. Miyako releases me and takes a step back. Then Frank hugs me with one arm, casually keeping the other hand in his pocket. “Perfetto, Jane. Just awesome.” “Thanks, Frank.” Behind him, I notice Dr. Grant is looking over Evelyn’s shoulder. His eyes are fixed on me. I frown, not understanding what to make of his undivided attention. Then I shake my head, focusing on my friends again. Frank starts walking, still keeping one arm around my shoulders. He hugs Miyako with his other arm and pushes us both forward. “So, girls, let’s get out of here and get something proper to eat!” “What about the last session?” I ask, slightly resisting his push. “Oh, you’re such a nerd! You can miss the last three talks!” Frank says. “Fine!” I shake my head and let him lead me forward.

“So”—Miyako peeks at me around Frank’s chest—“who’s the big guy over there?” “The one talking to Dr. Rosenberg? Dr. Brian Grant.” Miyako looks back over Frank’s shoulder. “Oh, really? On the brochure he looked . . . smaller. Ah, well.” She turns then to the front, looking at the wide-open glass door of the conference building, sunshine seeping through. “Let’s enjoy the last summer day.” I glance at her. “What do you mean ‘last summer day’?” “Autumn is officially starting tomorrow and so are the autumn rains.” “Oh, I hate hibernation,” I mutter under my breath. Miyako laughs and Frank squeezes me once around my shoulders. “We know you do. That’s why we are going to make today even more special.” And we walk out of the building, sunshine bathing us in warmth for one last time this year.

Chapter 1 Friday 7:32 a.m. I bend forward and focus closely on the small plastic Eppendorf tube between my thumb and index finger. At the bottom are a few microliters of a transparent liquid. I sigh and close the tube. This had better work. I walk to the other side of the laboratory, passing three rows of workbenches. No one is around yet, so everything is quiet. I like to work like this. It helps me focus. I stop in front of the laminar hood, so large it’s covering most of the side wall. Through the front glass, I can see purple light reflecting off the smooth metal work desk and several glass bottles and tubes in the back, sterilized and ready to be used. The machine is on, and there is a constant humming sound coming from the top part, a large metal container with the aeration and filtering

systems that keep the work area clean. I switch off the UV light and turn on the bright neon light at the same time, then pull the empty tube stand closer and put my Eppendorf tube inside. As I turn around, I almost bump into Frank. “Oh, sorry! Good morning!” “Buongiorno! Come sta?” he says. “Good, good. And you? How come you’re up so early?” He waves his hand and heads to his workbench. “I need to do the antibiotics treatment. The protocol takes a while, so I wanted to start early.” “Are these for your Streptococcus strains?” “Si. And then I need to stain them, then image them. Might need your help there, actually. Staining is a pain in the neck. At least for me.” “Sure, no problem. Just tell me when you get there.” “Va bene, grazie! And how about you?” “Well . . . I’m doing the very last step,” I say, walking to the small incubator under my lab bench. “Once again. Let’s see how it goes this

time.” “Hey, good luck with that!” “Thanks,” I say, then kneel down and open the small door, the warmth and classic incubator smell flooding the air around me. Inside, a large Erlenmeyer flask is swirling in a fast rhythm. I stop the rotation then grab it at the bottleneck and pull it out. The glass cone snaps out of its holder. Inside is a murky beige liquid, still moving from the recent rotation. Hello, girls! Ready for the big experiment? I carry the bottle to the laminar hood. Frank sits next to me, watching through the glass. “Is that the blocker?” he asks, pointing to the small tube. I nod, then pull some latex gloves out of my lab coat pocket and put them on. “You think it’s going to work this time?” he asks. I shrug as I take the small Eppendorf tube I prepared and put three microliters of the reagent into one of the sterile Erlenmeyer flasks, add a milliliter of bacterial suspension, then top it up with

fresh food medium. “It might. But then again, I thought that the last six times as well.” I laugh. “Well, you always need far fewer tries than anyone else I know to get a publishable result. You must be doing something right—” “Good morning!” I turn around. “Hi, Miya!” Frank stands up and meets Miyako halfway. “Ciao, bella! Had a good sleep?” he says, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her on the top of her head. “Perfect. Hey, why didn’t you wake me up?” “Ah, you looked so peaceful. I couldn’t.” Miyako rolls her eyes. “I’ll never be able to use you as an alarm clock.” Then she comes over to me and leans her hip on the metal laminar desk, looking through the glass at the flasks and tubes I’m working with. “What’s that?” “That’s the blocker experiment,” says Frank before I manage to answer. “Nice!” she says. “Yeah. Well, let’s hope it works this time,” I

say. “Knowing you? Sooner rather than later, I’d say.” She pushes away from the laminar desk. “Even if it’s not your darling Bacillus strain anymore.” “At least now that she’s working on Streptococcus,” Frank adds, “I can get some tips for my experiments! Who’d want to work on Bacillus, anyway?” Frank winks at me. I raise my eyebrows at him. “Me! If I want to study endospores—and I do—then Bacillus is the best strain for me. How can I study endospores if I work on Strep, you tell me!” He shrugs. “I don’t know. Perhaps you can get one that has a mutation for making endospores?” “Strep with endospores? Seriously?” I turn back to my experiment. “That’s science fiction right there.” I’m sure Frank has a response for me, but he doesn’t have a chance to voice it. Instead, Miyako jumps in. “Hey, shall we go and grab a coffee in the cafeteria?”

I turn to her. “Didn’t you just get here?” “Well, no . . . I had a few minutes to, you know, check my email. And checking emails always makes me sleepy, so yes, I need a coffee.” I sigh, but after a second, I say, “All right. Give me a few more minutes.” “Great,” she says, then scoops up Frank’s arm under his elbow and pulls him toward to the door. “Don’t I get a say?” Miyako stops and looks at him for a moment. Then, slowly, in a low voice, she says, “Do you want a coffee?” “Of course.” She looks at me and shakes her head. Frank says something melodic in Italian, then stretches his arm to her and wraps his fingers around hers, tangling their two hands together more than seems physically possible. I shake my head and smile, turning back to focus on my work. I put away the pipette and then use a black marker to label the bottles. Negative control.

I push the bottle away from me and pick up the other two, the ones I treated with the reagent. “Concentration one,” I whisper. “And concentration two.” Good! I take the bottles back to the incubator and start the rotation, then close the door. Do not fail me! I’m counting on you. I stand up and take off my lab coat, placing it folded on my lab bench, then walk out the door. The fourth-floor hallway is painted dark red, scientific posters from previous conferences hanging every few meters on both sides between the labs. The doors are all open as I walk by. I hear music from a local radio station coming from the lab on the left; several people are chatting in the lab on the right; laugher coming from the lab at the end of the hallway. It all echoes down the corridors and the institute now feels alive. I turn right to enter the office, a small tensquare-foot room with four desks, four office chairs, and a large window in the back showing only gray: the wall of a neighboring building. David is standing next to my desk, paging

through my lab book. “Oh, David, hi!” I say, a bit surprised to see him in my office. He turns and closes the book at the same time. “Jane, there you are! Listen, how are your experiments doing? Do you have anything on the blocker yet?” He puts the lab book on my desk. “No, not yet, but I’m running the experiment right now.” “Great! That’s great, Jane.” He’s nodding, stroking his gray mustache while he talks, looking down at the floor. Then he looks at me. “When do you think you’ll know the results?” “In a day, day and half. I’ll come in on Sunday morning to check.” “Call me when you get the results, will you?” I have to smile at his fervor. He’s more enthusiastic about this experiment than I am! “Yes, if it works, sure, I’ll call you.” “No, no, no! We don’t have time for it to not work. We are out of time. It needs to work. Come on!”

I laugh. “David, I am doing my best.” He sighs, then puts his hands on my shoulders and closes his eyes for a moment. Then he opens them and smiles. “I know you are. I’m sorry.” He loops around me but then turns back one more time. “Don’t forget to call me . . . if it works!” I look back at him as he disappears behind the door. Okay, I think that was overdoing it a bit. I know he’s a bit crazy over science—but so am I! I shake my head, half smiling, as I pick up some coins from my pencil holder and head to the cafeteria.

Chapter 2 Friday 9:12 p.m. I walk out of the elevator into the brightly lit entry hallway. My sneakers make a squeaking sound as I walk past the large bronze sculpture: two tubes, one smaller than the other, the bigger one hovering over the smaller one. It apparently represents “Unconditional Love,” or so it says on the sign, but I can’t see this at all by looking at the sculpture. I shrug. Maybe I’m just not the type to understand modern art. I come to the tinted glass door and I see Linda bent behind the reception desk, reading a magazine. Her hair is plaited into what must be hundreds of small braids, all of them tied together in a low ponytail. I push my ID badge against the scanner and the door clicks open. As soon I step into the entrance waiting area, Linda lifts her head and smiles at me, her white teeth pearling against her dark skin. “Evenin’ Jane! How’re you doin’?”

I stop to chat, leaning my elbows on the dark wood of the reception desk. “Doing well. And you?” “Truckin’ along.” She tries to smile but I can tell she’s tired. It must be difficult for her to work such late shifts. “Where is Jeffrey?” She waves her hand once. “Oh, he’s with his dad this weekend. I’ll pick him up on Sunday evening.” “Oh, okay! So it’s not too bad having the late shift.” “No, no. I chose this shift.” Then she continues in a lower tone, “It pays better, you know.” I nod firmly. “That’s good. I’m glad it’s working out. How long do you need to stay?” “Till midnight.” “Can you get home okay?” I look at my watch. “I could stay for a bit and give you a—” “No, no! Really, it’s not a problem, Jane. I need to take only one bus line and that takes me straight home.”

“Are you sure?” She smiles. “You’re so sweet, you know that? Yes, I’m sure. Don’ worry about me.” I sigh, then push away from the front desk. “All right. Have a good weekend, Linda!” “You too, Jane. Bye!” The large front glass door automatically slides to the side and my reflection in the glass window disappears into the dark as the cold air sweeps into the heated hallway. I walk down a few steps and turn right to the parking area, hugging myself to keep warm. My breaths make little clouds of warm air, which I disperse as I walk into them. I quickly walk toward my yellow Beetle, parked in darkness, just between the two focal points of light coming from the parking lights above. I take off my glove and dig into my bag for the keys. I’m already at the car, but my fingers are touching everything else but the keys. Why didn’t I do this when I was still inside? I huff, a warm cloud of air bubbling up around my

head. I always do the same thing. Finally, I find them and pull them out, peeling my sleeve off the Velcro of my handbag at the same time. The car is covered in a fine layer of frost, and I hope the 1986 VW lock is not frozen too, or I might be spending the night at the campus. It unlocks, and I breathe out the air I wasn’t aware I’d been holding in. I scramble inside and quickly close the door to keep out the cold, bit it’s futile, because inside is as freezing as the outside. I push the keys into the lock, missing a few times in the dark. After a third try, I manage, and the car springs to life. Poor old thing! It had been my grandmother’s. Then it was handed down to my mom, and then to me. I’m amazed it still works, but perhaps that’s just the old-school production, when they made stuff to last. In a few minutes, the windshield thaws and I can finally head off. After several right and left turns inside the campus, I come to the gate. The barrier opens while I’m still driving and I wave to the security person in

the bright cubicle, then drive away. I find my way, half on autopilot, while I reassess my last experiment. I’ve taken care of all the issues from the last time. It should work now. It really should. But the issue with research is and has always been the unknown. If one knows all the premises, one can design an experiment accordingly. Provided all the premises are true, the experiment gives positive results. Negative results happen more frequently—much more frequently— and they exist because there is an unknown in the equation. And then I start to doubt. Perhaps the reagent blocker is still not good enough. Perhaps there’s something in the bacterial cell sensor that I overlooked. I turn right onto the Harvard Bridge, passing several joggers, a string of condensed air behind them like a steam trail behind an old train. Maybe I should have tried— Jane, no! Don’t go down that hole again.

Let’s see if it worked first. If not, we’ll devise a new strategy, because if it didn’t work, that means a new strategy is possible. It means there has to be another way. Only—it also means my scientific paper will not appear as soon as I’d want it to. And as soon as David wants it to, it seems. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him pressing me on my results like this! I turn onto Buswell Street and slow down, looking around, hoping to get a free parking spot. There’s nothing, however, but I find a parking place in the street parallel to mine. I squeeze my car between two larger ones and step out, the freezing cold stopping all my thoughts for a few seconds. I lock the car and walk quickly, trying to warm myself up. The street I live on has several four-story buildings on both sides. Mine is the one in the middle on the left, red-brick walls with smooth, off-white stairs leading to the entrance door. I climb up, holding on to the railings, and walk in. As soon as the door closes behind me, the

air is warmer. I take off my cap and gloves, then check the mailbox, pushing my fingers through the letter flap just to see if anything came in. It’s empty. I enter the elevator and press for the third floor. The wiry, metallic sounds echoes above me in the elevator shaft. I head to the last door on the right, but the door just before mine is open, the light shining in the dark hallway. Strange. This place has been empty for months. I stop quickly and glance in. “Good evening, Mr. Kublabicz!” I say loudly, knowing his hearing is not at its best. He turns and smiles with one side of his mouth, the other limp and unmoving. “Dr. McGregor!” he says and walks slowly toward me. A few years ago, he had a stroke. It completely took the right side of his body, and for several months he wasn’t able to work at all. But now, besides some sluggishness in the movement of his right leg and paralyzed right side of his face, he’s able to continue as the janitor.

“Mr. Kublabicz, it’s Jane.” “Yes. And it is Igor.” He looks like a teacher I had in primary school and I can hardly bring myself to call him by his first name. “All right. Igor,” I say with a smile. “What’s happening with the apartment?” He stops next to me but turns his head toward the apartment again. “Someone’s finally moving in.” “That’s nice. Not much space, though, is there?” I stretch my neck to see further into the apartment. “No. That’s why it was empty for such a long time.” “Do you know who’s moving in?” He mumbles something, then bends slightly and looks down. He shoves his left hand into his worn-out jersey pocket and takes out a folded piece of paper; then he straightens, shakily unfolding the note. He furrows his eyebrows and stretches his hand away from him as he tries to read it. “Sorry, Jane, I don’t have my glasses with me.” He hands the paper to me. “Can you read it?”

“Sure.” I look at the paper. “S. Swift,” I say out loud. He shrugs. “I’m sure it’s a very nice person,” he says, folding the paper and putting it back in his pocket, “because everyone in this building is. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be able to get in.” I laugh. “So it’s like a portal? It lets in only the good people?” “Of course.” A hint of a smile appears at the corner of his mouth. “All the bad ones get stuck between dimensions. Haven’t you noticed that already?” “No, no. I missed that somehow.” I try not to laugh to keep the conversation going. “That’s no wonder. You see, I round them up and clean them out regularly, so you might not have even seen them.” Now I really have to laugh. “Okay. Next time, before you get rid of them, let me know. I’m curious to see what they look like when they’re trapped.” He laughs as well. “Good. Good. I will.”

“Good night, Mr. Kubla—Igor. Don’t stay up too late.” “No, no.” He shakes his head and starts slowly walking back to the apartment. “Just a few more things to fix before the new tenant moves in. Good night, Jane.” “Good night, Igor.” I walk into my apartment, the door squeaking as I open it. Same old welcome-home greeting. Once inside, I close it and push the key into the lock. It jams while turning, as always, so I lean hard on the door and the key releases, the metal bolt sliding into place in the frame. I turn on the lights and take off my shoes as I walk through the hallway, leaving an untidy mess behind me. I pick up a bottle of beer from the fridge, take a small sip, and walk to the living room. The stereo remote control is hiding somewhere in my bookshelf system, and I bend a little to see between shelves and the tops of books. It seems to have found a new living place on top of Gabaldon’s Outlander. I smile to myself

as I reach for it. Well done, you. This is where I’d be sitting, too, if I was a remote control. I push play button and Bon Jovi’s Greatest Hits album starts in the background. Dropping onto the couch, I put my feet on the coffee table and close my eyes. What if the affinity of the blocker is not strong enough? The next moment, I open my eyes, looking at the yellow ceiling above. What if the blocker releases from the cell sensor before it starts affecting its life cycle? I sit up and put my feet on the floor, thinking. No, no, that can’t be. In vitro, the kinetic curve looks fine. The blocker protein binds to its sensor and stays in place. No. It should be fine. I lie back again. Unless, there’s something in the living cells that changes the affinity of the blocker to the— Oh, shut up, Jane! You’ll find out soon enough. Stop dwelling on it.

The main window is slightly open and the breeze is moving the white transparent curtain into the room, giving me chills every time the cold air sweeps over the couch. I put the bottle on the coffee table and walk to the window to push it shut. The picture frame on the ledge by the window falls to the floor, but, softened by the carpet, it doesn’t break. I look at the back of the frame near my feet for a long while, not wanting to pick it up. After few minutes, I do. Then I look at the picture. Sarah is there with Mark and Danny and me, all of us laughing. It was taken in front of the amusement park in Las Vegas, almost four years ago. Sarah, wearing the bright blue summer dress Mom and I got her for her previous birthday, had just started dying her hair back into her natural honey-blonde color again. Mark has wavy chocolate-brown hair reaching to his shoulder, his teeth white under a thick several-months-old beard, and he is hugging Sarah with one arm and me with the other.

I’m wearing loose jeans and a brown stringtop, my hair red and curly, making a wide aura around my head, too wild to stay lying down. My cheeks are red, my eyes half closed in a fit of laugher. And Danny: perfect symmetrical smile, light-brown hair combed to the back, and smooth, clean-shaven face. I remember saying to Danny, half-jokingly, that we should have a crash wedding right then and there. And he—jokingly—refused it. I remember him telling me something later that same evening. He said that I shouldn’t wear string-tops anymore, or at least not until I get into shape, because my upper arms didn’t look very— what was it—appealing. I laughed then, pretending it was a joke. I place the frame on the ledge, facedown, and bow my head low. He wasn’t joking, I know that now. I knew it then, too, but I didn’t want to face it. I rest my fingers on the back of the frame, shaking my head. I don’t even know why I keep

this photo anyway. To remind me, I guess. To keep away. I look up at the window, seeing my faint reflection through the white curtain. Then I close my eyes and keep them closed. My world is science. And that’s how it’s going to stay. I close the window, not looking at my reflection, then turn away and walk to my bedroom.

Chapter 3 Saturday 8:08 a.m. A bang. And a slide. And again. I sit up in my bed, my eyes still sandy. I try to rub them clean. Another loud bang. What was that? I hear angry voices. I squint, as I look around, unable and definitely unwilling to open my eyes completely. And another noisy thump. Once I realize what this is, I relax my shoulders, close my eyes, and flop back onto my bed. The new neighbor’s moving in. I try to relax, hoping for another hour of sleep, but the next moment there is another loud sound. I hear a voice outside. “It says ‘Fragile’! Can’t you read?” “The stickers are upside down! Besides,

they can’t all be fragile,” another man answers. “Just do the goddamn job right!” the first person retaliates. I turn my head and glance at the clock with one eye. Then I turn back and sigh again. This is too early for a Saturday. My phone beeps once. I blindly tap on the bedside table, then grab my cell phone and check the first few words of my sister’s chat thread. I scribble something back, then put the phone away. I won’t get any more sleep with this noise around. I sit up, push my feet into my large bunny slippers, and walk to the bathroom to wake myself up. As I walk past the door on my way back to the kitchen, I hear another loud noise from the hallway, a squeaky sound of something being slid over the surface. I shake my head. Poor new neighbor. She’ll find half of her china broken if they continue like this. I take a red bowl from my kitchen cupboard and fill it with Cheerios, then put it next to the

fridge while I get some milk. At the same time, the phone rings. I grab the carton, close the fridge door, and pick up the phone. “Good morning, Sarah,” I say, jamming the handset between my head and shoulder. “Good morning, sweetie. How are you?” “I’m doing fine, sis. And you?” I shake the milk carton to see how much is left, then pour it all in the bowl. “Just perfect. Hey, it’s snowing,” Sarah says in a girlish voice. “Really?” I pick up the bowl and walk over to the living room, moving the curtain to look outside. “Really,” I say again, more to myself, and smile. “Yeah, but be careful if you’re going outside. It’s been raining during the night. Might be frozen.” “Okay, thanks.” I loop around the coffee table and sit on Aunt Sue’s armchair, careful not to spill any milk from the bowl. “So how come you’re up so early?”

“Ah! Collateral damage.” I put the handset on the coffee table and turn on the speakerphone. “Of what?” “Of a new neighbor moving in.” “You have a new neighbor? Is it that small apartment next to you? That’s been empty for a while, right? Who is it?” “Who is who?” I take a spoonful of Cheerios, slurping the milk a bit. “Who’s moving in next to you?” “Oh,” I say through a full mouth. “S. Swift.” “What?” I swallow. “Someone called S. Swift.” “Oh, that definitely sounds like a guy.” I roll my eyes. Here we go again . . . “An interesting guy.” “Sarah!” “Don’t you Sarah me! You have been ignoring men for years. It needs to stop!” I sigh. She always gets like this before Christmas. “Sarah, I haven’t been ignoring men. It just so happens that no one’s showed up yet.”

“No one’s showed up? Do you think someone will come knocking on your door?” I open my mouth to answer but don’t manage in time—she continues feverishly with her quest. “You’re always shut away in that institute of yours. You’re even there on the weekends. I mean, where are you ever going to meet a guy?” “I met a guy, Sarah. And it failed. Miserably. And the only thing I’m really good at is being shut away in that institute of mine.” She sighs. “I know you love your science. And listen, that’s great! You’re doing something that is fun—for you—and you’re also getting paid. Great! Really. But a job is one thing. Family is something else.” “I know. That’s why I have you guys!” I’m sort of hoping that will make her stop. It doesn’t. “That’s not the same and you know it.” It’s my turn to sigh now. “Sarah, what do you want from me?” “Keep an open door. Don’t lock yourself in that lab all the time.”

“At least there I’m worth something . . .” I say quietly. “Jane, that’s not true! You’re worth everything. If some asshole didn’t see it—his own fault! But you need to move on. It’s been years.” I put my bowl on the coffee table and lean my elbows on my knees, pressing my forehead into the heels of my palms. She is so stubborn. She just doesn’t want to see it. “Jane—” “Sarah,” I say slowly. “I am moving on. In my science. And science is exactly where I should be. I am good at that. That is what I do best.” “I know, sweetie, and you can continue doing science, but seriously, all your projects are— what—at best one sentence in a science study book? Isn’t it so? I mean, when are they ever going to be used for real?” Now I’m starting to get angry. It’s one thing to talk about my nonexistent love life, but it’s another thing altogether when she pokes at my research.

“Sarah, I don’t really want to talk about it. You refuse to see my point. Every little point of data, every piece of information is one step closer to the truth.” “What truth?” “The truth about us! Biology, humanity, everything!” There is a short pause when neither of us are talking. “I’m sorry, Jane. I understand. I do. Really. But . . .” “But what?” I say sharply. “But I think you would be happier if you had someone to share your life with.” I sigh inwardly. Only one way out of this conversation. “All right. Fine. I will keep the door open.” “There’s a good girl!” she says with new enthusiasm, as if we’d just fixed a blind date for me. “Keep me in the loop and, you know, let me know if I can help in any way. Perhaps—” “I will. I will keep you in the loop, I promise, as soon as”—I want to say a prince on a

white horse appears, but I refrain—“as soon as something interesting happens. And now, I need to get going. I need to get Christmas presents for my favorite nephews.” “They are your only nephews, and don’t bend over backward. They’ll be happy just to see you for Christmas.” “Um, I’m sure they wouldn’t quite see it like that. And anyway, I already have something in mind, something I think they’ll like.” “That’s sweet. Thanks, sis!” Even though I can’t see her, I know that she’s smiling. “Sure. I’ll see you next weekend.” “See you! Bye!” “Bye,” I say and hang up the phone, leaving the handset standing on the coffee table. I look at the remains of the mushed Cheerios, then sigh again and walk to the kitchen to wash it up.

Chapter 4 Saturday 9:33 a.m. Okay: keys, wallet, MP3 player, cell phone . . . I close the door, hearing the familiar squeak and walk toward the elevator. Two men in white uniforms are bringing boxes to the neighboring apartment. I peek in as I pass, trying to see if the new tenant is there. Ah, how stupid! I shake my head. Sarah’s got me all worked up. I don’t care. And I don’t have time for this. I stop in front of the elevator, waiting. There’s no sound. They must be using it for transporting the boxes. I turn on my heel and then head downstairs, hopping in rhythm on the dark wooden planks. Three floors down, the entrance hall is cold, the door wide open. I put my cap on, pull it down all the way to my eyebrows, and walk outside.

I look up. A million snowflakes are falling down in a mesmerizing pattern, leaving tiny cold snow prints on my face. What a day to buy Christmas presents! I walk down the stairs, pulling my gloves on, absentmindedly gazing up the snowy sky. One moment, my shoes touch the ground, but the next, the floor disappears beneath my feet and I slip on a fine layer of ice covering the stairs. I lock my breath and tense all my muscles, instinctively bracing myself for the fall. But a sudden strong hold around my body squeezes the rest of the air out of my lungs and . . . stops me from falling. A few seconds pass before I can engage my brain again. What—? I look up and see—blue. Beautiful blue. Stormy ocean blue with a ray of light blue crystals, surrounded by dark eyelashes. The strong hold around me is, in fact, a pair of arms, and they are wrapping me tightly against a man—

“Are you okay?” —a man with a deep voice. He pulls me up and basically stands me on my feet again, still holding my arms to keep me steady. I take a breath. I want to answer, but I can’t. I’m just speechless. It must be the shock. Or maybe it’s the blue eyes—I don’t know which. He smiles and lowers his head a bit, still looking into my eyes, as if trying to read my thoughts. I take a breath, finally, and answer, “Sorry, I just . . .” Who. Is. He? “. . . slipped.” He slowly lets go of me. “The ice built up overnight. You need to be careful.” “Yes, my sister was just telling me I should . . . pay attention.” “She seems like a smart lady.” He smiles wider, one side of his lips pulling higher than the other. It looks a bit crooked, but it’s so . . . I blink a few times, then look up into his eyes. “Yes, perhaps I should . . . listen to what she says.”

I close my eyes for a moment, trying to refocus again. “So,” I say, my eyes still closed, trying not to lose my concentration. “Are you . . . moving in?” I open my eyes, hating my sluggish brain. “Yes. I’m in the small unit. On the third floor.” My brain pauses again. How did my sister know there was a gorgeous man moving in next to me? Perhaps I really should pay more attention to what she says. “I am . . .” I swallow. “I’m actually your neighbor. Last door on the right.” I need to take a deep breath, as if I used all the air from my lungs with this one sentence. He stretches his hand toward me and says, “I’m Sam. It’s nice to meet a neighbor on the first day.” With some delay, I reach out and shake his hand, mine tiny in comparison. “I’m Jane. It’s nice someone is finally moving in.” He smiles a broad smile and my mind goes into standby mode again. Then he bends down and

causally picks up a heavy-looking white box. “I’ll see you around. Be careful out there.” The only thing I can do is nod. He circles around me and starts climbing the stairs. “Oh!” I turn around. “I hope you don’t have any porcelain in the boxes upstairs.” He chuckles. “No. Why?” “The transport people didn’t quite understand the ELIGARF stamped on the boxes.” He tilts his head, frowning. “I don’t . . .” “Upside down . . . ?” Then his frown disappears, his lips spreading again into a crooked smile. “Thanks for the warning! I’ll make sure to check that nothing’s broken.” I smile and continue to the bus stop, careful how I step. Twenty feet away, I can’t help but look back. Sam’s heading up the stairs carrying the box, but his eyes are on me, a faint smile on his lips. And then, a moment when time stops, the world disappears, I look at him, and he looks at me, and it lasts for eternity. My heart rate picks up and I quickly turn

away, looking at the ground before he sees me blushing. I walk, my gaze on the floor, unfocused, while in my mind I’m still standing transfixed at the staircase of my building. Sam. And then I need to laugh to myself. I don’t remember ever being as distracted by someone as I am right now. Ah, well. A new experience, I guess. I’m slowly getting ahold of my sensible, clever brain again. There are several people waiting at the stop, all wrapped in warm coats and jackets. Two older women are talking to each other. They are complaining about a bus being late. The others are connected to their smartphones via umbilical cords, dead to the world. I turn in the direction of the traffic and see a white and yellow bus approaching. Inside, I sit down in the last row and look through the hazy window, my mind now where it should be—on my experiments.

If I have some time after shopping, I might quickly go to the lab, check if the cells have grown. I calculate in my mind the cycles of replication for these cells. They will be in the middle of the exponential cycle by then, but they won’t have reached the plateau phase. No, that doesn’t make sense. If I don’t see any growth, I might think the experiment had worked, but it might really only be in the early growth phase. No, I’ll wait for tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll know. No point in going sooner. I look outside again, happy with my decision. Buildings, cars driving in the opposite direction, large poster advertisements. My mind is unfocused until I see one of those large poster ads where a company fails to communicate its own brand but an image stands out nonetheless—and is unexpectedly striking. It’s a black and white image of a desert night, moonlight shimmering over the dunes, and a moon, large and beautiful, just over the horizon. And it captures me, completely,

because the moon is the only thing that has color. And it’s blue. Dark blue. Just like Sam’s eyes.

Chapter 5 Saturday 11:03 a.m. I’m strolling along the busy mall trying to find my way through the aisles crowded with people as they glance at various glass window showcases. I’ve already crossed Paul’s and Peter’s gifts off my list. I’ve got one for my mom and dad, too. Now, I only need to get something small for Sarah as well. And also something for Mark. I squeeze past the bright, shiny watches and jewelry cases on the right and left, heading for the media section one floor up. In my mind, though, I keep coming back to the poster I saw. The blue moon. Dark and intimidatingly beautiful. And my thoughts unmistakably swirl into a perfect—and alarmingly detailed—image of Sam’s face. His eyes, broken pieces of dark blue crystals spreading in a circle around a deep well so infinite and beautiful I could dive in and stay

without oxygen for days. They seemed distantly unfocused, but at the same time centered on me, caught in his arms. There was a half smile playing on his lips and it radiated all the way to his eyes, intensifying the blue even more. “Can I help you?” I look up to see a middle-aged woman, ironed wrinkles and perfect makeup, smiling at me. I’m standing in front of the jewelry window without even realizing it. Oh, boy—I am losing it. I smile back at her. “I’m sorry, I was just sidetracked.” I’m about to leave, but she says, “Well, why don’t you just have a look?” I never was much of a fan of jewelry, but it occurs to me that I might find something for my sister. I look down at the exhibited pieces, the shine of gold and silver, pearls and diamonds, capturing the eye. My eyes move in a random search until suddenly I stop. I move closer to the countertop, leaning my palm on the spotless glass. Picking up on this immediately, the saleslady unlocks the flat drawer, pulls out the tray,

takes the necklace I was looking at and lays it on the glass surface in front of me. “It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” she says. I can only nod. She takes it and puts it in my hand. “The color is just right for your skin complexion,” she continues. “Twenty-two karat gold with twenty-five percent copper. Also known as crown gold. And all of it accented with this beautiful blue stone.” The necklace has a very soft golden hue with just a trace of red. The chain rings are small and flat; it smoothly falls and bends over my fingers. A blue stone is caged in the middle of my palm. I point with a finger. “What is the—” “Tanzanite. Thirteen-comma-seven carat. Deep saturated blue.” Deep saturated blue . . . Like— “It is very precious. The stone alone is worth more than eight thousand dollars.” I look up at her, my eyes wide. Eight thousand dollars?

“Wow . . .” I quickly set the necklace on the glass in front of her. “Do you want to try it on?” she asks. “Oh, no!” I raise my hands in front of me. “I couldn’t afford it.” She looks behind me and says, “Maybe, but perhaps your—” Then she frowns. “I thought . . .” I look at her for a moment before slowly turning my head. The shopping center is full of people, mingling, crossing each other’s paths, or wandering around aimlessly, hoping to get inspired for a perfect gift. I turn back to her. “Is everything all right?” She takes a breath, still looking behind me. Then she looks at me and smiles exaggeratedly. “Never mind, dear. I just thought you were with somebody else, that’s all.” She puts her hands down on the glass countertop and tilts her head. “You still don’t want to try it on?” “No, thank you. And anyway, I’m not much into jewelry.” “Even so, there’s always one piece that is

made just for you.” I look back down at the necklace. Yeah, well, not in this life. I smile again and say, “I still need to get some Christmas presents. Goodbye! And thank you for showing it to me.” “You’re welcome! Merry Christmas, God bless you!” she says as I turn to leave. “Merry Christmas!” *** I have four large bags, two in each hand, and they cut into my palms. I should have put on my gloves before I walked out of the bus. I turn onto my street. The ice hasn’t been cleared properly, and in this dimming light it’s hard to see where it is, so I take small steps, careful not to fall down. I reach the staircase of my building and look around. The truck is gone. Must be that the moving’s done. I walk up the entrance stairs and stop in

front of the old wooden door, trying to pull out the keys while still holding the shopping bags. I’m fumbling inside my handbag until I reach the inevitable conclusion that it’s impossible. I put the shopping bags on the floor and open my handbag to look for the keys again. “Can I give you a hand?” I hear a deep voice behind me. Sam. I turn around. “Yes . . .” I mumble. “Thank you.” He bends down and picks up my bags, but he keeps looking at me as he does it. For some reason, I find this extremely distracting. He straightens, bags in each hand, ready to go. But I’m not moving. I keep looking at him. He’s wearing the same black woolen cap as in the morning, and it frames his face beautifully. The strong jaw and high cheekbones make his face seem a bit rough, but it fits his physique and his height perfectly, as if it couldn’t be any other way. Sam looks down the street, then back at me, a half smile on his lips. “Are we waiting for

somebody?” I drop back to reality, realizing I’ve been staring. “No! Sorry. Yes. Let’s get inside.” I dig into my bag, happy I’m hiding my shaky fingers. Why am I behaving like this? I pull out my key ring, search for the entrance key, and open the door. We walk in and the door closes loudly. It’s already warmer. I take off my cap and walk to the elevator, then press the elevator button. The metallic sound tells me it’s coming. Ask him something. Ask him something! “Ah . . . so, where are you from?” I glance at him, but quickly look back to the elevator door. “I just came from the West Coast. I’ve got a new project here.” “Ah . . .” I loathe my one-syllable responses. He smiles and says, “If they’d told me it’s gonna be so cold here, I might have rejected it.” “This is nothing. You haven’t seen the real winter yet.” “Hmm. Maybe I shouldn’t unpack my

boxes then.” “No! I mean . . . the real cold only lasts for a few days . . . really . . .” Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! I graduated with top marks from my doctorate program and this is what I’m saying? Stupid! However, he doesn’t seem to notice, and continues, “Well, the cold is not a good enough reason to leave.” The elevator is here and I push the old iron gate open. He walks in behind me, his height shielding the light from the ceiling lamp. He closes the door and the elevator starts with a hiccup, slowly rising upward. “So, what do you do?” I ask, a tiny bit more confident now. “I shoot people.” I blink. “What?” He smiles. “I’m a photographer. I shoot people, buildings, cars, nature—whatever the client needs.” “Ah . . . that.” I smile, relaxing my shoulders a bit. “So… um… how long do your

projects usually last?” He shrugs. “Depends on the project. Sometimes a few months. Often, however, it’s just a few weeks.” A few weeks? I feel a sharp needle getting too close to my bubble. “But,” he continues, “it’s hockey season, and the Bruins are my favorite team. It’s a perfect time for me to come to Boston.” “Yes, of course, the Bruins. They’re my favorite team, too,” I say, hoping he won’t go into any details, since I’ve never actually seen them play. Ice hockey is totally not my sport. Too many bruises, too much violence. We reach the third floor all too soon. He opens the iron gate and we walk to my apartment. I keep looking sideways at him, embarrassed to face him directly, afraid he might see right through me, tell what I’m feeling right now. We reach my door and he sets my bags on the floor. “You’re all right from here?” he asks, straightening up, removing his black woolen cap.

“Yes, I’ll be—” Then I stop. His short black hair is heavily threaded with silver. “How old are you?” Oh, no! That shouldn’t have come out. “Excuse me?” The half-smile on his face borders on astonishment. I close my eyes. “I’m sorry, that was—” Rude! “Unusual,” he says, lifting an eyebrow. Please edit your thoughts before they reach your mouth, Jane! I open my eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t usually ask these kinds of questions . . .” His smile changes slightly. It means something else, says something else, but I can’t quite grasp it. “So why is now any different?” he asks. My mind goes blank. I—I don’t know. I open my mouth to say something but nothing comes out. The hardcore edit I’ve somehow achieved has caused a traffic jam on the brain-to-mouth highway, and I’m lost for words. His smile broadens, blue eyes shadowed by lowered eyelids. “Well, I’m not as old as I look.” “No, no, I—I don’t think you look old at all.

I mean, you look—” I take a breath, looking at his lips. They are slightly large for his face, soft colored, a coral haze to them, with a soft border between lips and the rest of the skin. I swallow again and blink once, then look into his eyes again. You look—beautiful. He raises his eyebrows, expecting a continuation. “I wanted to say, you look around my age,” I say instead. “Now, if I knew how old you are, I could tell you how close you are with your estimate.” At first, I want to tell him, but then I say, “How old do you think I am?” His lips spread into a smile. “Ah, a game! Okay—well, I’d say . . .” He looks at me but takes his time. He looks at my red hair pulled into a ponytail. He looks at the few freckles on my nose that still remain over winter. Then he looks at my lips, and his gaze lingers there. And my body instinctively reacts. My heart speeds up, my palms start to sweat, and there is an unmistakable feeling deep down inside me. The

craving. The need. The desire. I know this feeling well. And I haven’t felt it for years. Then he looks at my eyes again and says, “I’d say you’re twenty . . . seven, give or take.” Wow. I nod slowly. “That’s, um . . . pretty accurate. How did you know?” “Tricks of the trade, I guess.” He looks down at my bags on the floor, then back at me. “So, are you all right from here?” No. Why don’t you come inside? We could have a nice, long . . . talk. Together. “Yes, I’m fine. Thanks for your help!” I say, a bit out of breath. “You’re welcome. Have a nice evening, Jane!” he says and quickly leaves. I watch him unlock his door and disappear. For a few more moments, I don’t move. Leaning on the frame of my door, I look at Sam’s closed door. I’m quite sure my mouth is still open, and my eyes feel dry too. Then I take a quick breath and shake my head as I turn to my door. Right. Playtime’s over. Back to reality.

I walk into my apartment, and close the door; its squeak somehow helps me separate the “silly me” from the “clever me.” “Silly me” gets me in trouble. And I don’t need that. I lift my head, feeling the “clever me” coming back again. See, that didn’t take too long, did it? I smile to myself and walk into the kitchen.

Chapter 6 Sunday 8:33 a.m. The bright light of the early morning sun shines in through my windows and slowly wakes me, leaving the dream world behind. I open my eyes but then close them quickly. Too bright. I blink a few times again and take a deep breath. For a moment, I’m disoriented. What day is it? Is there something I should be doing? Ah, Sunday . . . Sunday! Time to check the experiment! I get out of my bed, walk to the window, and open the curtains, letting even more light in. My window is just behind a tree. In summer, I have a pleasant shade behind the green blanket of leaves, but in winter, the sunshine finds its way through the brown wooden skeleton and lights up my apartment with brightness. I open the window and freezing air rolls into

the room, covering the floor with a frosty layer. I shiver. I quickly close the window. Yes, I’m awake. After my usual bathroom routine, I decide to grab a croissant and latte macchiato at Jimmy’s Coffee Shop rather than eating at home. I dress warmly and leave my apartment. I pointedly look at the floor as I pass Sam’s door, deliberately ignoring it. You don’t need it, girl! You don’t need any of it. Only once I’m at the elevator do I raise my head and breathe out. It takes me less than fifteen minutes to reach the institute, including the detour to get my breakfast. I park the car not too far from the side entrance of the campus, pick up the small paper bag and plastic cup, then walk the dozen feet to the high metal fence. In the middle is a rotating gate and, right next to it, an identification scanner. My ID card is hooked on the belt loop of my jeans, so I push my hips up and to the side to

reach the scanner. It’s a very awkward move; I’m trying to balance a large latte macchiato in my right hand and a paper bag with a chocolate croissant in the other. The automatic door finally clicks and releases, so I push it with my butt, walking backward until the door rotates half a circle and I’m inside. If anyone’s watching me right now, they must be having a blast. But the campus is empty and I walk between the buildings to get to the back door of my institute. Once I am inside, I stop for a moment and melt into the warmth. I take a sip of my coffee and then call the elevator. I know what I’m trying to do. I’m trying to pretend that I’m calm, that I’m not hugely excited to see if the experiment worked, that I’m just simply passing by, checking something unimportant. I look up, following the small bulbs on the top of the elevator door designating the floors, and it seems to me the elevator is slower than usual. Once the door opens, I rush inside and press

the button for the fourth floor. The door closes. Slowly. Again. I press the button again. Okay, I’m not calm at all. I’m super extra excited! And right in the middle of these thoughts, another one comes, unexpected and completely unavoidable. Sam. Despite myself, I can’t escape remembering all that happened yesterday. How he caught me, how the hold was so strong I was left breathless. And how I felt safe, trapped tightly in his arms. A tingly feeling appears in my stomach and bubbles up to my heart, speeding my pulse up a notch or two. There’s something about him . . . What is it? The bell rings and the elevator opens, bringing me back to now. Right. Experiment. That’s my top priority. I first head to the office. I leave the paper bag on my desk and take another sip of macchiato,

then I turn around and walk to the laboratory. Every step is faster than the one before, and by the time I reach the lab, I’m practically running. I stop at the entrance and take a deep breath, propping myself against the doorframe. There are three sets of lab desks and mine is the middle. From here I can even see the small incubator under my desk. But you can’t see through it, so move it, and check your experiment! Without looking at it, I grab my lab coat hanging on the lab door and put it on, pulling my hair free with my hand as I walk to my desk. I take a pair of latex gloves from my pocket, still staring at the incubator door. Nope, you still can’t see through it! Once my gloves are on, I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a second. Then I swallow, kneel, and grab the handle. But I stop. I keep holding it, feeling the anxiety settling in. What should I change if it didn’t work? I close my eyes and take a deep breath. You’ll think of something. Now—open up!

I open the door and peek in. The area inside is dark, and I can’t see if there are any bacteria growing in the Erlenmeyer flasks or not. So I stop the rotation and grab the neck of the flask closest to me and slowly pull it out. As soon as I see it, my shoulders sag. Oh, no . . . It feels like gravity has suddenly changed, and my whole body feels heavier than before. The food medium is murky and unclear. There’s got to be millions of bacteria growing in there, which means that my blocker didn’t work. And I had such high hopes . . . I look at the flask again. Wait! I turn it around to see the label. This is the negative control! This should have bacteria growing! I put the flask on the top of my desk, then lean in and pull the neighboring flask out of the incubator. My breath locks up and my heart seems to stop. The food liquid I am looking at is crystal-

clear. It . . . worked? “It worked!” I squeak, jumping up and down. “It worked, guys,” I say again, looking around the lab. But I’m the only one here. I look back at the clear liquid in the bottle and smile again, resting a hand on my chest, feeling my drumming heart. “I can’t believe it . . . wow . . . it worked . . . it worked!” I kneel again and check the flask with the other concentration. The same result: the reagent worked here too. In both concentrations, the presence of the reagent—the blocker protein—inhibited the bacteria from growing. This is absolutely fantastic! Oh, David is going to flip out. I know it! I take the negative control and the two flasks with reagent to the laminar hood to check for optical density. I need to make sure that nothing grew, that not even one cell division took place. I set the correct OD value and the

spectrophotometer confirms my result. It really, seriously, actually worked! I flop onto an empty lab chair, smiling from ear to ear. It worked. We’ll sell this high. This is going to the top journals. I’m sure of it. I take another deep breath and look once again at my experiment. That’s what I needed. That is my ticket to the a head position.

Chapter 7 Sunday 7:37 p.m. I pick up a stack of letters from my mailbox and page through them, checking for anything important. All of them are invoices, except one. A Christmas card. I turn it around to read it. “Let all your dreams come true. Till soon! XX, Danny” Danny? Till soon? In which dimension does he actually plan to meet me, I wonder. I shrug and put the card at the back of the pile of envelopes I hold in my hand, when I hear steps coming down the stairs: two feet and one wooden cane, its rubbery sole peeled off. I know this sound. Mrs. Gibson. She appears at the bottom of the staircase,

hair died black, pink lipstick—I’ve never seen her without—and warm brown eyes. “Mrs. Gibson, why are you on your feet already? Shouldn’t you rest for another week?” “Bah!” she says, waving her stick in the air. “If I listen to everything the doctors say, I’d be dead.” I laugh at that. She totters over to me and then wraps her arm around my elbow. Then she tries to reach her mailbox with a key, but she’s an inch too small to manage. Seems like I’m not the only oddball checking her mail on Sunday evening. “Do you want me to grab your mail, Mrs. Gibson?” “Oh, would you? I can’t reach it anymore! I think they cut away a few vertebrae when they did the surgery.” I have to laugh again. “Well, at least you can walk now,” I say as I open the mailbox and pick up her mail. “Isn’t that right?” “That’s very true, Jane. Very true, indeed. You know, Josef normally collects our mail, but

he’s visiting his brother in Arlington.” I close the mailbox door and lock it, then give the key and the letters to Mrs. Gibson. “And he left you to fend on your own? After the surgery?” I’m only halfway joking. She waves her hand. “Oh, Jane, his brother is far worse, I’m afraid. Josef is really there to say goodbye…” “I’m so sorry to hear that!” “Yes, that’s life . . .” She looks down and we are silent for a moment. Then she lifts up her head, a new energy in her voice. “Jane, have you met our new neighbor yet?” That’s one way to change a subject. “I have.” “Quite a handsome fellow, isn’t he?” I nod and smile when I see him in my mind. “A bit intimidating, though.” I look at her. “Why do you say that? He seems very decent.” She nods. “Yes, yes . . . very decent. Very polite. But there is something else. Something he’s

hiding . . .” “Mrs. Gibson, aren’t we all hiding something?” She looks back at me and puts her palm against my cheek for a few moments, then smiles. “Well said!” she says and then pulls me along with her to walk back to the elevator. “However, his secret is deeper. I can sense it.” She stops again and looks at me. “Keep away, Jane. I realize he is . . . what do you young people call it? Ah, yes: hot. But underneath is something else. Don’t go digging, darling, or you’ll be pulled in.” She’s got that same tone of voice she had the time she told me that her tarot cards had foretold that my hair color would soon go white. I take her hand and cover it with mine. “Don’t you worry about me, Mrs. Gibson. I can take care of myself.” “I’m sure you can.” She nods as she speaks. “I’m sure you can.” We enter the elevator. I close the gate and press number one.

“Oh, Jane, if you need to use the laundry room, you can use my time slot. I don’t have anything to wash today.” “Oh, okay! I might do some washing then. Thanks!” The elevator stops on the first floor and I help her out. “I’m fine from here, Jane. Thank you. You have a nice evening, will you?” “I will, Mrs. Gibson. You too. Get some rest.” She lifts the hand holding her letters as a wave, then disappears into her apartment. I slide the gate closed and the elevator continues. On the third floor, I head toward my apartment, deliberately not looking at Sam’s door as I pass. But he’s with me in my mind. I can see all the details of his face. And that scares me. I met him only yesterday, but I can’t seem to stop thinking about him, remembering every line of his face. That’s not me. I’m not like this. I sigh heavily. I need to get a grip.

I open my door but then look back to his, thinking. Then I push the door closed with my back, old hinges squeaking in protest. I head to the bathroom and realize my laundry basket is full. I’m so glad I have a chance to do the washing already now instead of Thursdays, as usual. I take off my work clothes and push them into the basket, then change into my comfy, baggy clothes, pull my hair up in a messy bun and put on my bunny slippers. Then I pick up the laundry basket and head downstairs. The basement hallway is dark. I rest the basket on my hip, tipping my body sideways to free my hand so I can turn on the light switch. Some places have an automatic light, but not this old building. The laundry room, like the basement hallway, is just bare concrete. I look around the room. If I had some free time on my hands, I’d do some painting, make it look nicer, friendlier. I put the basket on the tumble dryer and start piling clothes into the washing machine

standing next to it. “Good evening, neighbor!” I turn around. My heartbeat instantly spikes. “Oh! Hi, Sam!” He’s holding a basket in his hands. He has a loose T-shirt on, his short sleeves showing the lower part of his biceps, and I can’t help but notice how defined and beautiful they are. His loose jeans reach the ground, the broken stitches sweeping the floor as he walks. He’s barefoot. I look back up. And simply beautiful. “Did you just start with the washing?” he asks. “Yes. But you can leave your basket here. I can load it up when I transfer mine into the dryer, if you want.” “No, it’s fine, thank you. I’ll come back down later. Can you just tell me—how’s the laundry schedule arranged in this building?” I set the liquid detergent cup to the side and walk to the door. “It’s written here, see?”

I push the door closed so we can see the back side, where there’s a sheet of paper with a list of tenants and the schedule for the next few months. I notice then that there’s no empty spot anywhere. His apartment has been vacant for so long that the laundry schedule got arranged only for the people living here, leaving no empty spot for a newcomer. “Hmm, there’s a problem.” I put a finger to my mouth. “You know, you probably need to talk to Mr. Kublabicz, the janitor. He needs to make a new list because . . .” I turn to him—and stop. He moved closer to see the list better, but now there are only a few inches between us. My rib cage suddenly feels smaller, and someone must have turned on the extra heating in the room because I’m having hot flashes. I take a deep breath and step back, bringing his scent with me and it seductively lingers around me. It’s so captivating that I want to take a step closer and smell him again. But I refrain. What was I saying? “The new list, for, um,

new tenants . . .” “Got it.” He nods and moves back as well. “All clear. I’ll talk to the janitor.” I breathe out, slightly dizzy. The extra space he created just now, however, helps me engage my brain again. “But you’re very welcome to use my spot next Thursday . . . if you wish.” “Don’t you need to use it?” “Well, I’m using the time from Mrs. Gibson now.” I point with my finger to the name on the list. “I won’t need it again this week.” He doesn’t look at the list but stays focused on me. “Thursday works well. I appreciate it.” I feel self-conscious when he looks at me like that. And I hate that I changed my clothes. Oversized T-shirt and bunny slippers! Perfect—just perfect! I’m feverishly trying to think if there was anything unusual the last time I looked at my face in the mirror. Something between my teeth, black under the eyes, smeared lipstick . . . ? I look away from his piercing gaze and go back to the washing machine, my breaths shallow. I

pour in the liquid detergent and start the program, then lean on the machine for support. Jane, you’re going out of your mind! What’s happening to you? Calm. Down. “Are you okay?” Sam asks and lightly touches my shoulder, but even this brief contact spreads through me like concentric ripples made when a stone is cast into the calm surface of a pond. “Have you eaten properly today?” he asks, his voice a bit stern. I look up at him. I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. That’s what’s wrong with me! I’m simply hungry! “No, actually, I haven’t!” I smile, enormously happy that it’s something logical, something that makes sense, and not just—him. Then, before I manage to stop myself, I say, “Do you want to grab something to eat?”

Chapter 8 Sunday 9:04 p.m. Okay, Jane—which part of “You don’t need this” didn’t you understand? Having dinner with a guy who affects you in such an unbelievable way isn’t the best way to avoid him, now is it? I sigh inwardly. Too late. He said yes, after a fraction of a second of complete surprise. And now we are in “Little Bamboo”, my favorite Thai place. A waiter brings two steaming plates and puts them on the table in front of us. “Can I bring you anything else?” he asks. “That will be all for now. Thank you!” Sam responds. “Enjoy!” the waiter says, then leaves. My stomach is making noises, but I hope the surroundings are louder and Sam doesn’t notice.

I take the fork and roll up a string of rice noodles with it, making sure I don’t splatter the table as I do so. “You’re not gonna use the chopsticks?” asks Sam, arranging his own in his hand. I shake my head. “I’m too hungry for chopsticks. This is much faster,” I say and put the first forkful in my mouth. It’s delicious. Pad thai with chicken and the extra peanuts I asked for. Mmmm. After a few bites, my wild heartbeat and the fluttering I feel in my stomach are still there. In fact, sitting directly opposite Sam makes it even worse. I realize that my hyper-excitement in the laundry room had nothing to do with my hunger and everything to do with Sam. I swallow once, then gather the courage to look at him. His eyes are on me, beautiful and alluring. My courage disappears in an instant. To distract myself, I reach for my glass of juice but, flustered as I am, I knock it with the back of my hand and it starts tipping off the table. I try to grab it, but I’m way too slow.

In the back of my mind, I already hear glass breaking. The next moment, Sam is setting the glass back on the table, just a few drops spilled on the tablecloth and the floor. I open my eyes wide. That was really fast! I look at him and point to the glass, the liquid inside still swirling around. “Good reflexes.” He smiles nonchalantly. “Had some practice. Catching falling cameras… and distracted neighbors.” He winks at me and looks behind me. “Excuse me. We had a little accident.” The waiter comes over to us and Sam continues, “We spilled some juice on the floor. Might be slippery.” “You don’t need to worry, sir. We’ll clean it up right away.” “Thank you,” Sam says and looks back at me. I’m still entranced with all of him. I take a quick breath, trying to refocus, then grab another forkful. “So,” Sam starts, “what are you doing in

this large city?” I look up. Yes! Home field! “I’m a scientist.” His eyes widen but he doesn’t say anything. “I work in a basic research institute,” I explain. “What does basic research mean exactly?” “It’s kind of a free research. It means you can pick a subject you’re interested in and you discover more about it.” “Do you like your job?” I pause for an instant. Not the question I expected. “Yes. Yes, I do.” “What do you like best?” I think about this for a second or two. “I think . . . well, I like being the first person to discover something. See something for the first time that I know no one else in the whole world has seen before.” He looks at me for a long moment. “I can see why this is intriguing for you. So what subject did you pick?” “I work on prokaryotic cells—um, bacterial

cells—and I’m basically looking at their life cycle.” “Life cycle? I didn’t realize bacteria had a life cycle. I thought they just—existed.” I laugh. “No, no, they do. You see, they have—” I raise my hands in an attempt to describe it to him. Then I drop them, realizing I’m getting into crazy-scientist-talking-about-science mode again. He’s not really interested in what I’m doing. People usually aren’t. “It’s not important,” I say and take a sip from my juice. He narrows his eyes slightly. “What makes you say that?” I shrug my shoulders. “Normal people don’t find this interesting.” He laughs out loud. “What makes you think I’m normal?” I look at him. Absolutely stunning and strangely mysterious. He’s right. I’ve never met anyone like him before. He nods at me and says, “It’s interesting enough for you to spend entire weeks, sometimes

even weekends, working on it. So I actually do think it’s important. Tell me.” “Ah, it would take too long.” “I’ve got all the time in the world,” he says, setting his chopsticks on his plate. “I’m listening.” I keep looking at him. I can’t seem to figure him out. After a moment, I set my fork down and say, “Okay . . . well, bacteria have a life cycle. They start in the so-called lag phase, where they are not really growing but are preparing for a growth spurt. So there is a lot of translation happening, ribosome biosynthesis; they need to have a set of proteins ready, there’s RNA processing and also a lot of DNA modification, and they need to be ready for—” “Wait! Wait! Wait.” He holds his hands up, closing his eyes. “This is too much detail. You need to simplify things for me. Quite a bit.” I chuckle. “Okay. Think of it as phases of human growth: toddler, teenage, adulthood, and geriatrics. I work on the toddler-to-teenage part.” “Why is that?” “Well, in this lag phase—um, toddler phase

—bacteria are still not growing, but they’re getting ready to grow. Then the log phase—the logarithmic phase—starts, which is where they multiply at an immense rate, each cell dividing into two every twenty minutes. It’s crazy. And it would continue like that except the cells realize the environment has changed, because they’ve depleted their food supply. So they start to stagnate. Adulthood.” Sam nods. “I guess that makes sense.” “And then they start dying. Geriatrics, right?” “Good, still with you.” “Now, the very cool thing is this. Let’s say I take a few geriatric cells and put them into new media—” Sam shakes his head. “Media? Like, TV and sound systems?” I laugh. “No, media is a name for liquid bacterial food. So, I put them into new food. Lots of food. And do you know what happens?” Sam shrugs his shoulders. “They . . . change their mind about dying?” “Exactly! And not only that; they go into

the lag phase, into the toddler stage, again. And they start multiplying. Old people turning into children. You see, in a way, bacteria are immortal.” No matter how many times I explain this, I am still amazed by these simple but miraculous life principles. Sam smiles and nods slowly. “I can see why this captivates you. So you said you work on the— what was that, log-into-lag phase?—just when bacterial cells start growing.” “Lag into log, yes.” “So what exactly is your project again?” “In this example, old cells get transferred into new media with lots of food, right? They sense this change within minutes. And as soon as they sense it, they revert to the ‘toddler stage,’” I say, making a quotation marks with my fingers. “They start preparing for the big growth spurt. And then they start growing. Log phase. But”—I raise my index finger—“if something is wrong with them sensing the environment, if they are for example treated with a reagent that blocks their sensory input, then they can’t tell what’s happening around

them. They will not realize that there is a lot of food in their surroundings, and then—they will stay old. They. Won’t. Grow.” My lungs full of air, smile so broad that it hurts my facial muscles, I’m simply thrilled by explaining the central point of my project. “Ha!” he says and puts a finger on his lips, thinking. “So, you could theoretically use this— what do you wanna call it—blocking principle as some sort of antibiotic treatment to stop bacteria from growing, couldn’t you?” My smile gets even broader. He just figured out the main point. “Yes! Precisely!” “And have you developed this mysterious reagent of yours? The one that stops them from sensing?” I open my mouth to answer, but I stop for a moment. Something feels wrong about telling Sam about my big finding before I tell it to my boss. But then again, what is he going to do? Take a photo of it? I chuckle inwardly. He’s not related to science at all.

I look at him. Then, in a theatrical tone, I say, “Yes.” His smile spreads into a broad grin. “That’s pretty awesome, Jane!” “I know!” I squeak, basking in the selfproclaimed glory of my great new results. “When did you find this out?” “Just today!” He puts a hand on his chest, then bows just slightly. “Wow—I’m flattered that you told me. I thought such big findings were usually kept secret before they get published.” They are, actually. “But you’re not going to tell anyone, are you?” He takes a moment before he responds. “Of course not. Your secret is safe with me.” “Oh, good!” “Was this a project you chose yourself?” Sam asks, looking at his plate as he takes more food. “Yes. I mean, well kind of. I chose the lab because it deals with bacteria and their metabolism, life cycle, and so, and I was interested in that. But

this particular project is just a bit different, because . . .” I pause, trying to figure out how to explain it. “Yes?” “Normally, you can pick a project from a pile, so to speak, anything that’s available in that particular lab. And my previous project was exactly like that. But this one was different because David, my boss, came up with the idea. And since I had finished my old project anyway and this one sounded interesting, I thought it might be cool.” “And so it was.” He’s got a vague smile on his lips, his face slightly tilted as he looks at me, as if he already knows everything I’m going to say but he just wants to hear it from my lips. I quickly look down, escaping his gaze, and wipe my palms on my thighs. “And when did he do that? When did your boss come up with this project for you?” I shrug, then look at him. “In scientific terms, fairly recently—about four months ago.” “And you already have such great results? Your boss must be very proud.”

“Yes! Well, I assume, because I haven’t told him about this one yet, but my previous project was very successful too.” He nods. “Yeah, I know.” I blink. “You do?” “I mean . . .” He closes his eyes for a second. “You mentioned that you finished your project . . . before this one started, so I just assumed it was successful.” He coughs into his fist. “You, um, seem like a very dedicated scientist.” I smile. He’s not exactly qualified to comment on my science, but I still like the compliment. “Thanks, I try to be.” “So, did your boss choose other projects for your lab mates? Or were you the only one working on a new project?” I look to the side, my eyes unfocused, thinking. “I think so . . .” Then I nod firmly and look back. “Yes, I’m sure. The others stayed on their current projects.” He looks at me for a few seconds without saying anything, but then he drifts forward, leaning his elbow on the table and resting his chin on the

heel of his palm. “Your boss must think very highly of you to offer you this project…” “I don’t think so.” I shake my head, frowning. “I mean, I’m sure he has a good opinion, don’t get me wrong, but it so happened that I was just finished with one project, and I was simply available for a new one. There’s nothing more to it.” His lips open up in a hint of a smile, just enough for me to see his white teeth, hiding behind very soft, very—ah, kissable—lips. I bite my lower lip and try very hard to think of something else. “Maybe.” He nods, then straightens in his seat. He pulls his fleece jersey off over his head, a tight black T-shirt underneath revealing a body people would kill for. My shoulders drop. I’m staring at his muscular torso. And I can’t even blink. When I finally look up, I see him looking at me, his lips curled into a mischievous smile. I close my eyes. Oh, Jane—some dignity,

please! I look down to my half-full plate, my hunger suddenly gone. “Are you okay?” he asks, leaning forward, his fingers almost touching mine on the table. I look at those few millimeters separating his fingers from mine. Then I pull my fingers into a fist and move my hand away. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” I nod, still not looking at him. We are silent for a few moments while I try to get a grip of myself. Then he says, “Are you gonna finish your meal?” I look up at him, deliberately avoiding looking at his tight chest muscles, then shake my head. “Are you sure?” he asks again. “Yes.” “Do you mind if I finish it?” he asks, arching his eyebrows, his face turning childish and innocent. My body relaxes a bit and I smile. “No, not at all.” I push my plate toward him. “Go ahead.” He picks up the plate, holding the fork

firmly in place so it doesn’t fall, then sets it in front of him on the table. He doesn’t use his chopsticks but takes my fork and digs in. “Mmmm, this is good,” he says, pointing to the food with a fork. “Next time, I’ll choose that too. They really make it well here.” “I know. It’s my favorite.” He smiles at me. “I should have known. An insider. Next time I’ll ask you for a recommendation.” Next time? I can’t stop myself from smiling. I look down again, embarrassed to meet his gaze. In less than a minute, he’s finished. “Great! Thanks! Just the extra I needed.” I sneak a glance back at his body. No wonder. Something needs to keep this pile of muscles working. “Would you like to get a dessert?” he asks. I contemplate that for a moment. That would prolong my time with him, but . . . I don’t want to add extra calories to my existing strategically stored pounds on my body, so I decide

to skip it. “No. Thanks! I, um, I think we should go. Early waking up tomorrow.” He looks at me for a moment too long. Then he nods once and looks up to search for our waiter and makes a signature motion in the air to ask for the bill. I turn around to pick up my wallet from my bag hanging on the chair, but Sam says, “Jane, this one is on me!” I look up at him. “Oh, no, no, it’s fine. I actually invited you, so it wouldn’t be fair if—” He puts his hand on mine and my mind goes blank. “Jane, please.” After the few seconds it takes for me to reboot my brain, I say, “Well, let me at least pay for my part.” He moves his hand and leans back in his chair, then tilts his head sideways, looking at me. He does it in such a graceful and charming way that I’m left speechless. Again. Then he slowly shakes his head and says, his voice deep and serene, “No, Jane. It’s been”— he takes a breath—“a very long time . . . since I

had a dinner like this. It’s the least I can do.” Well, I’ve never had a dinner like this one before. Finally, I nod. “Thank you, Sam, that’s very kind.” “It’s my pleasure, Jane.” The waiter comes, and Sam gives him his credit card. The waiter swipes the card on his tablet and asks for Sam to sign with a finger. Through all this time, Sam’s not looking at the waiter at all. Or at the tablet, for that matter. He just keeps looking at me, that half-hidden smile on his face. What’s he thinking? Once the transaction goes through, waiter takes his tablet back and says, “Thank you, sir. I wish you both a good evening!” He leaves, and I’m just about to stand up, but Sam doesn’t move. He’s all still, his eyes drilling into me. I swallow. I have the urge to look away, but at the same time, I can’t. I feel hypnotized by his gaze, the dimming blue ocean at the end of the autumn

day. Then he leans in and says very quietly, “I think this is something we will need to repeat. Don’t you think?” Oh . . . yes . . . definitely . . . But I only manage to nod. Then he smiles a mischievous grin and pulls his chair away. “Shall we go?” As if awoken from a spell, I slowly stand. He takes the jacket hanging on my chair and holds it open for me. “Thanks!” I say as I wrap my jacket around myself. “I’ll walk you to your apartment,” he says and winks at me. I laugh. Can this guy get any better?

Chapter 9 Monday 8:17 a.m. “Morning, Andrea! How are you?” I say as I step into the entry area, shaking away the cold. The institute hall is brightly lit, a strong contrast to the cloudy gray outside. “Morning, Jane, I’m good, thank you. And you?” “On track. Where’s Linda?” I stop and lean against the reception desk. “She’s on sick leave.” “Oh, no. What happened?” “It’s not her, it’s Jeffrey. High fever for two days already.” “Oh, no!” I look down for a moment. “Well,” I say, looking up, “if you talk to her, please give them my best, okay?” “Of course. The door is open,” she says and points to the glass door. “Thanks, Andrea,” I say, putting my ID

badge back into my handbag. I walk to the first elevator and press the button. The ground floor is all quiet; further down, a radio is playing quietly. In the back of my mind, I see Sam. He hasn’t left me since yesterday evening. Even after he said good night. In my mind, he is still there. And there’s nothing I can do about it. The entrance door clicks open again and I turn around to check who just came in. “Buongiorno!” “Good morning, Frank!” “Wow, something made your day.” “Ah, what . . . what makes you say that?” “I don’t know,” he says, looking at me. “You have this vague, happy, won’t-go-away smile.” I do? Oh, no—this is bad. I can’t be so obvious! I need a diversion. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I’m just looking forward to . . . Christmas. Yes!” “Oh, me too! I’m going to Miya’s family’s this year.

“Oh, that’s nice. How come you’re not with your parents?” “They already left for Italy a week ago, and it’s too long of a trip for me to go just for one week. So Miya’s parents invited me.” “I’m sure they are eager to meet you,” I say as the elevator door opens. “I know, I know . . .” He steps in behind me and presses the button for the fourth floor, then pushes his glasses up his nose. “I’m just . . . a little bit anxious about all this.” “Hey, don’t worry! You’ll be great. Just be yourself.” “I guess,” he says distractedly, looking up at the floor lights. “Still, it’s the first time, you know, and . . .” He takes a deep breath. “It just makes me a bit anxious, that’s all.” I smile and tap him on the shoulder. “Here’s some insider info for you: they are already your fans.” “Really? They are?” He glances at me. I nod. “Just enjoy it, all right?” The elevator opens on the fourth floor, and

just as we exit, we run into Kevin, from HR, who was about to get in. “Morning, guys! How’s everything?” he says, turning toward us to chat. “Yeah, okay . . .” I try to pretend indifference, though my stomach feels all bubbly. Frank is holding the door of the elevator for him, but Kevin waves at him. “Thanks, Frank! No need to. I’ll walk.” Frank looks at me, then shrugs and pulls his hand away. The door closes. There are few seconds of weird silence, then Frank says, “Listen, guys, I have to go. I booked the microscope room starting at eight, so I’m late already. See you for lunch?” He points both index fingers at us in a question. “Sure thing,” says Kevin. I put my thumb up as an answer. Frank nods and leaves. “So, Jane, how was your weekend?” Kevin unconsciously strokes his blond, firmly gelled hair as he walks with me to my office. A flood of images fill my mind—all of them

Sam—and I take a moment before I respond. “It was . . . nice. And yours?” “Great! I met up with Frank and Chris Saturday night. We watched the latest Star Wars. You should have come, you really missed something!” No, actually, I didn’t. I was exactly where I needed to be. “You can tell me all about it during lunch break, okay? But no spoilers!” “You bet!” he says. “Um, by the way, you know that new James Bond is coming up. Perhaps you are, you know, interested in seeing it?” Oh, boy… A secret agent movie . . . I barely refrain from rolling my eyes. “Yes, um . . . let me think about it, okay?” “Of course, Jane. I can send you a link to the summary, if you want.” “Sure, Kevin.” “Great! See you in”—he looks at his watch —“three hours and thirty-two minutes.” “Okay!” I wave, then turn and enter my office. I leave my jacket on my chair and slowly put my bag on the floor, thinking about what Frank

had said. A vague smile that won’t go away. I really need to pull myself together. I can’t be running around like a headless chicken. I should be in control, not infatuated by a mysterious man with dazzling blue eyes and perfect lips and captivating— No-no! Just shush! Stop with that. I furrow my brows, trying to chase the thought of Sam from my mind. I need to focus on important things— things that will lead me to becoming the head of a laboratory. Not Sam’s smile, or his words, or the way my whole body comes alive when he’s next to me . . . Ah. I close my eyes and sigh. I can tell this is going to be difficult. Fine. Small steps. Let’s tell David about the results first. I take the staircase to David’s office. The top floor has the offices of all the lab heads and the director of the institute, as well as the HR and finance departments. All the doors except

the director’s are wide open, and I can hear muffled talking as I rush down the hall to the last office. I’m just about to knock on David’s halfopen door when I realize he’s on the phone, so I stop next to the door and wait for him to finish. “. . . their own project at the moment. I already have my best person working on a related topic. I could transfer her—” There is a pause as a muffled male voice says something on the phone. David interjects, “Science doesn’t work like that! It takes time—” The man interrupts him again. David sighs. There is a silence now on both sides, and I wonder if the call is already finished. Then a person on the phone talks again. David says, “I’m—I’m sorry. I didn’t know we had someone else on the line.” After hearing the answer, his voice sounds a bit higher and more attentive. “Oh! I’m so glad I finally have a chance to talk to you, Mr. Su—” David falls silent for a long time, listening to

the other person talk. I look to the floor. I think this is officially called eavesdropping. I can’t stay here. I turn to walk away, but then I hear David say, “Yes, I am aware of that. Dr. Rosenberg shared that information with me.” Dr. Rosenberg? Then I hear David take a sharp intake of breath. “Are you . . . are you serious?” I instinctively turn to David’s door, but then a moment later, I turn around and walk away. That really was eavesdropping, Jane! You shouldn’t have stayed as long as you did! Twenty feet away, I stop next to a wall displaying a gallery of photographs of all the people in the institute. They changed the arrangement recently, and I need to search to find mine. I tilt my head to the side, looking at my picture. I should have it renewed. This doesn’t look like me anymore. In four years my hair has grown long, and I’ve lost that chubby look I had in my face when I started. Not that I’m anywhere close to thin now,

but still . . . at least there’s been some benefit from my frequent Sunday walks. I wonder who’s responsible for keeping the photos up to date. Maybe HR? I should talk to Kevin. Then I remember I was here for a reason, and it wasn’t to look at my four-year-old photo. I look back to David’s half-open door, checking if he’s still on the phone. I don’t hear anything anymore, so I walk back and knock on his door. “Yes?” he says. When I enter, David turns around from his computer, head bent as he looks at me over his glasses. “Good morning, Jane! Have a good weekend?” “Excellent!” His mustache twists and I know he’s smiling underneath. “Okay. Anything I should know about?” He turns his chair now completely toward me, away from his computer. “You know that blocking reagent I’ve been trying to develop for the last few months?”

“Of course . . .” “And in the last step, I changed a bit of the genetic sequence to adapt the binding site better?” “Yes?” “And I also introduced the stability sequence so it works with lower concentrations?” “Yes?” Both of his hands are pressing on the armrests, as if he’s just about to stand up, his eyes wide open as he’s looking at me. “It. Worked.” He takes off his glasses and puts them on his computer keyboard. “You’re joking!” I shake my head. “No. It worked. I checked the experiment yesterday. Two concentrations of the reagents against the negative control. It worked beautifully.” “Show me!” He stands and heads for the door. I follow him, almost having to run to catch up. “Did it work with the lower concentration too?” “Yes.”

“And how high was the negative control?” “As high as it goes. It’s a classic plateau phase after twenty-four hours of growth.” “Good. Very good.” He takes the stairs down, skipping every second step. I follow, trying to keep up. He initiated this project a few months back, but I didn’t know he was so interested in the results. Jeez! He swings the fourth-floor staircase door open, and I walk into the breeze he creates with it. We enter the lab. “Where are the readouts?” he asks. “In my lab book.” I pass him by and walk to my bench, picking up the notebook and opening it to the last entry with the readout paper stapled in. David looks at the notebook. “Is this the OD of the medium?” “No, that’s the experiment. Lower concentration.” I point to the number underneath. “This is the optical density of the medium.” “The results are the same!” “I know!” I have a ridiculous smile on my face as I look at him.

He turns to look at me. Then he looks at the readouts again. “This is brilliant, Jane! Brilliant!” He puts the lab book down and begins to walk in circles, stroking his mustache with his thumb and index finger like he always does when he’s thinking. He’s quiet for several moments. “I will of course repeat the experiment,” I add quickly, “but I think we have everything we need to start preparing for the paper. What do you think?” “What?” He looks at me. “Yes. Later. We need to do something else first.” “All right,” I say slowly and wait for him to continue, but when he doesn’t, I ask. “You mean, another set of data for the paper?” “No, no. Not that. We’ll get to the paper later. There’s something else we have to do. Um, is Francesco here?” “Yes . . . he’s in the microscope room, I think.” He glances at his watch. “Good. Good.” He turns to leave. “What about the paper?” I call after him.

“Later, Jane. Later.” He waves his hand as he walks out. “And—well done, Jane, you’re a star.” And he disappears into the corridor. “Thanks, boss,” I say quietly. I turn around and rest my palm on the sanded glass surface of my lab bench. Well, that was strange . . . I thought the first thing he’d want to do would be to sit down and plan how we’re going to prepare our scientific paper, maybe discuss which journals to submit it to. But no—he wants to talk to Francesco. I sigh and shake my head. Weird. Just weird.

Chapter 10 Monday 10:03 a.m. I have a frown on my face. I know I have a frown on my face, because my facial muscles hurt. But really, there’s no reason to be upset. You know you have to repeat the experiment. Maybe David just wants to wait until we confirm the results to start discussing the paper. Yes. That must be it. It can’t be anything else. I straighten my shoulders and consciously relax my face. I walk to the wall opposite Frank’s bench with the sterile lab equipment cupboard and pick up two glass tubes, then bring them to the laminar hood and put them in the tube stand. The frown is coming back. I shake my head. Relax. Just do your job. The paper will come soon enough. I pass by the lab door and right at that

moment, Miyako walks in. “Hey, good morning!” I say, stopping next to her. “How are you? How was the weekend?” “Nice. And yours?” Sam. Again. “Good. Good.” She looks at me, narrowing her eyes. “You’re hiding something.” I lift my eyebrows. “No, no!” “Hmm. Fine. But I’ll find out.” She turns around and walks to her lab desk. “Did I tell you I invited Francesco for Christmas?” “No. But he did.” “Really?” She turns around. “I didn’t realize it would make such news.” “He’s a bit worried about meeting your parents. You should go easy on him.” “Oh,” she laughs. “I think this will be more like groupies meeting a rock star. They already love him just from hearing about him.” “You should tell him tha—” All of a sudden, the lab door swings open and David rushes in. “Jane! Miyako! Great timing!” Miyako turns to him. “Oh, hi, boss! What’s

up?” He leans on the lab bench opposite mine, pressing his fists on the glass surface behind him. “Could you ladies please come for a meeting today in my office? Two p.m.?” “Of course, David. What’s it about?” I say. “Ah.” He smiles, looking at me through his reading glasses. “Something very interesting. I was recently offered a very, very intriguing project. And, I think you”—he points a finger at the two of us—“will find it really, really interesting too.” I look at Miyako, then back at David. “Project? What project?” “A super-exciting project. And—we need to start on it tomorrow.” “What?” I stand up from my seat. “I can’t start another project tomorrow. What about my paper?” “Which paper?” jumps in Miyako. I turn to her and quickly explain, “My blocker experiment worked.” “No!” “Yes!”

I turn back to David, wanting to press my point, but instead, Miyako hugs me from the side and says, “Oh, my God! This is awesome.” I smile and automatically hug her back. For a moment, I return to my good spirits. I did get great results! “Ladies, may I interrupt?” David cuts in. We both turn to look at him, the frown back on my face. And he sees it. “Look, I know you think this comes as a surprise, but it’s actually not. The project has been going on for some months, and—” “I’ve never heard of it,” I interrupt. “Can’t it wait another month so I can finish my paper?” “No.” His voice is firm and non-negotiable. Miyako and I are speechless. We’ve never heard him like this before. He sighs and closes his eyes. Then he rubs the bridge of his nose above his glasses. “Once you see what the project is about, you’ll have a whole new perspective.” He adjusts his glasses and moves away from the bench. “And, Jane, I understand your worry,

and we will get to your paper soon enough. But this new project—it will blow you away. Trust me.” Then he lowers his glasses slightly and looks at me above his lenses, dark eyebrows shadowing his eyes. “And, by the way, you are still working for me.” “You’re saying I don’t have a choice.” Answering like this doesn’t sound like me, but I just can’t help it. “No, Jane. I’m saying you will not want to miss this project.” After a long pause, I say, “Fine.” Then I turn back to my desk. “Miyako?” “Sure, boss.” “Good! Two p.m. My office.” He turns and leaves the lab. With no warning, Miyako looks at me and squeaks, “It worked! Your blocker worked!” Then she hugs me again. She’s right, it worked. And that’s the most important thing. And anyway, David can’t stop me working on my paper in the evenings.

And just this thought makes me feel a little bit better. When Miyako lets me go, she half punches me in the arm. “What’s that for?” “I knew you were hiding something from me! When did you find out?” I rub my arm with my hand. “Yesterday. And we were in the middle of another topic, remember?” “Jane, if you have something like that, you can just interrupt me point blank, you know that.” “Okay, yes.” “Good. So, I need to finish up a thing or two. I’ll see you at . . . ?” She looks at her watch. “Let’s do twelve, so we still have time before the meeting.” “Ah, the meeting. I totally forgot all about it.” She taps herself lightly on the forehead and shakes her head. I laugh. Of course she didn’t, but it’s nice of her to poke a bit of fun at it. “Thanks, Miya. See you at the canteen.”

She nods and turns to leave, but before she disappears, she says, “Hey, we forgot something!” “Frank?” “No!” She laughs. “We need to celebrate your results. And I know just the place. Tomorrow evening. My treat. Laters!” Then she waves once and walks out. “Shouldn’t it be my treat, since I got the results?” I shout back. “No,” I hear her calling back in a singsong voice, echoing off the corridors. “It’s like a birthday.” She really can pull me out of a funk. I smile and look back at my desk. But after a few moments, I can feel my frown reappearing. I don’t get it. I really don’t! After hovering over me for months about this experiment, how can David possibly just let it go? Something really strange is going on . . . really strange . . .

Chapter 11 Monday 12:04 p.m. It’s only twelve, but my stomach is knotted into one tight ball. I need to eat something urgently. The queue in the canteen seems extra slow today. I slide up my tray as the person in front me of leaves. Once I’m standing next to the lady at the cash register, I pull out my ID card to pay, but then I remember something and ask, “Hi! Sorry—do you have any pomegranate juice, by any chance? I couldn’t find one in the fridge.” The woman looks at me as if I’m sprouting antennae. “If you haven’t seen it, girl, that means we don’t have it.” “Right. Okay.” I nod and hold my ID card against the scanner. “Thank you. Next!” she shouts for the person behind me. What a sweet lady. I pick up my tray and then stand at the

outer circle of the canteen to look around. There is a hand waving from one of the tables. I smile and walk toward it. “Hey, guys!” I say as I sit at the table with Miyako and Frank, who sit so close to each other, they could almost fuse into one another. I have to smile. This is how things should be. Frank looks at my tray. “Still no pomegranate?” “Nope,” I say as I sit down. “You should complain. Three days already and no pom!” He tries hard to hide a smile. I look at him and tilt my head. “Am I right or am I right?” He shrugs his shoulders. I pick up a fork and take a bite of leafy salad. “Hey, Frank,” says Miyako in a girly voice. “You know what?” He raises his head. “Jane finished her project!” He looks at me. “No! Really?”

I nod and give him a shy smile. “Oh, wow, Jane, this is great! Well done!” He stands up and hugs me awkwardly over the table. Then he sits down even closer to Miyako than before and continues eating. “Wow! You really need to let me in on your secret.” “I don’t think there is a secret. It often has to do with luck . . .” I’m trying to undermine my success a little bit, so they don’t feel bad that they haven’t had their own breakthroughs yet. “Well, luck or not, now we need to celebrate!” Frank says cheerfully. “I agree. In fact, we already have a time and a place,” Miyako says. “Really? When, where?” “Tomorrow at Bo-Bo Bar!” “What if I can’t come?” Frank says. Miyako turns to Frank, a serious look on her face. “Really? You have something going on?” Frank waves a hand at her. “No, I don’t. But hypothetically. You should let me in on your plans.” “Well, I didn’t get much of a say, either, if

that makes you feel any better,” I say, scraping sauce from my plate with a crust of bread. “We’ll also need to tell Florence and Chris,” Miyako continues, completely ignoring what I just said. Then Frank joins in. “Oh, yes, and Kevin too!” I look up. “Why Kevin?” They both look at me at the same time, then at each other. “I thought he’s only into guys’ outings,” I explain further. “You know, secret agent movies and things like that.” “Well, because he—” Frank starts, but Miyako interrupts. “Because Kevin loves that bar! That’s why.” I narrow my eyes. Something’s fishy. Then I sigh, shrugging, while cleaning my plate. “Okay. Fine.” They pointedly look down at their plates. I frown, looking at one and then the other. Then I shake my head. Time to change the subject.

“Have you talked to David yet this morning, Frank?” He coughs and says, “What you really want to ask is if he invited me to the new project meeting today at two, right?” “Yes. Strange, don’t you think?” “Totally!” Miyako and Frank say at the same time. Then Frank continues, “It doesn’t make sense. You just finished your project. The next logical thing would be to write it up, send it off to some cool journal. I mean, I thought that’s what David wants too.” I shake my head. “Couldn’t agree more.” “And I only have one more step left, and, if that works, I could have a finished project, too. You know, not as cool as yours . . .” I open my mouth to say something supportive but Frank puts a hand out, stopping me. “No, no. It’s fine. Not everyone can be as brilliant as you.” “Frank, you know that’s not true,” I say. “David gave me this project. It could have been you, too.”

He waves his hand, dismissing any future discussion. “My point is, I would really like to finish it. Wrap it up. And then continue with something new.” He puts his knife and fork to the side. “Well, I guess I don’t mind switching to something else,” says Miyako, trying to pierce the last of her green beans with a fork. “My work is going nowhere, I’m running in circles. Doing something else for a while might be a good break for me. But hey, perhaps this new project is really something cool. We might all be surprised.” I push my plate away. “I’m sure David wouldn’t be so interested in it if it wasn’t something intriguing.” I sigh inwardly. “I just—” “Yeah, we know,” they both say at the same time. We are silent for a few minutes. I want to talk about something else, but besides Sam, my new paper, and this mysterious project, nothing else comes to mind. “Hey, guys, I totally forgot to tell you something!” Frank says, digging something out

from his jeans pocket and putting it on the table. “I won four tickets to the Bruins next week! Are you interested?” I look up. Bruins? I pick up one ticket, then Frank pushes another one toward me. “You can invite someone else if you want . . .” Sam. He loves the Bruins. I could give it to him. Unless he already has a ticket . . . I look up and they both have this smile on their faces, like parents who just gave their only daughter a present she always wanted. I pick up the second ticket too. “Thanks, Frank. Are you sure you don’t want this ticket for someone else?” He shakes his head. “No. I have the only one I need over here.” And he hugs Miyako, pressing her against him with one arm. “Besides, I’m sure you won’t have to think too much about who to invite.” He winks at me. “What do you mean?” Am I this obvious? More importantly, am I this obvious to Sam, too?

Frank doesn’t say anything, but Miyako answers, “You’ve had this mysterious smile on your face all morning.” I open my mouth to say something, but she shushes me. “Don’t try to hide it. I’m sure there is a good reason for it, and maybe that reason wants to go to the Bruins game with you.” Yes. I’m obvious.

Chapter 12 Monday 2:06 p.m. “Hi, sorry I’m late,” I say as I close the door behind me. David turns around. “No worries, Jane, we’re just about to start. Please have a seat.” He then turns back to his computer again, hunched over, his head bent as he looks at the screen over his glasses. I look around. Miyako and Frank are here, as well as Florence and Chris. They are all standing: David has only one chair in his office, and it’s the one he’s sitting on. I shake my head at my distracted boss and stand next to Frank. Chris is leaning lazily against the windowsill, glancing down at the campus alley. He looks as if he just walked in from an afternoon’s surfing session: sun-bleached, curly hair falling over his eyes, washed-out, loose T-shirt and light blue,

flabby jeans. Florence, standing next to him, has her lab coat on, her shoulder-length, mousy, blonde hair strapped in a tight ponytail at the back of her neck. When she laughs, her cheeks have adorable dimples, but now she’s serious as she looks at David’s back. She adjusts her glasses and folds her arms on her chest, waiting. “I’ll be with you in . . . just one moment,” says David. I look toward him again. “Just let me . . .” The rest is a quiet mumble as he talks to himself. We all just stand quietly and wait. “There!” David turns to us with a smile and puts his hands on his knees, leaning back a bit. “I realize this meeting—well, this new project in general—might feel a bit awkward,” he says. “A bit,” says Frank. “I know, I know,” David says, raising his hands in the air, “but what I’m about to show you is quite something.” He stands up and says, “Please, follow me.” We follow him to the elevator and pack

ourselves tightly into the small cubicle. David presses his ID card against the scanner and pushes the button for the second basement floor. The door closes and we descend. Frank looks at Miyako and then at me, pointing his thumb down, raising his eyebrows in a question. I shrug. I’ve never been to the basement either. “David, what’s on the basement floors?” “Extra lab space. Some rooms belong to other buildings in the campus.” The door opens and David walks out, turning right. We all follow him. “Two labs belong to our genomics and, I think, proteomics department. Not sure about that, though.” He turns his head to us, chuckling. “I just discovered them recently myself.” Imagine working every day in a place like this. It’s like a dungeon. So glad I’m not in genomics! Or proteomics. After another left turn, he stops in front of a solid metal door. The scanner here is at shoulder level, so David unhooks his card and puts it against the

scanner plate. The door unlocks and he pushes against it to open it. We follow him, a bit slower than usual. I smell disinfectant and it reminds me of an indoor swimming pool. The hallway we entered looks just like any other hallway on the upper floors, only there are no familiar sounds of radios playing or people chatting. Also, the walls of the hallway on both sides are made of glass, and we can see into the brightly lit labs. We all come to a stop. The laboratories are packed with large blocks of robotic machinery moving around, performing the lab work, making a fine buzzing sound as their metallic arms shift positions, pipetting liquids from one set of tubes to another. I guess these workers don’t mind the dungeon all that much. “Oh, man, why didn’t I have one of those when I did my PhD? I would have finished it in half the time,” says Frank, looking longingly at the machines. Trust Frank to make fun of every situation.

David, a few steps away by now, turns around. “Come on, people!” We follow him to the lab on the right. The room we enter is not the lab itself but a pre-lab, a small room with a large window facing the lab. There are several desks here with computers aligned next to the lab window, and against the back wall is a large sofa. “This is for brainstorming, right?” asks Frank, looking at David and pointing to the sofa. I chuckle, and so do the others. True, he’s making fun of everything, but what he’s really doing is releasing the tension, because I guess we’re all taken aback by being here, on a floor we’ve never been to, in a lab we didn’t even know existed. David turns to us and leans on the edge of the desk. “Have a seat, guys.” We all slowly sit down. Frank chooses the arm of the sofa to sit on and crosses his arms. “So, what’s the project about?” David takes a breath and holds it in for a moment. Then he breathes out. “Well, rather than telling you about it,

let me just show it to you.” He sits in a comfy-looking leather chair, rolls it to the desk, and brings one of the computers out of standby. He logs in and a screen lights up, showing a software interface I’ve never seen before. At the top right of the window is an empty video screen. David starts a program and I notice movement in the main lab. I look up. Through the glass, I can see a robotic arm reaching into a small incubator and bringing out a tray with a Petri dish. The arm makes a circular movement and places the dish on another robotic manipulator. I glance back to the video window on the screen and realize the surface of the Petri dish is now in focus, a black-and-white live-image of the bright neon lights reflecting off the clear gel. There is another metallic sound and I look to see what the robot is doing. The metal hand moves down so it is outside of our viewing space. Then it moves back up, now holding a small glass tube, sealed with transparent paraffin tape. The tube is half filled with off-white liquid. The edges

of the glass are hazy with condensed water. The tube has been in a fridge. The arm moves the tube to the stand. Then another sliding arm with a single pipette reaches to the tube, pierces the sheet, and collects several drops of liquid. The arm retracts the pipette, moves it above the Petri dish, and dispenses a single drop. Then it moves above the waste collection bin and the pipette is disposed of. The machinery is now quiet. David moves away from the screen to give us space to look. “Just watch,” he says quietly. The Petri dish is empty. What are we supposed to see? But then, a moment later, I see some faint light spots appearing on the gel. They look like bacterial cells starting to form a young circular colony. I frown. Did I not see them before? I move closer to the screen. The small round shapes are suddenly a little bit bigger. And bigger again.

A minute passes, and the shapes are now almost the size of a dollar coin. And they keep growing. This can’t be . . . I blink a few times and look closer. No! This is . . . this is amazing! We are all now so close to the computer screen that our heads almost touch as we stare in amazement, watching the fastest-growing bacteria we have ever seen. In a few minutes, the surface of the growing gel is entirely covered in bacterial growth—there is no free space left on the Petri dish. The machines move again; the mechanical arm takes the dish away and drops it in the waste collection bin. We all straighten to look at each other. No one talks. David turns his rolling chair to face us and lifts his arms up in a question. “So? Don’t you have a million and one questions?” “Why do they grow so fast?” I ask before anyone else, though I’m sure they all have the very

same question in mind. David nods once and starts. “It’s a series of unique mutations in the DNA polymerase, and extensive transcription and translation changes, as well as a large number of ribosomes and heightened levels of protein production. Every step a normal cell usually takes in order to multiply is simply taken faster. In addition to that, many of the processes needed for division are running in parallel, unlike in normal cells. As a result”—he points to the lab machine—“this strain completely covers the Petri dish in less than two minutes.” We are silent for a few moments, still coming to grips with this reality. “Um, David? What kind of cells are these?” asks Chris. “And why are they in a sealed lab?” “Good questions, Chris. And amazingly, they both have the same answer.” David clicks on a website. “These cells were found in hot geysers in southwestern Iceland. They belong to the Thermus family, which is why the temperature of this entire sealed lab is set at one hundred and fifty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. We would cook if we worked

in there ourselves. And it’s useful having a machine doing the work for you, don’t you agree?” Frank nods in confirmation. “That’s good. That’s great, actually. I truly appreciate their commitment to high temperatures.” I frown and lean forward in my seat so I can see him better. “What do you mean, their commitment to high temperatures?” Frank looks back. “I mean the fact that this strain grows only at high temperatures. Imagine if they grew so fast at room temperature? Or even worse—body temperature?” “Frank.” I shake my head. “Ease up. It’s only Thermus.” “I know. I know.” He puts his palms up in defense. “Still, one hundred and fifty-eight is, as I said, just right.” I smile and look back through the glass window into the lab. “And why are we here, David?” asks Florence, her voice deep and calm. “I have to say, it looks pretty awesome, but this is not just for show, right?”

We all look back at David. “You’re right, Florence. Your job, guys, is to find a way to stop the growth of this strain.” “Wait a second!” Chris raises his hands. “I don’t understand. Why are we here? Why not hire an entirely new team to study this? Why us?” David lowers his head and gives a barely noticeable nod. “The project started about half a year ago, and it was run—oh, by the way.” He lifts an index finger and scans us all. “This, all of this, is confidential. You’re not to talk about this project with anyone else. Is that clear?” I want to suppress my frown, but I think it comes out anyway. “Why?” “It’s the rules.” “Whose rules?” jumps in Frank. “The company that funded this project wants this kept highly confidential. At least until publication.” I guess that makes sense. If I had something as big as this, I’d want it kept highly confidential as well. “So, David, you were saying?”

“Yes, Jane. As I said, the project started about six months ago and it ran under the supervision of Dr. Rosenberg.” He pauses, pinching the base of his nose above his glasses and looking at the floor. I glance at the team. We all know what happened, but David nevertheless explains. “As most of you have probably heard, Dr. Rosenberg died a few weeks ago. She had a congenital brain aneurysm that wasn’t discovered until it ruptured. She died of a brain hemorrhage.” David told me this two weeks ago. It had been such a shock. I wasn’t close to her, not at all, but . . . it didn’t fit. People don’t just die. In movies, maybe. In books, too. But not in my life. Not here . . . “Due to the tragic incident, she . . .” David’s voice becomes rough, so he coughs once to clear it. “She could not finish the project, but the company that funded the research asked me to continue her work.” He looks at us. “So, here we are.”

“What about”—Florence looks at all of us —“the people who worked on this with her? Dr. Rosenberg didn’t do all the lab work herself. Where are they?” David shrugs, then shakes his head. “She had two assistants, but they went back home right after she died.” “Home where?” “I . . . don’t know.” Chris picks up on Florence’s idea. “Well, maybe we can contact them, ask them for assistance.” David nods once. “Sounds good.” “All right. I’ll see if Kevin can get ahold of them,” adds Chris. “David,” I start, “why did they choose you to continue her work?” He laughs behind his mustache. “Funny you should ask that, Jane. You see, when Evelyn got involved, she . . . well, she couldn’t tell me a lot about the project, obviously, being protected by confidentiality, but she needed a bit of extra help, so she asked for you.”

I raise my eyebrows, staring back at David. Stunned speechless. “She asked if you could run a side project that might help her with this one. And since you were just finished with your previous project, it was a perfect fit. This was the blocker experiment—the one you’ve just completed.” I was running a project for Rosenberg without even knowing? My frown deepens. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “First of all, I couldn’t. Evelyn asked me to keep it a secret. Second, I didn’t know myself. About any of this. She just asked for help. And”— David shrugs—“it was Rosenberg, you know, I couldn’t turn her down. No one could.” He smiles. I shake my head. “But still. The project doesn’t make sense, David. I’m working on Streptococcus. These,” I say, pointing with my hand to the robot lab, “are Thermus. Their blockers —their sensors—are completely different.” “Yes, I realize that, Jane. But what’s important is that the principle works. You found another way to stop bacteria from growing.” Then

he turns to the others. “And in general, guys, so are all of you. Everyone is working on a principle that might stop bacteria from growing. Think about it: Frank, antibiotics and its resistance. Florence, bacterial DNA polymerization and its mutations. Chris, protein and building block synthesis. All that you need to know to crack this project is right here.” He gestures at us with his hands. “Um . . .” Miyako raises a finger. “Why am I here?” David points his thumb back to the machines. “Because you are the expert in liquid handling.” Miyako looks at the liquid-handling machines and nods. “Okay, makes sense.” “So, you said we need to find a way to stop their growth, right?” I say. “That’s right.” “Couldn’t we just lower the temperature?” “We could, but—we need to find another way, using your areas of expertise. I want you guys to throw everything you’ve got at them.” “So, what do we know about these, these

. . . crazy-grow cells?” asks Chris. Crazy-grow cells! Brilliant! I wink at Chris, giving him a thumbs-up. He winks back. “Everything that Dr. Rosenberg found is here,” David says and rolls with his chair to the far end of the desk, where several folders are stacked on top of each other in a pile. He picks them up and hands one to each of us. “You can work with this, and then add your data as well. “Here,” he continues, picking up five silver memory sticks, “is where you should record your data. Please, make sure that they never leave the institute, all right? It’s all part of the confidentiality agreement.” Frank snorts. “As if I’d want to take my work home.” I laugh, and Miyako shakes her head. David smiles as well. Then he turns around and picks something up from the desk. “And here are your new ID cards.” We all reach out and pick the one with our name on it. Florence is the last one. She looks at it, then

turns it around to look at the back. “These look different than the ones we had before.” “And they are different,” David explains. “You need these to access the basement levels, as well as to enter the robotics labs. They’ve been given to us by the company that funded this, and let me tell you, it is really, really well funded, I mean, so well funded that it will keep many subsequent projects running too. So, as I said, this company is on a tight schedule, and—” “What’s the company called?” asks Chris. “I’m sorry, Chris, I signed a special NDA and I can’t disclose that. So, as of now, this project becomes our first priority.” “I . . . I don’t understand,” says Frank. “Why can’t we keep working on our own projects in parallel? I mean, if there is a break in this one, I’m sure we can fill the gap and do an experiment or two on our old projects, right?” “Francesco?” David looks at him above his glasses. “What break are you talking about? These cells grow so fast they won’t give you time to do anything else. You’ll be able to run multiple

projects per day because of their speed.” He takes off his glasses and wipes his face with both hands. Then, he picks them up and looks from one person to the next. “Guys, just work with me, all right? You’ll have this project cracked in no time. It will run really fast, and you’ve got all the knowledge to pin it down.” I look sideways at the team. It’s an awesome project, I have to give him that. I just don’t like to be ‘pinned down’, without feeling like I have a choice. David sighs. “Guys, I know it might feel like this is coming from out of the blue. But this is an amazing project. It’s once in a lifetime, trust me. And when it’s finished, it’s going to sell well. Really well! I mean, Science, Nature, PLOS—take your pick.” Oh . . . I tilt my head to the side, frown slowly disappearing. Well, when he puts it that way . . . I nod. “Yeah, why not? Might be fun.” David shakes his head as he taps his knees and stands up. “Fun? It’s most likely the best

project you’ll have in your life. Fun . . .” He heads for the door, but then stops and swings back around. “Oh, and keep me in the loop. We’ll have team meetings at the beginning of the week as usual, but you guys will most likely see progress daily, so keep me updated. Yes?” “Sure, boss,” says Chris. The rest of us nod. “Very good,” David says. “Good luck.” And then he leaves. After several moments with all of us looking at the door, I’m the first one to snap out of it. I pick up the folder David handed to me and start paging through. “I’ll check the growth curve first,” I say. “And then I guess I’ll dive into blocking sensors.” “Can’t you use the same blocker reagent you used for Streptococcus?” asks Miyako. I shake my head. “No, unfortunately not. Blocker-sensor interaction is kind of like a lockand-key system. A blocker can only sit on one specific sensor, and the sensor proteins are strain specific. Which means that Streptococcus has a specific sensor, and this one up here, this Thermus,

has something completely different. I will need to design a new blocker from scratch.” I continue paging until I find the genomics data of the strain. “Hey, guys, we have the genomics of the crazy-grow strain in here!” I look up at them. “That might make the whole thing a lot easier. I might be able to design a new blocker based on this data.” I glance at the folder again. “But it will take some time.” Florence stands up, stacking the folder under her arm. “I’ll check the polymerization, then. Perhaps I can mess up the primers so the DNA synthesis doesn’t even start.” Then she turns to us. “Did he say ‘we’ll have it cracked in no time’? Because just building primers will take me a week or two. If it works on the first go.” “It’s research,” laughs Chris, writing Crazy Gro under the official title on his folder. “Quick is a logical improbability. Even with these Crazy Gro cells.” He taps the folder once he’s finished. “I’ll just throw everything I have at them,” says Frank, taking one of the memory sticks. “See if any of the antibiotics work.” Then he picks up a

marker pen and writes his initials on the memory stick. “Oh, no!” He makes a face. “What?” I ask. “Look at that!” He shows me the writing on the memory stick and continues in a childish voice, “It’s all smudged!” I smile and shrug. “You should have waited for the ink to dry.” “Eh!” He makes a classic Italian capeesh gesture with his hand, then he turns to the others. “Can I trade with someone else? Mine’s broken.” I laugh. “No one else has your initials, Francesco De Massi. You just need to live with it.” Frank huffs, pretending to sulk. I smile and shake my head, looking back at the window to the robot lab. Miyako claps her hands once and says, “Okay, who wants to start today already?” She sits on a chair and rolls to the computer. I open my mouth to speak, but Frank’s faster. “Me, me! Just need to prepare the reagents.” Then he turns to Miyako. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

“Perfect. I’ll get acquainted with the system in the meantime.” “I’ll come back tomorrow,” says Florence. “Still some work to do in the old lab. And I need to make a plan on how to tackle this one.” “Yes, me too.” Chris raises his hand above his head. “I’ll let you know when I have things ready.” “Sure, guys. Jane?” Miyako turns to me. I look at my watch. It’s past three now; it will be too late to start anything after Frank’s finished with his experiments here. “I’ll check with you tomorrow.” She nods and turns to the computer. I stand up and follow Chris and Florence, but then turn around, looking back at Miyako and Frank. “And hey, make sure you’re only doing science in here.” “Of course, of course. What else?” She waves her hand at me, trying to hide a mischievous grin. “Else the Big Brother might find out.” Then she turns to me, a frown on her face.

“Who?” “The camera,” I say, pointing to the upper right corner of the room. She follows the direction of my finger. “Right, good point. Thanks for telling me. Not that we would, you know, do anything . . .” I laugh out loud. “Of course not, Miya! Where did I get that idea from?” I shake my head at them, still chuckling, then glance one more time at the camera before I leave the room.

Chapter 13 Monday 7:20 p.m. I push open the small glass door of the convenience store and rush in, escaping from the cold. The store seems extra bright, contrasting the darkness outside. I rub my hands for a moment, then pick a red basket from the stacked pile next to the entrance. It’s a small store, but sufficient for basic needs. My choice of groceries is likely not exactly what Linda would choose, but I fill my basket nevertheless, hoping it will suffice. I’m quick through the cashier and back into the cold. I don’t have far to walk, but now that I’m loaded with several pounds of groceries, I wish I’d used my car for this. I slow down, checking the signs on the streets to make sure I’m going in the right direction. A few minutes after, I finally find the street I’m looking for and turn left, scanning the buildings

until I reach the right number. I check the intercom for Linda’s last name and press the button. After few moments, a female voice answers. “Hello?” “Hi, Linda. It’s me, Jane. Would you mind opening up?” “Jane? Of—of course.” The door sounds and I push it open. It’s dark. The lights aren’t coming on and I don’t know where the light switch is, so I stay in one spot, holding the groceries and narrowing my eyes, trying to see into the dark. The next moment, the lights turn on and I realize I’m standing right in front of the stairs. I start walking up, not really sure which floor she’s on, but then I see her coming down from the first floor, bending around the railing to see me. “Jane . . . what are you doin’ here?” She’s in her dressing gown, her arms crossed at her waist. “Come, come.” She waves at me. Her door is the first one on the left. We enter, and it feels wonderfully warm. “I got some stuff for you,” I say, looking

down to the grocery bags. “Where shall I put it?” “Oh, Jane, thank you so much! You really shouldn’t have, you know.” “I know. I know. Where?” She smiles and guides me to the kitchen. I set the bags on the kitchen counter. “Andrea told me Jeffrey has had a fever for two days already, so I thought you probably didn’t want to leave him home alone to go shopping.” She tilts her head and smiles. “Jane, you are a darlin’, you know that? How did you know where I live?” “I asked Kevin. Told him what I planned to do and he was kind enough to give me your address. I hope you don’t mind . . .” “Ah, the HR guy.” She smiles. “I guess he’d do a lot more for you than just give you an address.” “What do you mean?” “Never mind, honey.” She shakes her head, smiling, then asks, “So, how much do I owe you?” She picks up a wallet from her purse hanging in the hallway.

“No, Linda. It’s nothing. This one’s on me.” “Jane, don’t be ridiculous. I can’t let you pay for all that.” “First of all, it’s not ‘all that,’ it’s just a few things. And second, how is Jeffrey doing?” She relaxes her shoulders and tilts her head to the side, an okay-you-win smile on her face. She puts her wallet back in her purse. “The last few hours, a bit better. The medications are working, and that’s great news. He still hasn’t eaten anything, though, but I guess that’s normal for this type of fever.” “I’m glad he’s getting better. Do you have enough medicine? Should I—” “No. No. I have enough. It’s fine. Thank you.” “Mom?” Linda turns around. “Hello, baby, how’re you doin’?” She raises her arm and Jeffrey walks underneath it, hugging her around the waist. This is probably the moment I should say something to him, but I’m so terrible with children I don’t know that I just mutter hello and smile.

“Jane works in the same place I do, sweetie. She was so kind and got us some groceries.” I smile a response. “Did you get any ice cream?” “Jeff!” Linda scolds. “I did,” I say. “I love ice cream when I have a fever.” “Awesome!” He’s about to look for the ice cream in the bag, but Linda stops him. “Hold on there, kiddo! If you feel like ice cream, then you first need to eat somethin’ healthy.” She peeks in the bag and says, “For example, apples.” Jeffrey huffs. “Fine.” “Well, enjoy your dinner. I’m glad you’re getting better, Jeff.” I turn to Linda. “I’ll see you back at the institute.” “Are you sure you don’t want to stay for dinner?” Regrettably, my first thought is that I don’t want to get infected. Terrible, I know. But the second is Sam. I want to invite him to the Bruins game tonight still, and it might be too late if I stay

for dinner. “No, Linda, but thanks!” I open the door, then turn to face them one more time. “Have a good evening! And a quick recovery.” “Thank you, Jane. This was very sweet of you.” “Don’t mention it. Bye!” I hear the door closing as I stomp down the stairs. As soon as I open the outside door, I’m swept by the cold winter air. Evenings in Boston get really chilly, really fast. I shiver and breathe out a cloud of air, then walk into it. I’m turning left for the bus stop when all of a sudden a motorcycle roars to life on the other side of the street, giving me a fright. I put my palm on my chest to calm myself, then continue walking. The motorcyclist is wearing all black. He turns his head toward me and I slow my gait just a little bit. I find it slightly uncomfortable that I can’t see his face. Why does it feel like he’s looking at me? Then he looks forward and steers his motorcycle into the street, disappearing in the

direction of the bus stop. I breathe out. Silly me! He was probably just looking for the traffic coming his way. I continue walking and within five minutes I’m at the bus stop, just opposite the store. There is still some space on the bench next to two other people, but it’s so cold I don’t feel like sitting down. I take my MP3 player out of my handbag and put the earbuds in, letting the music continue where it left off the last time, the volume low. Soon, the bus arrives, and I’m grateful to escape into the warmth again. I sit next to the window and take off my cap, checking my reflection in the glass, red hair splayed around my head as if I was hooked up to an electrical circuit. I frown and try to smooth it down, but something catches my attention and I look through the window. On the lane parallel to the bus, I see a motorcyclist. Black helmet, black jacket, black boots. Is that the same one I saw on Linda’s street?

He’s standing several feet away, looking at the bus. Can’t be. He’d be long gone by now. The bus closes the door and puts the indicator on, the yellow light reflecting off the side window I’m sitting next to. The biker turns his head to the road and speeds off. I move my head further to the window, watching him until he’s too far for me to see. Ah, motorcyclists! They all look the same to me. As the bus slowly joins the traffic, I adjust myself in my seat, looking to the front, my gaze unfocused, and begin to think about the Crazy Gro project. The speed of the growth is remarkable. I have never seen anything like it. David’s probably right: it just might be the best project I’ll ever work on. It’s amazing that they managed to keep something like that a secret. I guess those strict confidentiality agreements are good for something . . . And I wonder if my blocker idea will work.

I think it actually might. It’s a general principle; if I know what the correct sensor protein is, the corresponding blocker should really work. I just need to design one. Again. But still—I hate the timing! It could have come four weeks later, and all would have been perfect: my manuscript written and sent to the journal, and me ready for a new research adventure. But no! It had to come now. I sigh. Not much I can do about it. Still, I can start preparing some things for my paper: writing up the “Materials and Methods” section, choosing images. . . Images. . . I wonder what Sam would think if he saw them. My heartbeat accelerates immediately as soon as I think of him. He has probably never seen anything like microscope images before. Would he find them interesting? Would he find me interesting if I show them to him?

Perhaps I could do just that. I mean, why not? And my breathing accelerates just a notch. I close my eyes and breathe out. Oh, Jane . . . It’s just like back in primary school when you showed your drawing to the boy you liked, thinking that would make him like you, remember that? Well, it didn’t work. Not then, and certainly not now. The best thing I can hope for is just sharing a few hours with him at the Bruins game. And that’s it.

Chapter 14 Monday 8:17 p.m. I get off at my stop along with three other passengers, and we all disperse in different directions. I’m walking back home, my head still full of Sam, thinking how I’m going to invite him to the game, and what he might say, and how I should respond then, but all these thoughts confuse me and, at the same time, make my blood run faster. Now, calm down, Jane. You’re not inviting him on a date or anything! It’s just an ice hockey game. He even said he likes hockey. It’s right up his alley. By the time I reach my building, my bones feel like they’re frozen from the inside out. It’s the same every winter. My body always takes a while to get used to the cold. I decide I need to warm up, so instead of taking the elevator, I walk up the stairs. Once on the third floor, I stop, looking at

Sam’s door. I realize my heart is racing. Must be the stairs. I take a deep breath, then exhale loudly. Okay. Okay. Just walk up there and ask. Plain and simple. Nothing could be easier. Go. Go! I take one step forward. Then another. Then another. I’m standing in front of his door now. My lungs are full of air, but I’m not breathing. My hands are in fists, my eyes fixed on one spot on his door. It’s a little crack, where the wood has been chipped away, and I can see a light brown color under the dark green paint. Interesting. I keep looking at the crack. Why didn’t they paint over the crack? Or was it that the paint came first and then afterwards— Seriously, Jane? I shake my head. I find the

most awkward ways to procrastinate. I close my eyes and breathe out. I need to think of what my sister would say. She would say: lift your arm, get ready to knock, and—knock. Now. I close my eyes. My hand is in the right position. I know what I should do. But I can’t. I drop my arm down, and my shoulders sag. I look back at the crack on Sam’s door. I’m such a loser. Then, just as I’m about to turn around, Sam’s door opens and he literally bumps into me as he walks out. “Oh! Sorry! Are you okay?” he says as he steps backward, his hands on my shoulders to steady me. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine . . .” He smiles and looks around. “They made tiny hallways in this building, didn’t they?” I look around. They seem quite big to me . . . or did he just get me off the hook? “I also wasn’t really looking where I was going,” I say. “So

I might have been, perhaps, a bit too close to your door . . .” “No, no. It’s fine,” he says, then leans against the doorframe with his shoulder. And just this movement, his posture, is simply breathtaking. I close my eyes for a moment to focus and take a deep breath. Time to act. “Listen, um . . .” I look up at him. “I just got two tickets for the Bruins—next week, the Wednesday match. So I thought, since you’re a fan, perhaps you’d like to go . . . with . . . me?” He straightens a bit and looks at me for a long moment, his lips slightly open as if he’s just about to say something. But he doesn’t. He just keeps looking at me, furrowing his eyebrows, obviously confused. Then he takes a quick breath and looks down, blinking a few times. Oh, this isn’t a good sign. I should just disappear, forget I ever did this. I take a breath and start, “Listen, no worries. It’s fine if you don’t want to—”

He quickly looks back at me. “No! No, I . . . I want to.” Really? Then he smiles, looking into my eyes, first one and then the other, as if he’s checking whether my eye color is the same in both. I am lost, looking back at him, diving in the deep blue. He takes a deep breath then says, “That would be . . . really nice, Jane. Thank you. For thinking of me.” Thinking of you? I sigh inside. It can’t be any other way, it seems. “You’re welcome, Sam.” Then he tilts his head. “Are you sure you don’t wanna invite someone else? A friend from the lab, perhaps?” “No, no, that’s fine. And you know, there’s another couple coming, so—” Uh-oh. Did I just say ‘couple’? He smiles broadly. “Oh! So it’s like a double date?”

Oh, crap! “No, no, no! That’s not what I wanted to say. I mean, they are a couple, and they are together. But you and I are not together, so—” Why am I still talking? I drop my gaze to the floor. He laughs. “I was just joking, Jane! But, no, that’s cool. I’d love to join.” I smile in relief, happy he didn’t make a big thing out of it. “I might be on location during the day,” he says, “so we’ll probably need to meet up somewhere in the city. Is that okay?” “Yes, that’s perfect.” We keep looking at each other for a few more moments, and then I realize there was a reason he opened the door in the first place. “Sorry, I just realized . . . you were going out. I won’t keep you any longer,” I say and step away. “Good night, Sam!” Then I walk to my door in crablike fashion, unable to peel my eyes away. There is a hidden, almost mischievous smile on his lips. Oh, no, I must be so obvious . . .

“Good night, Jane!” he says, then steps away from the door and locks it behind him. I finally manage to turn around and walk to my door, where I grab and hold on to the handle to keep from looking back. It’s incredibly difficult. I’d love to turn around, I’d love to see him one more time before he leaves. He must be still standing behind me, because I didn’t hear him walk away. And he must be looking at me. I swallow and my heartbeat speeds up instantly. I take a breath and turn around. Huh? I frown and exhale slowly. He’s gone. I’m half his size and even I am loud going down the stairs. How can he possibly be so quiet? Strange . . . Or perhaps he went back to the apartment? The lights automatically turn off, snapping me out of my thoughts. I turn back to my door and unlock it, then blindly reach for the switch. The small bulb hanging on a twisted cable in the

hallway lights up. I’ve been meaning to get a nice lampshade for this entry light ever since I got here, but I never seem to get around to it. I press the door with my back and it closes silently. I still don’t get how he— Wait a minute . . . I turn around and look at my door. Then open it a bit and let it swing shut. Silence. I open it again. And the door closes silently again. Did Mr. Kublabicz fix my door? One more time I open it, and again the door closes silently. Aww, it’s so sweet of him to fix it. Though I never complained about it. I need to thank him. I take off my shoes and jacket and walk into the kitchen, leaving my keys and cell phone in my fruit-less fruit bowl. Where was I? Ah, yes, Sam . . . I think of him leaning on the doorframe again. I don’t know how leaning against a beam of

wood can be such a turn-on, but it is. And it completely jams my brain. I’ve been making such a fool of myself in front of him it’s embarrassing. I laugh once, then shake my head, still smiling. I don’t really know what he’s thinking. It’s probably better I don’t find out. But it doesn’t matter, really, because, for the first time in a long time, I feel alive again. He makes me feel alive. And I’m going to watch an ice hockey match with him. I feel a pinch in the middle of my chest, followed by a faster heartbeat, just from thinking about him and me sitting close to each other for a few hours. It isn’t exactly a romantic dinner, but still. It’s good enough. No. No, not just “good enough.” It’s perfect.

Chapter 15 Tuesday 3:43 p.m. I lean closer to the computer, checking the numbers one more time. Behind my screen and the large glass wall, the machine is moving, fast and jerky. I shake my head. The numbers don’t make any sense. I lean on my elbows and cover my mouth with my fingers, thinking. This is so strange. I know this happens in eukaryotic cells—mammalian cells, for example—but bacteria . . . I’ve seen a few papers claiming that bacterial cells can actually trigger this process but I was not convinced. I shake my head and lean back in my seat. Frank is working at a desk next to me with a computer linked to the robotic machinery. He looks up from the computer to the machine as the pipettes keep moving around, dispensing liquids. At that moment, Miyako walks back in with

three cups of coffee from the coffee shop around the corner. “Oh, just what I needed! Grazie, bella!” Frank bends his head back for a kiss. Miyako leaves a cup next to my computer, then walks over and kisses him, leaving another cup on his desk. “Thanks, Miya!” I take a sip of coffee. It’s burning hot, but excellent. I put it down. “So, how is everything going? Any issues with the programming?” Miyako sits behind Frank and looks at his screen. “No. All seems to be working smoothly.” “So I wasn’t needed after all.” She makes a pretend sad face, pulling the edges of her lips down. “No,” I say. “It only means that you taught us very well.” She smiles, back to her usual sunny self again. “How did your experiment go? Did you finish it?” “Oh, yeah!” I laugh. “Talk about a Crazy Gro life cycle—it’s done within minutes!” She laughs too. “At least we get the results faster, right? So did you find something?”

I nod slowly, looking at my screen. “I did, but . . .” “But?” Miyako rolls her chair to me and looks at the data. “Huh? Am I getting this right?” Now Frank looks at us as well. “What?” “It seems that . . . it seems that these cells trigger the programmed cell death when they discover there’s no more food.” “Really? So, tell me again, what happens normally?” “Well, usually, after the logarithmic phase, the cells enter a plateau stage, where they keep their number the same for quite some time, before they start dying.” “Perhaps their plateau stage is very short?” asks Miyako. I shake my head. “I thought so too, but if you compare the stages of normal bacterial cells, and how much shorter they are in Crazy Gro, I should still see some of the plateau stage.” I turn to face them. “Plateau is normally the longest-lasting phase. I should have seen something of it, if it was there.”

“What does that mean? That they don’t enter this last stage of stagnation like other bacteria do?” asks Miyako. I take a breath but don’t say anything. This almost looks engineered. I mean, what kind of cell would just decide to die? I shake my head again. “Look, even if they depleted the food resources, which”—I look back at the data—“it seems they did, they should still stagnate.” I turn back to Miyako and Frank. “Right?” “Not following.” Frank shakes his head and rolls his chair toward us. “Okay. Let’s just imagine a group of Crazy Gro cells in this Petri dish that just had their last meal, all right? Now, even if they don’t have any more food, those cells with full stomachs, so to speak, should still live for . . .” I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know, five minutes, perhaps, with this strain? But not zero minutes. I wouldn’t expect them to die immediately after consuming the last spoonful. You know what I mean?” I look at them.

They both shrug their shoulders. “Maybe it’s the mutation?” says Miyako. “What mutation?” “The one that makes them grow so fast. Perhaps it’s a side effect, this lack of plateau phase.” She looks at me, then at Frank. “Maybe,” I say, though to my mind, it doesn’t fit. Something is strange here. “Hello, hello!” Florence walks in, carrying a piece of paper. “Hi,” we say at the same time, all of us a bit distracted with our current discussion. “Something’s wrong,” Florence says as she picks up a folder of Dr. Rosenberg’s data from the corner of the desk. I turn toward her. “What is it?” She shakes her head, comparing the paper she is holding with the pages in the folder. “It’s the same. I thought only my folder had the error, but it’s the same here.” “Care to explain?” asks Frank. She looks up at us. “So, I wanted to check the DNA polymerase and see if there’s a way to

affect the primer binding, right?” “Right,” I say, “to block the DNA polymerization so they never start growing.” “Correct. Well, to do that, I need to look at the genomics data, see how the polymerase is built in this strain and then see if I can stop it from functioning. But”—she lifts the sheet of paper in the air and shakes it —“this polymerase, in fact, this whole genome, is Thermus!” All three of us are still for a long moment, none of us understanding what she’s getting at, until finally it dawns on me. “You mean, the genotype we have here is just Thermus?” “Yes!” Florence says. “I . . . I don’t follow you guys,” Frank says. “Aren’t we supposed to be working with Thermus here?” “Actually, no.” I turn toward him. “We are working with Thermus with a mutation. Meaning that if we have a genotype of Thermus only”—I point to the folder—“we actually don’t have the real genomics sequence of the bacteria we are working with right now.”

“Huh?” Frank says, adjusting his glasses. “We are missing the mutation for the fast growth!” says Florence. “This genomic sequence is only Thermus. Normal, slow-growing Thermus. But —” she points to the folder “ —see? See the title? It says here it’s the fast-growing Thermus. Our Crazy Gro.” She looks at us and leans on the back rest of the sofa, the folder open on her lap. “Only it’s not. I compared the whole sequence to the bacterial database, and it’s just normal, common, ordinary Thermus. This is not the mutated strain.” She closes the folder and puts it back on the desk, sighing heavily. “Uh, I don’t get it.” “Perhaps it’s a mistake?” tries out Miyako. “Perhaps, by mistake, the data in this folder are really only for normal Thermus, but the real genomic sequence that Dr. Rosenberg did is, I don’t know . . . saved somewhere else?” “Well, it’s a confidential project, so she wouldn’t save it on an open server or anywhere else where we or others can easily access it. No, it would have to be somewhere safe,” I say. “Maybe David knows?” asks Miyako.

“He might,” says Florence. “I’ll check with him to see if he has access to some folder where Dr. Rosenberg saved her data.” I nod. “Good. Let me know what you find out.” Then I turn to my screen again, thinking back over the previous discussion. “There are just too many open questions that should not be questions at all . . .” “Oh, you have an open question, too?” Florence asks, paying attention to my screen. “It seems that as soon as the cells deplete their food source,” I explain, “they go into a programmed cell death.” “Really? Don’t they just stagnate for a bit?” “No, Flo, that’s exactly the mystery. They don’t live for a second longer.” “Strange.” Florence shakes her head. “I wonder why that is . . . well, maybe we’ll find out more once we have the genomics data. Frank, what about you? Any findings?” Frank looks back at his screen. “I just finished the last batch of antibiotics, but all the ones that I used before do nothing. Zero.”

“Though that’s not entirely true,” jumps in Miyako. “What do you mean?” I turn my chair toward her. “Well—correct me if I’m wrong, Frank, but whenever you add your antibiotics, the cells do show a slight pause in their growth, but then after a delay of a few seconds, they continue at their normal pace. Isn’t that right?” She’s looking at Frank intently. He shrugs. “Sure, but I don’t think that means much. I mean, normal cells die when you hit them with antibiotics.” “It means something, Frank. It’s not unimportant,” I say. “What?” “I don’t know.” Then I wink at him. “Yet!” Miyako laughs, and, rolling his eyes, Frank says, “No false modesty here.” I smile and turn to the computer. Florence gets up to leave but stops at the door, leaning against the frame. “So, guys, we’re celebrating this evening, right?”

“Yes!” Miyako turns to Florence. “Bo-Bo Bar. Seven thirty. Good?” Florence lifts a thumb. “I’ll be there.” And she disappears, the door slowly closing behind her. I turn my chair to Miyako. “Is there anyone not coming?”

Chapter 16 Tuesday 7:42 p.m. When we enter Bo-Bo Bar, it is loud and warm, and it smells of beer. We automatically start talking louder. “Why don’t you find us a place? I’ll get something to drink,” says Frank and walks to the bar. Miyako and I look around. It’s pretty full, as usual, even though it’s the middle of the workweek, but we manage to find an empty table next to the window all the way at the back in the corner. We walk around the other tables, as if we’re wandering through a maze, until we reach our spot. I take off my jacket and hang it on a chair, then sit down. It is not so loud at the very back of the bar, and I’m happy I don’t need to strain my voice to be heard properly. “I told Chris too,” Miyako says. “He had prior arrangements, but he said he might come later.

Florence will come around eight, and, um, Kevin will be here too.” “Big party,” I say. “And it should be. You made such a great discovery!” “Well, we’ll only know it’s great once it’s been accepted by a journal.” She waves her hand dismissively. “No! It’s an awesome result. Where it will be accepted is another question. But the result is great and you know it. And—we need to baptize it with some beer!” I smile at her, then look up to see Frank just coming to our table. He bangs three, large, heavy mugs on the dark wooden surface, foam spilling out and running down the edges, then he pushes them along the table toward me and Miyako. I wonder if they’re going to catch on an uneven surface of the table and tip over, but the glasses are so heavy that the cracks flatten under their weight, and they don’t tip. Frank grabs the handle of his own glass and brings it up to the center of the table.

“To science!” he says. “And to the great result Jane got.” He looks at me and smiles. I smile back and we all clink glasses and take a few mouthfuls. I put the glass down in front of me, watching the bubbles drifting upward in the sparkly yellow-golden liquid. “So where do you think you’ll send it?” asks Frank, licking the foam off his three-day-old beard. “Well, first I need to make sure it’s—” “Yes, yes, we know that. Make sure you can reliably repeat the results,” interrupts Miyako. “I mean after that.” I sigh. “Okay, after that . . . well, it depends a lot on David, but I guess he’ll want it in PLOS or Nature Cell Biology, perhaps.” “That would be so awesome! You might even apply for a lab head position somewhere afterwards,” Frank says and takes another gulp. “Yes, true—you might get a lab of your own! You could go anywhere!” says Miyako. But instead of feeling happy, all of a

sudden, I feel . . . unsure. I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to stay where Sam is. But, of course, the thought is completely illogical. First of all, we are nothing to each other. Why would I tie myself to a person I barely know? And second, Sam will be gone after his project is done, and I don’t know where he will be going next. I can’t possibly choose my working location based on— Why am I even thinking about this, for crying out loud? Get a grip, Jane! “Where are you?” says Miyako, leaning forward and waving a hand in front of my eyes. I smile back. “Somewhere else.” “Must be some top-notch conference you’ll get invited to once the paper is out,” says Frank. I guess that is something I should be thinking about. But I don’t. I think of Sam. And his lips. And his perfect teeth when he smiles. And his amazing blue eyes. And his deep but soft baritone voice. And him looking so confused, but so endearing, when I invited him to the Bruins match.

And leaning on the doorframe in the most attractive way. And having this gorgeous bod— “Do you?” asks Miyako. I look back at her. “Sorry?” She laughs. “You really are somewhere else! Do you have any plans for Christmas?” “Oh, um—well, we have a family dinner planned at my parents’ place on Saturday. Very traditional. And it’s great that you guys are spending Christmas together.” “I hope they like me,” Frank says and takes another deep gulp of beer. “Francesco,” Miyako says, putting her arm around his shoulders. “They’ve been hearing about you for months. They already like you.” Frank doesn’t look convinced at all, but he decides not to argue anymore. Miyako looks behind me and then waves to someone. I turn around. Florence and Kevin are pushing their way toward us. Just behind them, I catch a man at the bar looking in my direction. He says something to the guy sitting next to him and he turns to look as well.

Then he twists his lips in a sly grin and nods. He turns back to the first guy and says something else, and they both laugh. Something in the way they were looking at me gives me the creeps. I turn back to Miyako. Just ignore them, Jane. That’s the best way to deal with testosteronedriven primates. “How’s it going, everyone?” asks Kevin. “Flo, I’ll get the drinks. What do you want?” Florence points to our glasses as she’s sitting down. “Thanks!” Kevin lifts up a thumb. “Anything else? Do you guys want something to eat?” “That’s an idea,” says Frank, looking at each of us, then up at Kevin. “Why don’t you get us nachos with cheese, a large portion we can all share?” “Got it!” He turns around and finds his way to the bar. Frank turns back to the table. “Flo, did you talk to David about genotyping?” Florence glances at Kevin standing at the

bar and says, “No. I tried to call his cell phone, but I couldn’t reach him.” “It must be a mistake,” says Miyako, putting her glass down. “Well, mistake or not, we need to do the sequencing again,” I say. “I can do it tomorrow morning, if there are no other volunteers? I need a sequence myself. I need to see what sensor protein this strain has so that I’m able to design a blocker.” “That would be great, Jane, if you don’t mind picking this up,” Frank says. “I still want to finish up my other experiments.” “Same here,” says Florence. I nod. “Sure, no worries!” Then I see Kevin coming back, so I say in quieter voice, though it’s not necessary with all this noise around us, “Pity our normal cells don’t grow that fast, otherwise we’d all have results within minutes.” “Are you serious?” Frank arches his eyebrows. “I don’t want my Streptococcus to grow that fast, thank you very much!” “Your strain is harmless, Frank. It’s designed for controlled laboratory use only. It can’t

survive outside the lab, you know that,” I say. “Still. It’s Streptococcus.” Kevin puts two glasses of beer on the table. “They’ll bring the nachos in a few minutes. I ordered the jumbo version! So,” Kevin continues, turning toward me, “tell me about your amazing science project.” I look up. Did he overhear us? “Which project?” Florence asks, looking sideways at him. Kevin shrugs. “Aren’t we here to celebrate Jane’s new results?” I flop back into my chair and breathe out. He didn’t overhear us. Phew! I hate that we need to keep this a secret from him, but David was quite clear about it. Just then, the waiter comes and places a large portion of nachos in the center of our table. Kevin takes one, a few thin cheese threads stretching between the plate and his hand. “So, Jane, let me hear it?” But just before I manage to say anything, Miyako jumps in. “Kevin, please, let’s move away

from the science, shall we? We do this all day. In the evenings I want to talk about something else.” “Fine. What do you want to talk about? Christmas bonuses?” “Well, that’s a topic I find interesting.” Frank leans in. “So, Kevin, did you top us up this year?” Kevin laughs. “You guys! You know I can’t tell you that. It’s confidential.” I look up at him. Ditto back to you, Kevin. I feel a tiny bit better now, knowing we all have something we need to keep a secret.

Chapter 17 Tuesday 10:26 p.m. After the third round, I put on my jacket and get ready to leave. “You’re leaving already?” asks Kevin. “Yeah, this is more than enough for me.” I point to the empty beer mugs and try to smile, but I’m sure what comes out doesn’t sound how I planned it. “I think I’ll walk home. Get some fresh air.” “Are you sure you’ll be all right?” asks Miyako. “Of course! Of course! You guys stay, have one more round for my awesome blockers.” “We will definitely do that.” Frank nods, then looks at Miyako. “In fact, we will probably celebrate that particular point several more times.” Miyako smiles back. “Don’t get wasted!” I say, but I realize I’m there already. My tongue is a bit slow, a second or

two behind my thoughts, and I feel like I need to unglue my eyelids after every blink. “You still need to work tomorrow,” I manage to mumble. “Jane, should I call a taxi for you?” asks Miyako. I shake my head and regret it instantly. “No. Walking will do me good. I’m only a few blocks away, anyway.” I stand up extremely cautiously, which makes them all laugh, and then turn around, waving my arm. “Bye,” shouts Miyako over the music. “Call me once you’re home.” My arm is still in the air so I give her a thumbs-up as my answer while I head for the exit. “Hey babe!” Some guy grabs my arm and I instinctively pull it away, then look in his direction. It’s the same man who was staring at me earlier, wearing the same sly grin on his face. “It’s too early to leave, babe. Why don’t you stay a bit longer?” This sobers me up quite a bit. “No. Thank you.” I continue walking, but the guy stands up and stops me by holding my elbow.

“It’s my treat!” I pull my arm away. “No! Leave me alone!” “Suit yourself.” And he sits down. I breathe out heavily. Then I shiver from my head to my toes. Creepy . . . Maybe I should stay with the others, then have someone walk back with me? I turn around and glance at the table. Frank has everyone’s attention. He appears to be telling a joke. Then he slaps his hand on the table and they all burst out laughing. Nah! It’ll be fine. I turn back and head for the door. Two people just entered and the cold air sweeps into the bar. I raise the collar of my coat and walk out. The air is cold and crisp and it calms me down. I have a feeling the oxygen instantly dilutes the alcohol in my blood. I look up to the dark winter sky. It’s black and starless, although the sky is clear. From my Aunt Sue’s farm, I could see millions of stars at night. But that’s because Pine

Creek is in the middle of nowhere. Half a dozen horses, a flock of sheep and a vast empty space. Those were the days. I look down to the street again, checking for traffic, then cross it as I put my cap on and push my hands inside my pockets. I squeeze between two parked cars, then step onto the pavement and continue on my way. My eyes are glued to the pavement, and I am deep in my thoughts again, thinking of the Crazy Gro experiments, but a few people are walking behind me, loud and chatty, distracting me from my thoughts. I frown, looking up the street to see where I am. I’ll take a side street to walk home. It’s quieter. I turn left on the next street. The group continues up the main road and the noise subsides. I get back to my thoughts, trying to focus on my next research steps. I’m gazing at the bricks of the buildings, and in this dim light, they look dark blue.

And unmistakably, my next thought is of enchantingly beautiful blue eyes. Sam. Distracting me once again. I sigh, but smile within. What am I going to do? I can’t even focus on my work anymore. I come to another street and check left and right for traffic. It’s deserted and empty, so I cross it, my eyes on the ground, looking at the pavement plastered with chewing gums. Just then, I hear something behind me. I turn around and see the silhouette of two men walking in my direction. I turn to the front and continue walking. Jane, nothing to worry about. This has nothing to do with you. I look back again. One of the men is smoking, and the burning cinder brightens the contours of his face as he breathes in through a cigarette. Or maybe it does. It’s the same guy from the bar—the one who pulled me by my elbow.

Oh, this is not good! They are not talking, but I can hear them picking up their pace. My heartbeat accelerates and my palms start sweating. I want to run, but I don’t. Instead, I lengthen my steps to speed up. For a moment I don’t hear them, but I turn again and realize they are much closer than before. And they are still not talking. I hate that. It seems so predatory. I look up the street, trying to see if I can turn onto the main street again, but this stretch is long, and then the next cross street is my own. And I don’t want to lead them to my apartment. My heart is now wild under my rib cage. And I hate that as well. I know the theory. It’s adrenaline. Fight or flight. But right now, it’s very distracting, and it prevents me from making a wise decision. So I run. And I hear the two men start to run as well. Oh, crap!

They’ll be faster than me. Oh, no! No, no, no! I look up the street. Windows. Doors. Parked cars. All dark. All empty. Isn’t anyone there? Anyone? I hear them. They are only a few feet away. I don’t want to turn. I just run. I clench my fists as I run and I brace myself to scream as soon as they lay their hands on me. And then—the sound! A skidding, then a smashing noise and a loud gasp, then a cracking, followed by another thud. I keep running, but very soon I realize my steps are the only ones I’m hearing. I look back, still running. And—the street is empty. I stop and turn around. Dim light, dark blue walls, and silence. My heartbeat is still loud in my ears, my

muscles ready to engage at a moment’s notice. But there’s no one there. Did I imagine it? Was this because of the alcohol? No, it can’t be. I feel completely sober now. I turn back and walk slowly to my street, turning around every few feet to check that I’m not being followed. As soon as I reach Buswell, I check behind me one more time, making sure no one is there, then turn left to my building. My heart is still drumming, but I finally breathe out completely, realizing I’ve kept my lungs full of air, breathing only shallowly for the last several minutes. I reach the entrance and walk up the stairs, taking off my gloves so I can find the keys, but then —I hear a sound behind me. Someone’s there. And I turn.

Chapter 18 Tuesday 11:03 p.m. A tall hooded figure, only a foot away from me. I yelp. “Wow, sorry! Sorry!” Sam slides his hood off, pulling out his earbuds. He’s wearing black sweatpants and a black hoodie. “I didn’t mean to frighten you! Are you okay?” “Oh . . .” I drop my shoulders, and I have a real urge to collapse my whole body onto the floor as well. I was on edge, and Sam just pricked a needle into an overfilled balloon. “I’m fine,” I say. “I’m fine. It’s not you. I just . . .” I look down at the empty street and slowly shake my head. “I just had a feeling someone was following me.” Sam raises an eyebrow as he loops the earbud wire around his neck. “Maybe it was me. Stalking you!” And he winks at me. Sam?

Stalking? Me?? I laugh. And that works wonderfully: relaxing my shoulders, loosening my tight muscles, allowing me to pull fresh air into my lungs. He smiles back and then takes his keys out of his pocket. They jingle against each other, as he smoothly sorts through them with one hand and then picks the right one. “You know, you should take the main street when you walk back home at night,” he says and inserts the key into the keyhole. “Not some dodgy little alley.” I frown and look back down the street one more time. How does he know which street I took? I look back down the alley I came from. Strange . . . Oh, I know. He must have taken the main street and he didn’t see me . . . that’s how. The door opens with a slight crack as the wood scrapes and then releases from the small bulge in the laminate floor. Sam holds it open for me. “After you.”

I smile slightly and then walk into the dark hallway. The orange light flickers into existence, and the door closes. I walk to the elevator, acutely aware that Sam is right behind me. And unlike those two men, having him a few feet away does something completely different to me. I’m careful how I walk; I try to look as graceful as possible. I’m straightening my shoulders, lifting my head— and then I realize, all of a sudden, that what I’m doing is trying to impress him. And I’m probably doing a lousy job too. I swallow and stop next to the elevator. My gaze is on the floor, and I’m afraid that if he looks into my eyes, he’ll be able to read my thoughts. He stops next to me. Then, I gather the courage and look up, into his beautiful blue eyes. And Sam—looks back at me. For a few moments, nothing happens. And then he slowly moves toward me. My heart skips a beat. He raises his hand and then—pushes the elevator button to my right.

I close my eyes. The elevator. Right. I disappear behind a curtain of embarrassment. And I’d thought—what? That he was going to kiss me? I’m such an idiot! I open my eyes, determined to be sensible from now on. “So, what have you been doing out so late?” I ask. “Jogging,” he says, pulling his sleeves down over his knuckles. “So, you’re coming back late from work?” “Oh, no, I wasn’t at work. I was at a bar, celebrating my results with my lab friends.” “Nice. Are these the results you told me about? Geriatric cells not sensing the food around them?” “Yes, exactly!” This is good—me talking about science, about my lab. It brings me slowly back to the ground. The elevator arrives and Sam pushes the iron gate open.

“So, how is your work going?” I say as I walk in. He nods as he closes the door. “I think I’m being quite productive.” That doesn’t sound very good. The more productive he is, the faster he’s finished with the project, and the faster he’s out of here. “What kind of photographing are you doing right now?” He takes a deep breath. “Well . . .” He looks away. “Let’s see. I’m doing some portraits. In fact, quite a lot of portraits.” “Okay. Are you doing many people, or just a few?” He looks into my eyes, then quickly looks away. “Well, it’s more like . . .” He closes his eyes for a second, then continues. “It’s only a few people, but I’m really sort of focusing on one person, actually . . .” “A client?” “Um, yeah, you could say that. One needs to take many images to find the perfect one. Though all of them are really perf—” He takes

another deep breath. “And I also do quite a lot of buildings.” “Buildings? What kind of buildings?” “Well, mainly modern buildings.” “Okay. Any specific details you’re interested in?” “The . . . doors.” He coughs into his hand and looks away. Okay, that’s a bit weird. But who am I to say? I love it when I see bright blue spots next to bright green ones while looking through the microscope. “Okay. I guess that sort of thing is determined by the client, right?” “Yes. That’s exactly right.” The third floor comes all too soon and we step out of the elevator. I keep glancing at him, trying to think of a way to stall his departure. “So, what do you think is the most important thing about photography?” He looks at me for a moment before he answers. “It’s a bit difficult to say, but if I had to name one thing, I’d say it’s the light. You need to have good light.”

“Okay. I guess you must have strong flashbulbs, if you need them.” “True, but sometimes I shoot outdoors, and then it’s difficult to use artificial light. You need to use what the daylight gives you.” We stop in front of his door, and I’m feverishly trying to think what else I can ask him. But before I manage, he continues, “But you can get by all right if you have the right lenses and good equipment. On top of that, you can do a whole lot of retouching on the computer.” “You mean like Photoshop?” “Yes, programs like that.” Then, an idea hits me. “You know, I’d love to see you at work sometime, if you have time.” His face suddenly changes. His eyes open wide and I’m not quite sure he’s breathing. He looks away, distracted, and says, “Yeah . . . um. Maybe. It might be difficult to organize . . . you know, because of the client . . .” I lower my gaze. You’re a fool, Jane. He doesn’t want to spend time with you! He accepted the Bruins only because it’s his favorite team.

“No, don’t worry, Sam. I realize it’s a problem. It’s no big deal. You don’t have to—” “No, no! It’s fine. I . . .” He takes a deep breath. “I would love to show you some of my photography. I just need to give it some thought. Okay?” I look up at him. “Okay.” A moment of uncomfortable silence stretches between him and me and back again, until I take a step to my door. “Well, it was nice talking to you,” I say. He looks back and his expression is back where I want it: beautiful, calm, and inviting. “It was. Sleep well, Jane.” “Good night, Sam.” “Good night.” I turn around and walk to my door, managing not to look back. Once inside, I lean on the door, thinking. What made him so uncomfortable when I asked to see him at work? He’s out in public most of the time anyway, surrounded by people. Why wouldn’t he want me to see him working?

Hmm. I go into the living room, leaving my shoes in the hallway. When I was in high school, I had a good friend, Alex, who was absolutely superb at drawing. But he never wanted anyone to see him doing it. He said he felt naked when he drew. Maybe it’s the same with Sam? Maybe he feels naked too? Oh . . . I close my eyes and swallow. This is the wrong image to have in my mind right now. I lick my lips. Well . . . maybe not. And, anyway, a little daydreaming never hurt anyone . . . I smile at my inner thoughts and head for my bedroom.

Chapter 19 Wednesday 11:43 a.m. “It won’t work, David!” I say, pacing next to him along the corridor while he walks back to his office. “I need to have a specific blocker. I can’t just use my Streptococcus blocker and throw it at Thermus. The bacteria won’t even register it. They are such different strains that—” “I know, Jane. But you have the blocker ready. Just give it a go. With these cells it will take, what, five minutes to run your experiment?” I shrug, lifting my arms in a helpless gesture. “I could, David, but it’s not logical at all. I mean, we are doing science, based on facts and premises, not simply throwing reagents at different bacteria just in case they work. There’s got to be some logical reasoning behind it, and here, there is none.” “How long will it take you to design a new blocker specific for Thermus?”

I look away, thinking. “I don’t know. First I need to get a real sequence, then I need to check the sensor—” “Sorry? What sequence?” “Didn’t Flo talk to you?” He frowns. “She tried to reach me, but no. Why?” “Well, she found out that the sequence we have in Dr. Rosenberg’s folder is just Thermus, without the fast-growth mutation.” “Are you serious?” I nod. “Yes.” He lowers his head, combs his gray hair back with his hand, and takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay, fine. So we need to do the sequencing again.” “I already sent the sample to the genomics department. It’s on its way.” He lifts his eyebrows. “Oh! Okay. So you guys don’t need me around much, do you?” Then he laughs. It doesn’t feel like a joke, but I smile anyway.

“Do you know when the results should be ready?” he asks. “End of the week, they said.” “End of the week? Bloody hell, it’s not a human genome they need to analyze! Why do they need so much time?” “They are booked out. We’re standing in a queue.” He closes his eyes and rubs the base of his nose with his thumb and index finger, his glasses sliding down his nose. Then he pushes them back. “Fine, fine. Just let me know once you get the results, okay?” “I will, boss.” “Good.” He wants to leave, but then he stops and turns around. “Was there anything else?” “No, that’s all.” “Good. Thank you, Jane.” He smiles a tired I’m-too-old-for-this-shit smile and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Thanks for doing such a good job.” I’m about to tell him I didn’t make any progress on Crazy Gro, but I refrain. “Thanks,

David.” He nods, then leaves, walking down the corridor and turning right into his office. I look down at the floor, then turn on my heel and slowly walk to the stairs. He must be operating in a different dimension. It’s like he totally didn’t get the concept of how the blocker works. The point of the blocker is that it’s specific to only one type of a sensor protein, and sensors are strain specific. Thermus and Streptococcus definitely don’t have the same sensor. Hence, the blockers won’t be the same either. I shake my head as I walk out of the staircase and enter my lab. Frank is there, just opening the lid of a small hot water bath next to the laminar hood. “Hey, why so angry?” He puts a thick heatresistant glove on his left hand and takes out two glass bottles out of the water bath, transparent liquid inside. “Ah!” I wave my hand once. “David wants me to throw the Strep blocker reagent at Crazy

Gro. It doesn’t make sense.” Frank takes off the glove and makes a few notes in his lab book. “Well, you might try.” He reaches for a bottle. “It will only take you a min —aaah!” He drops the bottle back onto the lab bench and it clangs loudly as it hits the glass desk, but it doesn’t break. Oh, no, he forgot to put the glove back on! Frank is squeezing his hand between his legs, hopping from one leg to the other and silently cursing in Italian. It would almost look funny, except that it’s not. He’s clearly in pain. “Frank, come here! Let’s get this under cold water!” I rush over to the large metal sink next to the lab entrance, pulling him with me, then let the cold water run. I have to literally push his hand under the running water. After a few moments, his heavy breathing stops, and his pain-contorted face relaxes somewhat into an uncomfortable grimace. I look back at the hot water bath. “Well, at least it wasn’t boiling,” I say, reading the temperature display. Then I turn back to him. “Now you know what it would feel like if we worked on

Crazy Gro with our hands!” I laugh, trying to make him feel better. “How could I have been so stupid?” “Hey, it happens to the best of us. So, what were you doing?” “Oh, just trying another protocol.” “Well, I certainly hope it works.” He slowly pulls his hand out of the water and looks at it, then smiles at me. “Thanks, Jane.” “No problem. How does your hand feel?” “Better, but . . . my skin feels tight.” “Come with me,” I say and head for the door. “I think there’s something in the med kit that might help.” In the office, I find the kit and look for a small red tube. “There it is!” I take it out and hand it to Frank. “Here. Try this.” “How did you know that was there?” he asks as he applies it to the burn. “Oh!” I wave my hand. “I’ve checked it out before.” He raises his eyebrows. “You checked out the medical kit?”

I shrug my shoulders. “Sure. What’s the use of having one if I don’t know what’s inside? Especially in emergencies, when you need to think fast.” He nods once. “Fair point. Well, good to have you around.” I smile. Just then Miyako peeks her head into the office. “Lunch? Oh, what happened to you?” Frank turns to her. “Terrible, terrible accident!” he says, wavering his voice in a theatrical way. Miyako tilts her head to the side, reading him like an open book. “Fine. You’ll tell me all about it at the table.” She looks at me. “Shall we?” Frank hands me the red tube and I stuff it in my handbag as I head for the door. *** I slide my tray forward and look into the warm chafing dishes to check what’s on offer. Miyako and Frank are right behind me, talking

about Christmas presents for her parents. The Thai dish on the right catches my eye. It’s not pad thai, but it inevitably reminds me of the dinner I had with Sam. Wow. I still can’t believe I invited him for dinner. And he accepted! Just like that. Not a real date, but still—just him and me. The side of my lip twitches and I strain not to smile. “Did you decide who are you inviting to the game?” asks Miyako. “Sorry, what?” I turn to look at her. “The Bruins? Did you ask anyone already?” “Because if not,” adds Frank, leaning in behind Miyako so that he can see me, “I’m sure Kevin would be out of his mind with happiness if he could—” “I did. I asked someone.” “Really?” “Who?” “A friend,” I say. “Do I know her?” asks Miyako. I take a deep breath; my insides go all

bubbly whenever I think about Sam. “It’s not a her, it’s a him.” Miyako and Frank look at each other, then back at me. “Him? Really? Well, do we know him?” I smile. “No.” “So, who is he?” Frank moves his tray forward and looks at the man behind the counter. “Hi, could I please have chicken and chips?” “He’s just a guy, Frank. Not a big deal.” It’s actually a huge deal, but I can’t say that. I’m afraid I’ll jinx it. “Well, Miya’s been bugging me to set you up with my friends forever, so I need to know if I’m finally off the hook.” Miyako elbows him in the stomach. “Ouch! It’s true.” “Yeah, only you don’t just say it to her!” I laugh. “Guys, it’s not a big secret. I figured it out.” “Really?” Miyako turns back to me. Frank rolls his eyes. “The woman’s got two top papers and the next one is around the corner.

Did you really think she wouldn’t get it?” Miyako shrugs, then turns to me. “So is something, kind of, happening with this mysterious person?” I turn to them, looking back and forth between them. “Guys, I’m not dating him. I only just met him. Give me a break.” Frank laughs. “If you wanted a break, you shouldn’t have told Miya about this guy in the first place. She’ll be all over you now, you know that,” he says, then he quickly lowers his arm, protecting himself from another elbow punch. I shake my head and turn back to the counter of chafing dishes. “Can I have the phad phak? Thanks!” Once Miyako has her plate, she slides closer to me and then asks under her breath, “So, Jane, is he your type?” My breath hitches. He must be everyone’s type. I reach out to take the plate and then move to the checkout counter. “He’s okay,” I say and move forward.

Miyako and Frank stand still. I turn back to them. “What?” They are both staring at me. “What?” I say a bit louder. They finally move, releasing the queue behind them. “We know this expression, don’t we, Francesco?” “What expression? What are you taking about?” I ask, my voice a bit louder then needed. After a few well-timed seconds, Miyako says, “You’re in love!” “No!” I say, louder than I intended to. Then I look around, but no one seems to be paying any attention. I turn back to them and say quietly, “No, I’m not in love. It’s—” “Are you going to pay or what?” I turn to the woman at the checkout. “Oh, I’m sorry.” I take out my new ID card and press it on the screen. “Thank you. Next!” I take my tray and move away, Miyako stepping into my place.

“I’m right here, lady, you don’t need to shout,” she says, paying with her own ID card. The woman frowns but doesn’t say anything. I need to lower my head to hide my smile. Once we are a few feet away, I turn to Miyako and say, “You know, I’ve always wanted to say that!” She laughs out loud. “Me too!” We all sit at the table, but before Miyako manages to continue her line of questioning, Chris barges over to our table. “Sorry I’m late, guys!” he says, dropping his tray on the table, shaking all of our plates as well, then pulling a chair from another table over to ours. Before we manage to comment, he says, “I know what stops Crazy Gro!” “What?” we say all at once. “The food.” “What do you mean, the food?” “The food. The bacterial agar. So”—he lifts his hands up—“there I was, working on my classical protein synthesis inhibition experiment, right? As always, I have different reagents that

block protein synthesis, and for all my experiments, as you guys know, I always use a gradient of the reagent on the bacterial agar plate.” We all nod. We’ve heard him talk about similar experiments before. “So, the food on one side of the Petri dish has no reagent, and the other side has the highest concentration of reagent, and in between are all the gradients—” “Chris, we know what your gradient experiment looks like. Tell us about the food,” I say. “I’m getting there. So, to create my gradient”—he pointedly looks at me—“I had to use my own Petri dishes from our lab upstairs, because I already have them prepared, and anyway, I don’t know how to do a gradient using a robot. My point is: I used my own Petri dishes in the lab downstairs, and—” “Wait—you can put your own Petri dishes inside the Crazy Gro lab? How?” I ask. “Oh, there’s a conveyer belt for that. You can get equipment, reagents, in and out, no

problem. So, I put a few of my gradient Petri dishes in, okay? What am I expecting? Best case, they grow on one side, where I have no reagent, and they are inhibited with the high concentration of the reagent on the other side of the Petri dish. Right? Best case. Worst case, they grow on the entire Petri dish as if there’s no reagent in the food agar at all, and you end up with a plate full of bacteria. You’re with me? Now, what I’m not expecting is for them not to grow at all.” We are all leaning in on the table now. “You’re saying you didn’t get any growth.” Chris now leans back in his chair, swinging his arm over the backrest. “That’s exactly right. No growth. Nothing. The dish was empty, clean, as if I hadn’t put any cells on it at all.” “And you are sure your cells would grow otherwise? You had a negative control?” “Of course, Jane! But if I use normal classical bacterial agar from our lab, the cells don’t grow. They should, because Thermus normally grows on classical bacterial agar, but not this one. Not. This. One. This Thermus wants something

else.” Chris is shaking his head, his whole body animated, his surfer-blond hair swirling around his head. “And that something else is on those Petri dishes in the dungeon—and by the way, I have no idea who supplies them, do you?” We all shake our heads. They are just there. I thought restocking must be done by some of the technicians. “To cut a long story short,” Chris continues, “these provided Petri dishes that we have downstairs are not the common bacterial food.” I look at Miyako and Frank, then back at Chris. “Are you absolutely sure?” “Damn right I’m sure. I’ve tried the whole experiment three times!” We are all silent for a moment. “Could it be that the Petri dishes you brought in from outside were infected with bacteriophages?” Frank asks. “No. I took sterile dishes and only opened them inside the Crazy Gro lab. They were clean.” He crosses his arms on his chest. “I have left them

now overnight to see what happens tomorrow.” “All right. Let’s see if they grow at all,” I say. “But if they don’t, that really means that the bacterial agar we have in the dungeon is not the classic bacterial food we use for all our other cells. It’s something else.” I look at my empty plate, my eyes unfocused. “We might need to get some of those Petri dishes to see what’s in that medium. “Miyako.” I look up at her. “Could we use the robotics system down there to get a sample of one of those Petri dishes?” “Yes, I think so.” “What do you plan to do with it?” asks Chris. “I want to send it to a mass spec analysis. I want to find out what’s in there.” Frank and Chris nod. “Good idea.” “Frank,” I say, “tell me again—you said none of your antibiotics worked, right?” “That’s right. And I’ve used all I have in my arsenal.” “But you did see a small halt in replication just after adding them, right?”

“Yes. But just for a few seconds. After that, they continued as usual.” “They stop for a moment, but then continue,” I say, almost to myself. “Very strange.” “Do you know what it means?” asks Frank. “It definitely means that antibiotics affect them somehow,” I say. “But they find a way around it. Which is super interesting.” “And scary too,” says Frank. “I hate resistant bacteria!” “Oh, me too!” says Chris. “We need to find out what is happening right at the point when the antibiotic is added,” I say, looking at Frank but not really focusing on him. Whatever they do to resist the antibiotics, they do it fast, just like their crazy growth. And we need to find out what. “I’ll do basic staining to see if that tells us something,” says Frank. I nod and say, “Let’s also do SchaefferFulton staining.” “Schaeffer? You want to check for endospores? That won’t work on Thermus. They

don’t do endospores.” “I know. I know.” I allow my gaze to unfocus again. “Let’s try it nevertheless . . . I just have a hunch.”

Chapter 20 Thursday 10:38 p.m. I find a free parking spot just in front Jimmy’s Coffee Shop, and I pull my car into it. I hope the owner recognizes it in the morning and doesn’t call a tow truck. The pavement feels slippery and I take small steps not to fall down. There is joy inside me, fluttering and bubbling, as I approach my staircase. And I know why that is. Sam might be there. Unlikely, I know, considering how late it is. But still, the possibility exists. I just might see him! As I climb the stairs, I realize the front door to my apartment building is ajar and the hallway light is on. I push the door and peek in. The next moment, a joyous but almost painful grip wrenches my heart. “Hi, Sam,” I say, my voice quivering

slightly. “Oh, hi, Jane!” Sam turns to me and smiles. “You’re getting home late, too!” I walk in, closing the door behind me and leaning against it, my hands crossed at my back. “I thought I was the only one crazy enough to work so late.” “Nope, there are others, I’m afraid.” He’s wearing all black. A helmet hangs on his arm, hooked over his elbow. His frame is slightly bent forward as he pages through the mail he’s just picked up. And he looks absolutely stunning. All of a sudden, I feel hot. I’m not sure if it’s this warm hallway—or Sam. I move away from the door and unzip my jacket, feeling slightly dizzy. I swallow hard and try to think clearly. “So,” I say, “how come you work so late? I thought only mad scientists get that privilege.” I laugh, but then I stop, hating the sound of it. “The client works late,” he says. “I simply need to adapt.” He looks at me but continues

toward the elevator, then opens the iron gate wide and waits for me. I’m all pins and needles as I walk past him, my heart rate increasing the closer I get to him. He closes the gate and we both face the exit as the lift starts. I glance at him. All of a sudden I feel as if I have a stone in my throat. I lick my lips, trying hard to control my breathing. “So . . .” My heartbeat is so wild under my chest I’m almost sure he’ll notice it. “What did you shoot today?” My voice is trembling. He looks sideways at me. For a moment he doesn’t respond, and a faint smile appears on his lips. Then he opens his mouth slightly and my gaze moves to his lips. And then, everything goes into slow motion: I’m in a trance watching his lips, beige-rose rather than red, the soft skin moving slowly as he takes a breath to speak. Beautiful . . . “—portraits.” I look up into his eyes. “Sorry?” “I did portraits today. Well, mostly portraits.” I nod, but my mind is blank. Come on!

Come on! Bring the brain back online! “I guess working so late can’t be all that fun, huh?” “It’s not that bad, actually.” He smiles and his smile goes deep into me, through me, warming me like no sunrays ever could. How does he do that? “I like working late, now,” he continues. We pass the second floor. Oh, no! I’m running out of time. I wish we lived in a skyscraper! Sam puts his hand in his pocket and looks down. I’m about to ask him why now is any different, but the next moment, the elevator stops with a hiccup and we both jump a bit. We look at each other. “Does this happen often?” he asks. I shake my head. “No.” He looks at the floor buttons on the side wall, takes his hand out of his pocket, and presses the lowest button with an image of a bell. Nothing happens. “Should we hear the alarm?” He looks at

me. I shake my head. “I . . . have no idea. I’ve never had to use it before.” “Do you usually take the stairs?” “No, not at all. It’s just that it never broke down when I was in it. In fact, I don’t think it’s ever broken down.” I can’t believe my luck: I’m stuck with the most gorgeous guy in the world, in the elevator that literally never breaks down! He nods, then looks back at the panel and presses the alarm button again. “Well, I hope someone hears it.” He takes off his jacket and sits down, putting his helmet on the carpeted floor next to him. I sit down as well. “You’re not hot in that?” he says, pointing to my jacket. “Hot?” Oh, yes, I am. But it has nothing to do with the jacket. I start pulling my arms out, but it’s a bit awkward in such a small space, so I need to push my chest forward, my arms behind me as I pull the

sleeves off. And for some strange reason, I find it crazily exciting. It’s being in this tight, confined place; it’s having Sam less than forty inches away; it’s stretching like this, pushing my chest forward. I glance sideways at him. And his eyes are on me. I smile within. I hold my stretched pose just a bit longer than I need to. Then I relax, lean on the back wall, and put my jacket on my knees. Sam coughs once and then looks to the side. “So, you’re into motorbikes?” I say, glancing at his helmet. He nods and taps the smooth black plastic. “I am. It’s almost becoming an addiction. There’s not a lot of space for all the . . . equipment I need, but I often use it to check out the sites in advance.” “Aren’t you scared?” He raises one eyebrow. “Scared of what?” “Riding a motorbike? I mean, that’s probably the most dangerous thing you do in your life.”

He narrows his eyes as he looks at me, his lips pulling sideways into a smile. But he doesn’t say anything. I’m a bit confused by his silence, so I explain further. “You know, you could, like, have an accident . . . ?” He nods slowly. “Yes. It probably is dangerous.” He keeps looking at me, and I feel so self-conscious that I need to look away. It feels as if he’s talking about something else, but I can’t figure out what. Half a minute passes in silence, and I hate wasting my precious time with him like this, so I try again. “It seems we’ll get home even later than we thought, huh?” His smile broadens. “I don’t mind.” A sweet sting in my heart. “Me neither.” I smile back. “So, you said that you’re okay working late now.” “Yes.” “Why is that? Why is now different than before?” For a long while, he doesn’t answer. Then he says, “Because, now, I . . .” He looks at me.

“Care.” “You’re making me curious now. What is your project then?” He blinks. “My project? Well . . . um, it’s actually—confidential.” “Really?” I thought I was the only one here working on a confidential project. “Why is taking photos confidential?” “It has to do with, ah . . .” He closes his eyes. “Marketing.” Then he looks back at me. “When clients create innovative products or prepare to launch a new marketing campaign, they like to keep it a secret.” “Ah, okay. That makes sense, I guess.” I would love to find out more. But more than that, I’d love to know more about him. Most of all, I’d love to know if he’s single. But I can’t ask him that. That would be a hundred-and-eightydegree turn from what we are talking about right now. So I ask something else instead. “So, tell me—what’s the most beautiful picture you’ve ever taken?” He then smiles his sunray smile. “It’s quite a

recent one, actually. I took it only a few months ago. It’s of a person. A woman.” A woman? I hope my inner frown doesn’t show on my face. “So what’s so special about her —I mean, about the photo?” His smile turns mischievous. “It’s taken in mid step. She’s looking at her shoes, wondering if they fit the occasion. The shoe color matches her hair and her dress and her stockings are all black.” His voice is low and mesmerizing as he talks. Whoever she is, I hate her! “Her hair is wrapped into a loose bun and a few strings fall to the side of her face.” My entire body crumples. Why did I have to ask him that question? “The picture was taken,” he continues, “quite spontaneously—no lighting props or any of my usual setup—but nevertheless, it is the best photo I have ever taken.” He takes a deep breath. “She was the best subject I ever had.” “Intriguing,” I say through my teeth. “I hope she paid you well.” He laughs loudly. “No. She wasn’t even the

client.” “Why did you take her photo, then?” He’s silent, looking at the floor. Then he looks at me, a vague smile on his lips. “It was . . . out of my control. I had to.” I look down, miserable and jealous of a woman I’ve never met, over a guy I barely know and have nothing to do with. How stupid is that? How utterly ridiculous? But I can’t help it. I want to talk more to him, but right now, I can’t. I’m blank, out of ideas, out of questions. Empty and lost. After a long break, Sam says, “What are you listening to?” “Sorry?” I say. Then I realize I have my headphones looped around my neck. “Oh, just some instrumental piece . . .” “What kind of instrumental?” Step out of the jealousy bucket, Jane, and talk to the guy! “It’s a group that does compositions for movie trailers. Some of their music is just— breathtaking. It really makes you want to see the

movie once you’ve listened to the music.” “What’s the group called?” “Two Steps from Hell.” He snorts a laugh. “Ha! I’ve been two steps closer. Do you mind if I hear it?” And he lifts his hand, palm open, waiting for me to give him my headphones. I set them on his palm. It’s warm, and I deliberately slide my hand sideways instead of lifting it upwards, just to prolong this unusual touch. I look at him, but he’s not looking at our hands. He’s looking at me, his eyes narrowed, his lips curved in a small smile. Does he realize I did that on purpose? He puts them on and nods. I look down at my MP3 player, scroll to my favorite piece, and hit play. For the first few seconds he is looking at me, but then his gaze falls to the floor, unfocused. Three minutes pass and I know the end of the song is near. When it’s over, he takes the headphones off, presses his lips together slightly in thought, and

then says, “Wow, quite something. I need to get it for myself.” This is the moment I should use, continue the conversation, ask him about the music that he likes, find out which are his favorite bands. But no. I’m still stuck in that mudhole thinking about the photo he told me about. The perfect one. The one that he had to take because it was beyond his control. He hands the headphones back to me and does the same thing I did, sliding the tips of his fingers on my palm. I shiver, forgetting all about the photo, and my heartbeat picks up in a second. For a few moments, we are silent as I try to calm myself down. He puts his hand in his pocket again and looks down. Clang. I hear a screeching sound somewhere on the top of the elevator shaft, and the elevator starts moving again. We both look up and then at each

other. “Perhaps it was the power . . . ?” he says, arching his eyebrows. He swiftly lifts himself from the floor, then offers his hand to help me up. I’m still sitting, looking at him, enchanted, and then I slowly lift my hand to his. He gently squeezes it and lifts me up, bringing me so close that our faces are now only a few inches apart. When the elevator stops on the third floor, we are both standing, looking at each other, not moving. He’s so close I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. And we are still holding hands. I swallow. I can’t move my hand away. I don’t want to. I could stay like this forever. I look into his eyes and instinctively move a bit closer, leaning my head sideways, transfixed, melting into those dark blue oceans. Then he moves closer to me, just a tiny bit, and my heart rate spikes through the roof, my head starts to spin. His eyes are on me. His lips move just slightly, as if he’s rolling a juicy candy in his mouth, and seeing him do this

turns me on instantaneously—the flame of a single matchstick falling on a flat surface of gasoline. The fire, spreading all over my body, flows and stirs, reviving old-forgotten trails, forging new uncharted riverbeds, and it pools, in the end, at the very base of my being, simmering deep in the hot red of my desire. My knees become weak and I’m straining to suck air into my lungs. But then, all of a sudden, he releases my hand. “We—we should go.” He opens the gate and walks out. I follow him, my legs wobbly, my mind bewildered. At his door, he turns to me and says, “Good night, Jane.” “Good night,” I manage to say. “Have a nice evening.” He looks at me for a long time. Then his gaze slides to my lips, and I get this unmistakable rise in my heart rate again. My lips become instantly dry and I need to lick them. He smiles, looks back into my eyes, and says, “I just did. Sleep well!”

And he disappears into his apartment.

Chapter 21 Friday 3:12 p.m. “This should work,” Miyako says as she puts her last instructions into the program, then leans back to watch. Chris and I stand next to her. “Hey guys!” Frank walks in. “Wow, it’s packed in here! What are you all doing?” “Getting a sample of the Crazy Gro food media,” I say, looking through the glass window. He stands behind Miyako, resting his hands on her shoulders, watching the movement of the liquid handler. The robotic arm moves in a smooth, inhuman way. It positions the Petri dish on the work area and the other robotic arm collects a tiny amount of the agar then transfers the sample to a small tube. Once the tube is sealed, the arm puts it on a rubber track connecting the Crazy Gro lab with our pre-lab room. I’m really interested to find out what’s in

this food. But then, a moment later, my thoughts are pulled somewhere else completely. My mind’s preoccupied with this amazing, mysterious, intriguing man living right next door to me. All morning, I was unable to do any proper work. I was completely, totally blocked with what had happened yesterday evening. That moment, that special moment, when he held my hand and our faces were so close to each other, felt thick and dense with emotions, electrically charged—I sigh within—and simply beautiful. He felt it too. Oh, he must have. He must have . . . A hissing sound brings me back out of my reverie. The connector to the machine lab opens to deliver the sample on a rubber conveyer belt. Chris walks over to get the sample, putting on a pair of latex gloves at the same time. As soon as the tube arrives, he reaches out. Then, all of a sudden, Frank shouts, “Wait!” Chris turns, the tube already in his hand. “What?”

There is a moment of pause while everyone looks at Frank. “Isn’t that hot?” Frank asks. I turn to Chris. Frank’s right—it should be. Chris looks at the tube. “No . . . not really.” I stretch out my hand. “May I?” He sets it in the middle of my palm, and I take a closer look at it: a small cube of dark beige food gel sticking on one side of the tube that just came out of the hot laboratory. Its temperature, however, is nowhere near the hundred and fifty eight degrees Fahrenheit that Crazy Gro normally grow at. In fact, the temperature does not differ much from my own. I look up at the lab machines, then walk over and put my palm against the glass wall. I swallow hard. I feel like I’m in one of those dreams where I’m being chased by a monster and my legs don’t want to run any faster. “Guys,” I say quietly. “This is set at body temperature.” “What?” Frank asks, moving closer to me. Then Miyako stands up and says loudly,

“Now, guys, let’s not panic just yet!” I turn to her very slowly as the implications begin to dawn on me. We might potentially be working with bacteria that grow crazily fast—not in the hot environment we’d all thought, but at the temperature of the human body. “The tube had probably just cooled down by the time it got to us,” Miyako says. “Do you think it took a detour to the outside terrace before it landed here?” asks Chris. “Hold it!” says Frank, then adjusts his glasses and turns back to Miyako. “What are you thinking?” “I just think there might be a cooling step built in. The temperature of the samples coming from the hot lab has to be regulated. It would be stupid to build a direct link from the hot lab to us without thinking of the personnel dealing with it.” Chris looks through the glass window. “What about the temperature of the glass window, then?” “Well, the lab has to be well insulated, otherwise it would lose its own heat by warming all

the other neighboring rooms. Doesn’t that make sense to you, guys? I think it’s completely logical.” I slide my hand down from the window. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “I guess you’re right, Miya. It does make sense for the lab to have good insulation. Still, I think something is off here. The pieces don’t fit. And it’s not the usual research enigma, where the cards are all upside down and we just need to figure out how to turn them over. This is something else.” Here, some of the cards are missing. I open my hand and look at the small tube in the middle of my palm. “Are you taking the sample to the proteomics lab?” asks Chris. I nod, then close my hand around the tube. “Yeah, I’ll take it up. Let’s see what’s in this vial.” “I’ll come with you,” says Frank, and he joins me as I pass through the door. As we walk down the hallway, I hear the hum of liquid handlers in neighboring labs. “Frank, how come we never see any people down here?” I say, looking at the machines. “Most

of the machines are active. Doesn’t anyone need to monitor them?” He shrugs. “Perhaps it’s automated. Or perhaps they are operated remotely.” Then he looks at me. “And you know, we’ve only been here for a few days. Perhaps the technicians only come once a week.” I nod slowly. Perhaps. Once we arrive at the elevator, he holds his ID card against the scanner and calls the elevator. I take a deep breath and try to think of something else. “When are you leaving?” He looks at his watch. “In ten minutes or so.” I shake my head and smile. “So why are you with me? Isn’t there anything you still have to do before you go?” “Nah. Everything’s packed. I just need to switch off my laptop and go. I’m still not all that comfortable with meeting Miya’s parents.” “Hey, don’t worry about it. You’ll be a star.” He lifts one of his eyebrows but remains

silent as he follows me into the elevator. I feel for him a bit, but soon my mind is preoccupied with my own thoughts. So much has happened in the last few days. My emotional balance—in fact, my whole world—has been turned upside down ever since Sam moved in. Part of me hates this disturbance of the inner peace I’ve always found in my science. But part of me is happy, thrilled, ecstatic that he exists, that I found him. And this part gets larger by the day. And it’s ridiculous, really. He’s not a penny I can keep because I found him while walking on the pavement. And he might just as well—and quickly, too—go away, to another project, across the country to the other side of the continent. But . . . But . . . he might not. And I’ll just hope for that. We exit the elevator on the ground floor and walk away from reception, toward the heavylooking door of the proteomics department. Frank opens the door and we walk in.

I need a second or two to get used to the sound of the machines, mass spectrometers, and high-performance liquid chromatography detectors in the proteomics lab. The HPLCs are especially loud. “Hi guys!” shouts Siddhartha as he walks toward us to shake our hands. “How’re you doing?” “Good. Thanks!” I shout back over the machines. “You?” He raises his hands. “As good as I can be. What can I do for you?” “I have this sample,” I say, handing over the tube. “Could you run it through the mass spec?” He takes it from my palm, but when he doesn’t answer right away, I worry that the sample is too small. I ask, “Is there enough for analysis?” He looks at me and laughs. “You’re joking, right? This here”—he raises the tube between us —“is like a football stadium. I have enough to run a hundred analyses.” I smile. “Sorry, not my universe.” He pats me on the shoulder. “No worries, I

understand.” “When do you think you might have this finished?” asks Frank. “You just need to fill out this form here and have your PI sign it, and as soon as I have that, I can get on with it.” I lift my thumb and take the form. “Sure thing. We’ll get it for you.” “Thanks, guys. And hey, have a great Christmas!” “You too, Siddhartha.” Once in the corridor, Frank turns to me and asks, “Are you okay going to David on your own?” “Of course, no problem. Go get ready for your trip.” “Thanks, Jane, you’re a pal,” he says. I smile instead of answering. “I’ll come to the lab, just to say goodbye to Miya. Don’t leave until I get there, okay?” “Va bene!” I head directly to David’s office. His door is closed, so I knock twice. No answer. All quiet inside.

I knock again. Silence. Perhaps I can leave the form on his desk? I open the door. The blinds on the windows are halfway open and the back wall has this striped pattern as the sunshine seeps in through the blinds. I feel like I shouldn’t be doing this, like I’m trespassing or something. But I shake it off. It needs to be done. I leave the form on David’s desktop. Then I frown, looking at my watch. I doubt he’ll come back still today. Most likely only after Christmas. I sigh again, then exit and close the door behind me. Then I pull my cell phone out of my jeans pocket and search for his number on my contact list. I dial. There is muffled ringing as I walk back into my office. “Hi, David here.” “Oh, hi, David. How are—” “I can’t answer the phone right now, but please tell me what’s it all about and I’ll give you a call back. If I find your topic interesting.” And the

voice message ends with David’s goofy laughter. I shake my head and smile, flopping into my chair. David. Only he could make such an answering machine message. It beeps and I realize this is the time to talk. “Um, David, hi. Listen, we have some updates about the project. Um, we can talk more about it next week, but there’s something I’d like to—we’d like to check out. It’s about the media Crazy Gro need. It . . .” I sigh, unsure how to continue. “It doesn’t seem to grow on the food agar we normally use. It’s something else, and I’d like to know what we are dealing with. So, to cut a long story short, I need a signature for the mass spec form. I’ve left it on your desk, so if you come in, it would be great if you could sign it and send it back to me. Or, better yet, if you could send it to Siddhartha directly, that would be great too.” I sigh again, then say, “If I don’t see you this evening, have a great Christmas, David. And see you next week. Bye!” I end the connection, then I put the phone on my

desk and lean back in my chair. What is it in that food agar that Crazy Gro like? I sigh one more time and get up. Well, this mystery food agar will have to stay a mystery for a little while longer.

Chapter 22 Saturday 3:43 p.m. It’s a beautiful Christmas day, bright and not too cold. I have all the curtains pulled away from the windows, letting all the sunshine through. I spend most of the morning cleaning my apartment. I usually do this on New Year’s Eve, before the party. It’s my ‘I’m going to enter the new year with a clean and neat living space’ sort of thing, hoping that it will set the tone for the whole year. But it never does. The place remains a mess throughout. This year, though, I decided to do my cleaning on Christmas. I don’t know why. While I vacuum and scrub, a song from my laptop plays in the background, and I sing along, holding the mop pole as if it’s a microphone. And I dance. All of a sudden, there is a knock on the door. I stop dancing.

Sarah wouldn’t be here yet, would she? It’s too early. I quickly walk to the coffee table, stop the music program on my laptop, and then engage the screensaver, since my rusty old device never does that automatically. As soon as I see my favorite virtual aquarium, I head to the door, glancing at the clock on my kitchen wall, trying to see the time. Perhaps I lost my sense of time with all the cleaning? And dancing. I smile to myself. I lean on the door and peek through the spy hole. Oh, no. It’s Sam!! I put my hands on my head, feeling my wild hay of hair stuck into a messy ponytail. Then I look down at my clothes, an oversized shirt with a too big neck opening and a pair of XXL baggy yoga pants I got from Sarah years back. Oh, I cannot open the door looking like this! There is another knock at the door. But I can’t not open it. He’s right outside

my door! What am I going to do? Then I open my eyes. No, I won’t let this opportunity go! I take a deep breath and open the door. “Sam, what a surprise!” I say and regret it immediately. What a stupid way to start a conversation. “Yeah, I know…um, here!” he says and gives me a small flat box wrapped in crimson gift paper. “It’s for you. Merry Christmas!” I look at the present, but at first I don’t take it. I’m speechless for a second. “Wow . . . thank you, Sam.” I finally take it. “Um. . . do you want to come in?” “Well, I sort of need to go,” he says, turning his head halfway toward the hallway. Then he looks back at me and smiles. “But why not. For a few minutes.” Yes! “Would you like tea or coffee?” “Tea, please,” he says as he starts to take off his shoes. “Black tea, if you have—” “Oh, don’t take your shoes off, it’s a mess in here anyway.” I close the door behind him and

head to the kitchen. “My sister went to England two months ago and brought me some really good black tea,” I call from around the corner. Once I’ve turned on the kettle, I walk back to the living area. He has his back to me, standing at the window. He turns around and has a photo frame in his hand. Oh, no… He’s holding the photo with Danny. He looks from the picture to me. “Your fiancé?” I laugh out loud. More ironic than he could imagine. He asks, “Can I know the secret?” “Ah,” I say, waving my hand and walking closer to him. “Never mind, really. It’s a . . .” I shake my head. What can I tell him? That Danny was keeping me warm hoping he’ll find something better? Sam puts the photo back, front side down, just as he found it. “It’s none of my business, I’m sorry. I just hope you said ‘no’.” Then he looks at me, and although he’s serious, his eyes are smiling.

Was that . . . ? Did he . . . mean what I thought he meant? I think I have my mouth open, but I’m not sure. I swallow. Surely I misunderstood him. I close my eyes for a moment and try to focus. Then I open them, inhale silently, and point to the sofa. “Please, have a seat.” He looks around the living room and sits on Aunt Sue’s armchair. I flop onto my ragged couch, folding one leg under the other. “So,” I say, looking at the small gift. “Can I open it?” “Of course. It’s a CD. Of a musical, in fact.” “What’s the story about?” I ask as I unwrap the present. “Well. It’s a story of a woman and a man . . . who fall in love.” Oh! I look up into his eyes, not quite finished unwrapping. “Anyway, this man is . . . not who she thinks he is. He’s a monster.” He looks straight at

me, his eyes serious. His voice and his words give me chills, and I don’t understand why. I continue and completely unfold the shiny wrapping paper. The back side of the CD is black, the song titles written in white. I turn it around. The front cover has a simple illustration: one plain white mask and one red rose. The title reads “Phantom of the Opera by Andrew Lloyd Webber.” When the kettle whistles, I am snapped from my thoughts. I stand up, but rather than going to the kitchen, I stop in front of my stereo system, put the CD in the tray, and press play. Then I go to the kitchen and pour the boiling water into two red cups. I hear a voice from my loudspeakers, but I can’t make it out; it doesn’t sound like music. I turn on my egg-shaped timer and walk back to the living room. Just as I enter, the music starts: loud, strong, and breathtaking. I’m standing at the living room door, and I’m simply overwhelmed by the power of this

piece, looking at the speakers, as if I would see something there as well. A few moments pass and then I look at Sam. He’s smiling a broad smile and I momentarily forget all about the music. I am entranced: there in my chair sits the most gorgeous man in the world, his arms resting on the side of the armchair, his legs loosely apart. And I would love nothing more than to sit on his lap, right then and there, and wrap my thighs around his hips, just like I’ve done in my daydreams. The song is finished, the egg timer is ringing, and Sam’s looking at me, arching his left eyebrow in a question. “The tea,” I mumble. “Yes . . .” I quickly turn around and go to the kitchen. I take the tea bags out, drop them in the sink, and open the window. I need some cool air. It feels so hot in here! I add milk to both cups and pick them up quickly so I can get back to the living room, but as I turn around, I knock my elbow on Sam’s arm—he’s right behind me. The hot tea splashes over his black

T-shirt. He hisses, grabs the shirt, and pulls it away from his chest. “Oh, no! I’m so sorry!” I put the cups on the kitchen counter and turn back to him. “Let me get you a . . .” But my mind goes blank as he pulls his black shirt over his head, revealing his upper body, his skin stretched over the tight muscles underneath. He might as well have just walked out of a Calvin Klein underwear poster, his body is so beautifully defined. My eyes are glued to him and I simply hate my lack of control. Leave it. Leave it. Leave it, Jane! I close my eyes. After a few seconds I open them again, trying very hard to focus on his face. Sam’s got the most mischievous grin on his face. “You wanted to get something . . . ?” I did? Oh, yes. “The towel.” I grab my chance and swing past him, holding my breath. I’m almost running to the

bathroom. I’m going crazy! What is all that? That’s not me! I’m calm, I’m in control, and I’m certainly not the type of person to fall for looks alone. Now I’m getting angry at myself. I take the big bath towel from the top of the stack, close the drawer, and go back. “Here.” I push it into his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have said something before, so you knew I was standing there.” He’s drying his abdomen with the towel I gave him, and I notice then that I’d picked up my ‘I love you’ towel, red words written on a white background. I close my eyes again. Ground, open up! “No, Sam, I am sorry,” I say and open my eyes again. “It’s my fault.” Then I remember I still have the burn cream from my lab that I put in my handbag. “Let me get you some cream. It might help with the burns.” I walk to the hallway, but instead of opening my bag, I lean forward and rest my forehead on the coat hanging on the hallway wall.

I breathe out, carefully. It’s slow and controlled. And I start to feel a bit calmer. He’s just a guy who looks absolutely gorgeous—a guy I just burned with hot tea—and I am behaving like a teenager. I dig though my purse, find the tube I was looking for, and return to the kitchen. Shouldn’t he be with his wife and kids, two cats and a dog? How did he escape? Did he escape? Or does he actually have them hidden away somewhere? There’s a creepy voice in my head singing: I’m going crazy . . . crazy . . . I give the tube to Sam, contemplating for a moment applying the cream to his body myself, but I reserve this fantasy for later this evening. “Thanks! I’m glad you have something like this.” He turns around and walks back to the living room, putting on the cream at the same time. I am unusually grateful he’s turned away from me while doing that. I grab the teacups and follow him.

He sits on the couch, white towel with red letters resting loosely on his thighs. I close my eyes for a moment, gathering my thoughts again, then put the teacups on the coffee table and sit back in the armchair. “I’m sorry, Sam.” I look at him and manage to smile. “Not really the best Christmas gift, is it?” “I’ve had a lot worse than this.” Although he is smiling, there is an underlying somberness in his voice, and right then, I notice the silvery scar on his chest. It starts on his right shoulder and stretches down diagonally to his last left rib. I look back at his face. He knows I was looking at his scar. I close my eyes again. This is all so embarrassing. “So, what’s your plan for Christmas afternoon?” Sam says in a light tone. I open my eyes, a bit surprised. “Ah—my sister is going to pick me up with her car, well, she and my nephews, and we are going to my parents’ place for dinner.”

“Your sister and your nephews. Nice. Is there a reason your brother-in-law is not coming?” I’m a bit surprised by his question. There might not be a brother-in-law for all he knows. But he’s right. There is a reason Mark is not coming. “He doesn’t quite get along with my parents, that’s why. But the official reason is that he’s spending Christmas with his parents and siblings.” Why am I telling him all this? “Ah, yes, husbands and in-laws. It’s not unusual,” he says calmly. Is he talking from his own experience? “Are you married?” I blurt out. Oh, Jane, for crying out loud! He gives me one of his broad smiles, and I feel better already, even after asking the most stupid question. “No,” he says, a sparkle in his eyes. “Are you?” “Ah . . . no.” I unconsciously smile back. “Good! That means I can keep sitting here half naked without being afraid of your husband coming back home.” We both laugh.

In the backround, The Phantom of the Opera is still playing. He must have turned the volume down, because I can barely hear it. “Why did you say he was a monster?” “Pardon me?” he says as he picks up his tea. “In the musical,” I say, pointing to the stereo. “You said the man is a monster. Is it because of what he does, or because of what he looks like?” “Well . . .” He turns to look at the CD player. “I guess it’s both. His face is damaged, so he wears a mask, but he’s . . .” Then he lowers his gaze to the floor. “He’s ruthless. He’s selfish. And he kills without a second thought.” Finally, Sam looks at me again, deep blue eyes burning their way into my soul. “It still plays daily in London,” he continues lightly. “You should see it one day.” “England is on my to-do list. Well, actually, the whole of Europe is on my to do list as well.” There’s a knock on the door and I startle. “Your sister,” he says with a smile and stands up.

“I’ll serve you a full cup next time, okay?” I say. He laughs. “That sounds like a deal.” We stand for a second in front of my door, but I don’t want to open it. I want to prolong this amazing, unusual, and most likely unique moment in time, where I am just a step away, and if I wanted to I could take just one more step and— Another knock. I sigh. Not today. I open the door. There is an awkward moment: my sister is standing at the door, speechless, looking at the halfnaked man just exiting my apartment. “Uh . . . Sarah, this is Sam. Sam, this is my sister.” “Hi, Sarah! It’s nice to meet you.” They shake hands. “Nice to meet you, too,” she says slowly. She keeps looking between Sam and me, as if saying, Is there something I should know? “Jane, have a great dinner with your family.”

“Thanks, Sam—and I’m sorry again about the tea.” “It’s okay. I’ll come for a refill some other day.” He winks at me and leaves. My sister comes in and closes the door. “Who. Is. That?” “My neighbor,” I say, walking to my living area. “Why was he naked?” Her voice is an octave higher. I flop into the armchair. It’s still warm from Sam’s body. “He wasn’t naked, he just didn’t have a shirt on.” “Oh, okay then. That’s normal.” I frown. I hate when she’s ironic. “Sarah, I spilled hot tea on the guy’s shirt, okay? He took it off. I gave him some burn cream and now he left.” “Okay, sweetie, I’m sorry . . . it’s actually none of my business, but I somehow didn’t quite expect to see a naked man—well, almost naked— walking out of your apartment. It just took me by surprise.” I look at her. “Yeah, it took me by surprise

too . . .” I look down at the coffee table and see my laptop, opened, showing the window of a music program. Hmm. Strange. I thought I had the screensaver on before. But then again, maybe not. My thoughts have been a scrambled mess ever since Sam moved in. I shake my head. I am going positively crazy! “Jane!” “What?” I lift my eyes to meet Sarah’s. “Shall we go? Mark and the kids are wai—” “Mark? I thought he wasn’t coming.” “Ahh!” She waves her hand dismissively. “He wants to give it another try. Again. Let’s see how it goes.” “It can’t be as bad as Easter two years ago.” “Thanks, hon, I truly appreciate your support.” “What? It’s true.” I shrug. Sarah shakes her head. “Never mind about that. We are late. Come, you need to get ready

in”—she lifts her wrist to look at her imaginary watch—“thirty-two seconds!” I look down at my baggy clothes then back at her, raising my eyebrows. “Do you have your wand with you by any chance?” Her head snaps back up, then she grabs a pillow from the couch and throws it at me.

Chapter 23 Saturday 4:32 p.m. “I think your aunt has a crush!” Sarah says to my nephews in a cheerful voice as soon as we are on the highway. “Really?” says Peter. “Oh, cool! Who is he?” jumps in Paul. “Will we meet him?” continues Peter. “No, no, and no!” I turn to the back seats to face them. “Your mom is just teasing me.” I halfsmile to Sarah, who is sitting between them. “So why does my wife think you have a crush on him then?” asks Mark, his eyes fixed on the road. He’s been cutting his hair short for many years now, but he still keeps his thick beard, now meshed with several threads of gray. “Because he walked out of her apartment naked!” Sarah answers for me. “What?” both boys jump in together. “No!” I try to defend myself. “He only

didn’t have a shirt on. I spilled hot tea on his shirt —” “By mistake,” says Sarah. They all burst out laughing. “Ah!” I turn back to face the road and cross my arms over my chest. “It’s useless.” “Sorry, sweetie, but you know, this is such big news for us. You were so stubbornly ignoring any potential partner that—” “That she tried to place in your path!” Mark jumps in. Sarah whips him with her stern gaze then continues, “That I was starting to get worried!” “It’s my life!” I get upset every time they bring this up. “And anyway, I’m waiting for the right one,” I continue in a lower tone, half hoping they didn’t hear it. “So is he the one?” shouts Peter from behind. “Is he perfect?” says Paul. In my mind, Sam’s image appears. I smile a little bit at the memory, thinking of his smile, his eyes, his voice . . . well, actually, all of him. “Yes,”

I whisper. “Woo-hoo!” The boys heard me. They give each other a high-five then lean forward again to hear more. I turn to Sarah. “Well, isn’t he?” She smiles warmly. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” “You just don’t want to say it in front of Mark!” I’m getting angry. I know I shouldn’t be saying this. “Sweetie, it’s between the two of you. It’s all about the chemistry. Yes, he’s tall and blue-eyed and whatever, but he’s just not my type.” “Impossible!” I turn back around. “Look, you thought I needed new glasses when I met Mark, but he is my type!” Oops! I quickly look at Mark. I didn’t want him to know that! “Sorry, Mark!” I say in a tiny voice. Mark laughs. “That’s fine, kitten. You’re not my type either.” Phew! But still, I can’t believe that Sam wouldn’t be every woman’s type.

“Let’s talk about something interesting,” Mark says and winks at me. “How’s your ‘I’m just about to get a Nobel Prize’ research going?” “Ah . . . fine.” “What’s with the ‘ah’ there?” Sarah leans forward, leaving the boys to discuss something else in the back seat. “Well, I’ve just been moved to a new project.” “Don’t you like it?” Mark asks. “No, no, it’s not that. It’s interesting, actually, but . . .” “But what?” “But I can’t say.” “Can’t say what?” “Anything. It’s confidential.” “Really?” Mark frowns and straightens his arms on the steering wheel. “That’s strange . . . for a basic research institute.” My voice is low. “Yeah, tell me about it.” I shake my head. “Did David change your project?” “Yeah. He kind of inherited a project from

another lab head, and . . . it’s complicated, but he basically moved all the people on his team to this new project.” “Well, does it still deal with bacteria?” asks Sarah. “I guess it has to. The whole floor is microbiology, right?” I frown. I’m not even sure how much I’m allowed to say. I decide not to say anything. But Mark is intrigued. “Hmm . . . can’t you tell us anything? Perhaps you can wrap it up in riddles—how about that?” He looks at me quickly and smiles, then turns his gaze back to the road. I laugh out loud. I can’t possibly refuse that. “All right. Give me a few moments to think of something.” After several seconds, I get an idea. “How about this: You can’t see me with your naked eye, but I grow as fast as I’m fed. With a different strand of DNA, you would all be dead,” I say, smiling at my quickly made-up rhyme. Sarah looks at me, then at Mark, then at me again, all serious. “Scary!” Mark arches his eyebrows and shrugs. “I

don’t have a clue. Well, it was worth a try. Now, let’s face a real danger.” And he pulls into the street where my parents live. Sarah shakes her head and leans back between her boys.

Chapter 24 Saturday 5:17 p.m. When Mark parks the car in front of the garage, the boys are out of the car before I can even unbuckle my seatbelt. I step into two inches of fresh snow, a soft carpet reflecting the light from the street lamps into a thousand rainbow-colored pixels. I don’t like the cold, but seeing the snow like this is just wonderful. I follow the others to the doorstep. The porch is illuminated with Christmas lights, as are the two pine trees on the other side of the house. Peter and Paul are at the door and waiting for the rest of us to get there. I’m the last one, and as I reach the entrance, Peter rings the bell. I lightly kick the edge of the step to knock off the snow collected on the rim of my boots. The door opens and my mom spreads her arms as Peter and Paul rush into her hug.

“My sweethearts!” She hugs both of them for several seconds, not wanting to let go. “So nice to see you.” “You too, Grandma,” says Paul. “Did you make chocolate mousse?” asks Peter. “I sure did,” she says and finally releases the hug. “But you can only have some if you eat your dinner.” “Not eating is a thing of the past, Mom,” says Sarah. “They can eat a buffalo now.” Mom turns to us. “Hello, my girls!” She hugs Sarah and me in a double hug for just a second, then lets go. Sarah winks at me. “See, short hug! I always knew she wanted to have sons!” “Nonsense!” Mom waves at her and then offers a hand to Mark. “Good evening, Mark.” “Good evening, Mrs. McGregor.” After we’ve taken off our coats and slipped into handmade wool slippers, we walk to the living room. The fire is crackling in the hearth, flooding

the room with warm orange light. Seven Christmas stockings hang on the brick wall above the fireplace. And my dad, almost disappearing inside his thick woolen pullover, sits on the sofa, entranced by the flickering flames. He turns toward us and smiles a broad smile, then awkwardly stands up, and hugs all of us in turn. And I suddenly get tears in my eyes. Christmas at home, like I always remember. I discreetly wipe away the tears and sit down on the too-soft couch with Sarah and Mark. Peter and Paul sit on the floor next to the fire, warming their hands and peeking at the stockings from time to time. Mom goes into the kitchen and Dad brings out two plates of Christmas cookies. “Ooh—thanks, Grandpa!” says Paul and takes one. “You’re welcome, but it’s not me who made them, it’s Grandma. You should thank her.” “Thanks, Grandma,” Paul and Peter call out in unison. “It’s a pleasure, my sweethearts,” Mom

shouts back from the kitchen. Dad puts the plates on the coffee table and then sits between the boys, leaning on the armrest of the sofa for support as he sits down. I know he’s got arthritis and it hurts him to do it, but he wants to be as close as he can to his grandchildren, just as he was for his daughters. I get all teary again, and I’m happy Sarah and Mark are discussing something and not paying attention to me. I stand up. “I’ll go and check if Mom needs help in the kitchen.” I walk through the swinging doors, hearing them swing back and forth a few more times behind me. “Mom, can I give you a hand with something?” “Oh,” she says, looking around the kitchen. “Well, why don’t you slice the turkey? It’s in the warmer, below the oven.” I smile. “Mom, I lived in this house for nineteen years, I know where the warmer is.” “Oh, I know, sweetie, but you’ve been away for another eight. Things might have changed, you know.” I shake my head and bend down to open the

warmer. The smell of the roasted meat spreads around the kitchen in waves and it makes my mouth water. “Mom, this looks lovely!” “Thank you, dear.” I take a large knife from the drying rack next to the sink and then open the side cupboard to take out the big porcelain tray, the one with a string of roses drawn on the rim. It’s the one we always use on Christmas. I put it next to the turkey tray and start slicing the meat, arranging the pieces on the porcelain plate. When I’m done, I lick my thumb and index finger and move to the sink to wash my hands. “Danny says hi,” Mom says as she’s preparing the salad on the kitchen island. I turn around for a moment to look at her, then turn back to dry my hands on the kitchen towel hanging on the dishwasher handle. “He said you should get together sometime, have a coffee or something.” I turn back to her. “Why are you still in contact with him?”

“I play bridge with his mom, you know that. And he keeps asking about you.” I turn my back to her and look through the window. The night blanket gently descends on the snowy village, as the numerous golden streetlights twinkle and glow, casting light on slowly falling snowflakes. She gently puts a hand on my shoulder. “Won’t you call him, dear?” “Why, Mom?” I turn to her. “I think he still loves you.” I shake my head. “No, Mom. He just hasn’t found somebody better.” “What do you mean better? Who can be better than you?” She slides her arm around my waist and squeezes me toward her. I smile wistfully but don’t say anything. “I know he’s been running away from the notion of marriage like a vampire from garlic, but maybe he still needs some time . . . ?” “More than five years?” She shrugs. “You told me that you and Dad got engaged

within six months.” “But that was a different time, sweetie.” I shake my head. “It’s just . . . marriage is not a piece of paper. It’s a commitment, something that says ‘I want you. I want you now. And my wish is that we stay together, forever’.” “You can’t know that for sure. Nobody knows that for sure . . .” “I know that, Mom, but that’s the point! When together, both people—both partners—need to have this want, this wish for the relationship to last forever. And this wish, at that very moment, is enough. Of course no one knows what’s going to happen in the future, I get that, but you see, Danny never had this wish.” I sigh heavily. “I just had this feeling that he was always hoping a better fish would come along.” I turn to the window again. The kitchen doors swing open. “Can I bring anything to the dining room, Grandma?” asks Peter. Mom turns around. “Yes, you can bring the salad. Thank you!” Then she turns to me and says, “Well, whatever he was thinking at the time, I’m sure he’s changed his mind now.”

I smile and look at her. “Too late, Mom. I don’t love him anymore.” “Yes, because she’s into somebody else now!” says Sarah as she enters the kitchen. Mom looks at me. “What? Who? Are you dating someone?” “No.” I glare at Sarah. “No, I am not dating anyone.” “But what is Sarah talking about?” “There’s just someone, someone I met, who is . . . nice.” I say. A smile escapes my lips. “That’s not the word you used,” says Sarah. “What do you all know that I don’t?” Mom’s using her scolding voice, but she’s actually curious. “No big deal, Mom. Jane has a new neighbor who is—what—perfect, right?” I sigh and nod. “Wow, when will I meet him?” “Mom—I am not dating him! He’s just a guy who lives next door. What’s with everyone?” “Oh, Jane, you’re such a cookie.” Mom puts her palms on my cheeks. “You need to be

looked after by a real nice man, really soon.” Then she walks to the fridge and continues, “Because I want more grandchildren.” I roll my eyes but can’t help smiling. What else did I expect? *** The dinner is loud and cheerful. The room smells of cooked turkey, burning firewood, and mandarin oranges. Just like the old days. Mom is talking about her becoming president at the local Women’s Protection Association and Dad is talking to Mark about camping and fishing. I am mostly quiet. There’s a half-smile on my face that I’m trying to hide. “How’s your work going, dear?” says Dad, and after a moment I realize that the question was directed at me. Before I can respond, Peter says, “She’s got a new confidential project.” “Confidential?” Dad looks at Peter and then at me. “What does that mean?”

“Ah, I don’t really know myself,” I say and put some more mashed potato on my plate. “Does that mean you can’t say anything?” he asks again. I shake my head. “I don’t know. I guess so.” “But if you did,” says Paul, “how would they find out? And who would find out? Your boss?” “And what’s he going to do? He’s just a scientist,” says Peter. “Yes, but maybe he’s connected to the underground Mafia and they are making new lethal viruses!” Paul says in a movie-trailer voice. “I work with bacteria,” I interrupt. “Okay then: new lethal bacteria.” Sarah is frowning. She doesn’t like the content or the volume of their conversation. “Wow, wouldn’t that be cool?” says Peter. “But what would happen if they find out that you said something?” “They would take you away and torture you!” shouts Paul. “Boys, please! We are having a Christmas

dinner,” Sarah says sternly. There is a short silence. Then Mom waves her arm and says, “Never mind them, they’re just boys.” Sarah lifts her eyebrows but doesn’t say anything. Mark, however, finds this the perfect time to express his opinion. “I am looking forward to the time when I become a grandparent,” he says. “You can get away with saying a bunch of nonsense, just like when you’re a kid.” There is an awkward moment of silence. Then Dad says, “Who wants more gravy?” “Me,” says Peter. “Me too,” says Paul. Dad scoops two big spoonfuls onto each of the boys’ plates, and Peter turns to me and says in a much quieter voice, “You know, if you are taken away, you need to have a signal.” I smile. “What kind of a signal? A flare rocket that I manage to shoot off before they put me in the trunk of a car?” “No, no—something like a secret text

message,” says Peter. “I know,” jumps in Paul. “How about ‘Pink fluffy unicorns’?” They both break down laughing, and Sarah and I can’t help but smile. “No, no, no,” says Peter. “They would see through that. Something that looks like a real message. Something like ‘I’m coming to pick you up in ten minutes’?” “No, that could be for real—and then Jane comes and Mom is out shopping or something. No, that won’t work,” says Paul, shaking his head. He looks like he’s thinking. “Can you pass me the turkey, Mom?” I say, reaching out to take the plate. “Well, how about something that we know isn’t real but sounds like it could be,” says Sarah. “Like?” asks Peter. “I don’t know, like ‘I wish Uncle Victor was here to see this’.” “Who’s Uncle Victor?” asks Paul. “Precisely,” says Sarah. “Ah, I get it! That’s good.” Peter nods,

smiling. “But what if she needs help?” Sarah rolls her eyes and says, “Well, that’s a bit different. We’d need set coordinates to find her, or . . . or have a designated place for that. Perhaps you guys can search the map after dinner and we can pinpoint a meeting place, how about that?” “Yes! I’m finished,” says Peter and starts getting up. “No you’re not—eat!” says Sarah, pointing her finger down to his plate. Then she turns to me and smiles. “You gotta love Christmas.” I smile back and put a deliciously juicy piece of turkey in my mouth.

Chapter 25 Monday 7:34 p.m. I get off the bus, pulling up my scarf and pushing my hands into my pockets. Under any other circumstances, I would have been upset today: the genomics data of Crazy Gro still haven’t been analyzed. David hasn’t been in all day, so he couldn’t sign the form for the mass spec, which means Siddhartha can’t start with the analysis either. Frank was working on his old project, so he hasn’t done any staining of the Crazy Gro cells, and Florence was in the robotics lab almost the whole day, so I couldn’t even start my experiments. All of this would normally get me upset. But right now, it doesn’t. Because—I smile—I might see Sam this evening. My smile broadens. My stomach is all wonderfully bubbly, and I feel like I’m walking on a

soft cushion of air. I sigh contentedly and turn onto Buswell. I have my headset on, listening to Phantom of the Opera. I listened to it the entire day yesterday and I’m loving it. I wish I could see it someday too. Still, I can’t help but wonder—why this? Why this piece? Why this story? It means something to Sam, that’s clear, but I can’t figure out what. I’m sort of hoping that by listening to it repeatedly, his reasoning might become apparent. But for now, it’s still a mystery. On both sides of Buswell, all the windows are lit, warm yellowish light seeping to the frosty dark blue concrete on the ground. Every other window has a string of shiny colorful balls and gold- or silver-striped squiggly ornaments hanging in the windows. I walk, smiling behind my dark red scarf. If I’m honest with myself, this bubbly happiness I feel inside is not about Christmas; it’s not about the interesting new project or about my soon-to-be-

written scientific paper. It’s all about Sam. My heartbeat speeds up just a bit. Sam. He’s like—a Christmas present. I grin. One that came just in time. My smile broadens. He’s been constantly on my mind; not a minute passes that I don’t see him somewhere in the back of my consciousness. And every time I think of him, my stomach does a triple pirouette with a backflip at the end. Despite my knotted tummy, though, I’m happy just knowing that he’s there. That I met him, and that I might see him at any time, by chance, as he walks into his apartment, or in the laundry room, or just on the stairs. It makes me extremely, immensely, out-ofthis-world happy. I breathe in deeply, content with the whole world around me right now. Then I shake my head and smile again. I really am going crazy. Crazy

over a guy I know basically nothing about. Oh, Jane—you’ll never learn, will you? I climb up my staircase, blissful in my cotton candy bubble as I enter the building. I half expect him to simply be here, in the hallway, going through his post as I come in. A smile escapes my lips. Really, Jane? He can’t be hanging around all the time just so he’s here when you come home. I stop by my letterbox and pick up the mail. As I’m about to close the mailbox door, my gaze falls to the name on the mailbox above mine. S. Swift. I run my fingers over the name, feeling the grooves of the letters as I slide my fingertips over them. Swift. Hmm, I wonder . . . Jane Swi— Oh, shut up! I shake my head, close my mailbox, and stomp to the elevator. Just drop it, Jane! You’re behaving like a

teenager. I get in, close the iron gate with a bit more force than necessary, and press the button for the third floor. Ridiculous! But as the first floor passes, my angers leaves me, and my smile is back on. It would fit though, I have to say. I sigh, contentment all too audible in my breathing. As I step out onto the third floor, I am actually smiling, almost laughing, as if I just heard a good joke. “Good evening, neighbor.” I look up. Sam is just leaving his apartment. I tense and melt both at the same time. The adrenaline that just burst into my bloodstream makes my voice break as I’m about to respond, so I cough once to clear my throat. “Hi, Sam.” I smile and inevitably blush, standing sheepishly in front of the elevator, my legs unable to move. He closes the door and locks it, twice, then

puts the keys deep in his side pocket and walks over to me. For a moment, I’m standing in front of him, oblivious, but then it dawns on me that he probably wants to get in to the elevator and I’m standing in his way. “Oh, sorry!” I say and move aside, trying to control my infatuated brain. “No, that’s fine. Um, listen . . .” Then he stops. He looks down, his face serious, a crease at the base of his nose bringing his eyebrows closer together. “What’s . . . what’s wrong?” I ask tentatively. He takes a breath, then looks at me again. “Um, I think you should try and find someone else to go to the Bruins game with you. I, uh . . . I can’t come with you. It’s not . . .” His gaze falls to the floor again. “It just won’t work. I’m sorry.” He glances at me again, but I’m not responding. I can’t. My mind is blank; I’m frozen. “Jane?” I force air into my lungs. “Yeah . . .” I look

at the floor, my eyes searching restlessly, trying to find an anchor to hold on to. “That’s fine. I mean, it . . .” But my sentence goes unfinished. I don’t understand . . . Then I look up into his eyes and whisper, “Why?” His jaw muscles tighten as he stares back. “It’s—it’s better this way, Jane. Trust me.” Then he loops around me, walks into the elevator, and closes the iron gate behind him. I stand in the hallway, my back to the gate, the metallic sound of the elevator cable loud behind me. And I am not moving. I feel like a hollow empty shell someone’s trying to push some air into. After a long while, I take a breath. Then I walk to my apartment, one heavy step after another. I enter and close the door. He doesn’t want to come . . . with me. My knees give way and I slowly sink to the floor, my back against the door, like a single raindrop randomly finding its way to the ground. It won’t work, he says.

I’m staring at the wall, but I don’t see it. For a very long time, I stay there, fully dressed, my bag half opened on the floor where I let it drop. It’s better this way, he says. It doesn’t make sense to be this hurt by his rejection. I mean, why should I be? I don’t know him, and I shouldn’t care. But I do. And it does hurt: a deep dull pain in the middle of my chest, crumpling my heart into a tiny ball, like a rejected handwritten letter. Then the tears come. And I hate it. Because I never wanted to cry over a man again. I promised myself I never would. But I can’t seem to stop them. So I cry. Despite my wants and wishes, despite my promises, I cry. Deep into the night.

Chapter 26 Tuesday 6:30 a.m. The alarm is loud as I tap on my bedside table with my eyes closed. I finally press the clock and the sound stops. My eyes feel puffy and swollen. I can’t seem to open them. I don’t want to wake up. I want to stay in bed all day, with a bucket of Ben and Jerry’s Peanut Butter Cup ice cream, and watch every single Bridget Jones’s Diary movie one after the other. But I can’t. So I pull the blanket off and sit up, my eyes still shut. I walk to the bathroom, blindly open the tap, and lean over the sink to wash my face. Once I’m done, I manage to open my eyes, so I straighten up and look at myself in the mirror. Oh, my goodness! What is that? I have sandbags under my red eyes, and my cheeks are swollen. I can’t go in public like that.

I need a cold shower! I open the door of the shower cabin and let the water run, turning the cold knob a lot more than the hot one. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl! The last time I spent all night crying was in high school, when Hugh left me waiting at home to be picked up for the prom while he went off with Samantha. Hell, I didn’t even cry like that when Danny dumped me! Who is this guy, anyway, to make such an enormous impression on me? It’s better this way… I know that line. I so know that line . . . I hate myself for getting into this stupid mess—and in such a short time too. Why? Who is he anyway? Just some guy. Some stupidly gorgeous guy . . . with a voice, and a smile, and a way about him that drives me crazy. I wave my hand dismissively. There are

thousands of guys like that. And—and I’m an attractive woman. I could be with any of them, too. If I wanted to. I look at the side glass of the shower cabin, seeing my blurry reflection. So how come I’ve never met anyone before who affects me like he does? My throat shuts tight and I can feel the tears coming. I close my eyes and press my lips together. Then I push these thoughts deep, deep down a well, the one where all the unhappy emotions go. I stay like this for a few moments, eyes closed, pulling myself together. And the tears don’t come. After several minutes, I feel strangely peaceful. The well is closed, a thick brown wooden plank on top of the deep dark water of the place where I drown my painful memories. I open my eyes, then walk into the shower. Argh! Whose idea was the cold shower, anyway?

*** “What happened to you?” Miyako says, looking at me with wide eyes as we walk toward the basement lab. “Are you okay?” Frank turns around, assessing me as well. “Yeah, I’m fine, just a . . . restless night.” She nods slowly but doesn’t seem convinced. Chris lifts his ID card to the panel and opens the door for us. David is already in the pre-lab, hunched over a computer, paging through the data we collected last week. He turns around, looking at us over his glasses, propping his arms on his knees. “Good morning, everyone. Have a seat!” Once we’re all sitting, David starts, “So let me hear it. What’s our progress?” Florence looks at me, then at David. “Well, we’ve had some . . . questions come up.” “There are always open questions in research, Florence, you signed up for that,” David

says in too much of a patronizing manner. “These aren’t the usual open questions, David. There are some uncertainties that shouldn’t be uncertainties at all.” David frowns. “What do you mean?” “Well, first of all, you know the genotyping data in Dr. Rosenberg’s folder was wrong, right? It was for the Thermus strain only, not Crazy Gro.” “Yeah, but that’s probably only a glitch in the data.” He looks at all of us. “You have the sequence now, right?” “Not yet,” starts Florence. “The genomics lab was backed up before Christmas, but I went down this morning and they said they should have it either today or tomorrow.” David raises his hands in front of him. “Fine. So, the sequence comes soon. Jane, you’ll be able to design a blocker. Florence, you’ll be looking into the DNA polymerase. What else?” I look at Chris. “Well, the other thing,” Chris begins, reacting to my cue, “is that the food Crazy Gro use is not what we thought it was. It’s not our usual

food agar.” David’s frown deepens and he says, almost spelling out his words, “What are they growing on, then?” “We don’t know,” I say, “but we’re going to find out. I took a sample of the food to proteomics for mass spectrometry. I do need your signature on the form, though, to run it.” David nods. “Ah, that was the form you left me. Yes, yes. Did you leave a message for me last Friday?” “Yes.” “I’m sorry, Jane. The connection was so bad I didn’t understand any of it. But okay, it’s clear now, I’ll sign off on that.” “Thanks, David.” “Good. What else? Francesco, what’s happening with your antibiotics?” Frank shakes his head. “Nothing. None of them work and I used everything I’ve got.” David sighs and looks at the floor again. “There is one thing, though,” I say, looking at Frank.

“What?” Frank and David say at the same time. I look at Frank. “The delay?” I say, nodding encouragingly, trying to remind him what I mean. “A-ha!” Frank clicks his tongue. “That. Well, the cells experience a very small setback of their growth speed right at the time when I add the antibiotics.” “What? I don’t understand.” David turns his head to him. “The cells grow, right, with a certain speed. But when I add the antibiotics, they slow down just slightly. They still grow, but for several seconds their growth is not as fast as before. Or after.” David looks at me. “What do we know about this slowdown?” “Not much yet, but Frank’s doing the staining, and we’ll check some of the markers to get a better idea,” I say. “Fine. Let me know as soon as you get something on it. Anything else?” None of us say anything. “Good!” David says. Then he pushes

himself up, leaning on his knees. “Let me know how things progress. Next meeting is on Monday, unless something comes up. And Jane,” he says, turning to me, “I’ll be in the office until lunch, you know, for the signature. After that, I’m out. I have an important meeting to attend to.” “Okay.” I nod, and I’m about to follow him when Frank stops me. “Jane, would you mind helping me today with the staining?” “Sure. I’ll prepare the reagents in the lab, then I’ll bring them down. Okay?” “Great! Thanks, Jane.” “No worries! I need to catch up with David.” I wave my hand to all and hurry to leave. I reach him just as he’s entering the elevator. “Wait for me!” I say and wave. David puts his hand on the door and smiles. “You’re sure eager to get that signature, aren’t you?” I hate being in this mind labyrinth with too many open questions. “Well, the sooner the better,

right?” The elevator door closes and we head up. He nods, smiling. Then he looks at me more closely and narrows his eyes. “Are you okay, Jane? You seem a bit . . .” Oh, no! Cry puffiness. When is it going to go away? “I’m fine. I had a bit of trouble sleeping, that’s all.” David opens his mouth to say something else, but I interrupt, wanting to change the subject. “So, what’s this important meeting you need to attend to?” “Ah, that . . .” He looks back at the elevator door. “Well, actually, it’s the company that funds this Crazy Gro research. I need to give them an overview of where we stand right now, report on the progress. It’s a bit of a mess. I was talking to some of them yesterday too. They want results.” “They didn’t give us much time. It’s only been a few days!” He tilts his head from side to side. “Ah, well, yes and no, really.” “What do you mean?”

The elevator door opens and we walk out. “Well, Rosenberg was working on it for several months before she passed away, without obvious results. And since I told them about your promising experiments, they are all over me, expecting to hear something soon. Also, if I understood them correctly, they have some kind of a deadline, so they are under pressure.” He stops in front of his door and reaches deep into his pocket, searching for his keys. He quickly finds the one for his office and we enter. “But they have been working with Dr. Rosenberg—they have to know that research takes time.” He nods as he sits at his computer. “They should, shouldn’t they? But I think they are more business oriented, rather than science. And also”— he looks at me, raising his eyebrows—“they’re paying an insane amount of money for this.” Then he holds a hand to the side of his mouth and says quietly, “A lot more than this project actually needs. So—we are happy. I’m not complaining.” He’s paging through papers, searching for

the form I left him. Once he finds it, he takes it out, then taps his chest pocket, searching for a pen. I’m already taking mine out. He looks up at me. “Jane, would you happen to have—ah, I love your mind reading! Thanks!” He takes the pen and signs the form. “There you go! Let me know as soon as something comes out. Clear?” “Crystal clear, sir!” I say and salute. He waves his hand at me. “Go! And get some proper sleep tonight!” That’s not so crystal clear, sir. “I’ll try,” I say and turn around to leave. At the door, I stop and look back. “And good luck with your meeting! I hope they don’t go too hard on you.”

Chapter 27 Tuesday 6:03 p.m. I’ve been staring at the computer for the last two hours and by now I’m at the stage where I need to squint because my eyes feel so dry. I’ve been reading and preparing notes for my own scientific publication. By the time David gives me the green light, I’ll have more than half of the paper written and ready. I feel a twinkle of joy thinking about my new publication—but it doesn’t resemble my usual enthusiasm. Now, all my thoughts are Sam-colored, and right now, especially since yesterday, they depressingly push down any positive researchrelated thoughts. And I hate that too. As if rejection by itself wasn’t enough, I find myself staggering on a scientific minefield, one that was all clear and predictable before, now seems covered in a dense fog, and I can’t tell where I’m going.

I close my eyes and lean back. “Hello!” Miyako says musically. I turn around. “All done?” She nods, sitting on Chris’s chair next to me, propping her head up with her hand. “Frank and I just finished the endospore staining. He’s super curious whether anything comes up. Hey, by the way, thanks a lot for preparing the reagents and helping him out! I know he hates staining protocols.” “Sure, no problem! Do you know when is he going to look at that?” Miyako shrugs. “Tomorrow, he said. He seems very curious.” “Oh, me too! Please tell him to let me know if he finds anything unusual.” “Of course! That’s understood.” Then she leans in closer to my screen and asks, “And what are you doing?” I look back at the screen. “Preparing the blocker paper. You know, gathering the microscope images, collecting the protocols, checking recent publications, things like that.”

“Good point, use the free time you have. Cool!” “Oh, by the way, how did the meet-theparents weekend go?” I remember to ask. “Oh, they loved him! They invited him over for next weekend too, you won’t believe it.” “That’s awesome, Miya!” “Yeah, but I don’t think we are going to go. I mean, hey, there’s a limit to how much I can see my parents in a certain timeframe. And this is too soon.” I smile. “How about Frank? Did he like them?” “Oh, yes. He’d actually love to go again next weekend. He even started learning some Japanese from my mom.” She shakes her head. “Well, I’m glad it all worked out,” I say and look at my watch, more out of habit than need. “Are you guys leaving soon?” “Yeah,” she says, looking back to the corridor. “As soon as Frank’s out of the bathroom. We still want to go shopping, check out some sales.” Then she looks back at me. “Jane, why

don’t you join us?” I smile slightly but shake my head. “No, I’m not in the mood, really.” “I know you’re not in the mood! That’s exactly why I suggested it. If I’m in a lousy mood, I always go shopping. And it always works.” I laugh. “Does Frank know this?” “Know what?” says Frank, just appearing at the door. “Nothing!” says Miyako, her eyes wide and innocent. “Let’s go.” I try hard to restrain my laughter. Miyako puts her arm under Frank’s elbow, then leans backward and asks, “Are you sure you don’t want to come? We might need an objective reviewer.” Frank frowns. “Objective reviewer? For what? What do you plan to buy?” Miyako waves her hand. “Ah, you know, gloves, some woolen caps, jewelry, those sorts of things.” Frank rolls his eyes, and both Miyako and I laugh.

“No, thanks! But you guys have fun, okay? Enjoy it!” “We will. Thanks! Bye!” They wave back and leave. I turn back to my laptop. The screen is now black and I can see my reflection. I’m still smiling. Then my smile broadens. She sure managed to distract me for a minute or two. I move the mouse and bring the laptop out of standby. Just as I’m about to continue with the publication I was reading, I see a new email alert in the corner of my screen. I click on it and my email window opens. It’s from our internal genomics department. This must be the Crazy Gro results! Finally! I open it. It’s an automatically generated email with the attachment file containing the genetic sequence. I contemplate for a moment if I should call Miyako and Frank, but I decide against it. They should have fun this evening. We can discuss this tomorrow. I’m about to open the attachment, but I

stop. Perhaps now is not the best moment: my eyes are barely open, and I’m dead tired, a consequence of a sleepless night. I’ll check it tomorrow. I tap my jeans pockets, then pull out the small key to my office drawer and open it. Mixed in with a dozen pens, a pack of chewing gum, and a few paper clips is the silver memory stick where I keep my Crazy Gro data stored. I wonder if I should copy the file onto it and perhaps look at it later this evening. After a cup of coffee. On the other hand, I shouldn’t take confidential data outside the institute. But, as my nephews would say, who would know? If I just take it and have a look at it this evening, no one would know. Right? The next moment, I yawn so hard that my jaws almost dislocate. No way! I’m in absolutely no condition to do any proper work now. Good sleep first. I’ll check the sequence tomorrow. I put the memory stick back into the drawer,

and lock it. Then I take my ID card and clip it onto the belt loop of my jeans. I close my laptop, and quickly put my warm jacket and cap on. I dig the car key out of my bag while waiting for the elevator, then smile to myself. No freezing fingers this time. I do learn. Slowly. But I learn. Maybe, in time, I’ll learn to stay away from men too. The elevator door opens and I walk in, careful to avoid my reflection in the mirror. I turn to see the door closing, the hallway pretty quiet, considering the time. I’m sure it’s the sales magnet pulling everyone out early. I wonder for a moment if I should take Miyako’s advice and go shopping; maybe it will improve my mood as well. The elevator door opens and I step out. But what if I go shopping and then miss seeing Sam again because I was too late to come home? I sigh heavily. I really, really shouldn’t think like this. It’s not helpful. Not one bit.

I open the glass reception door. “Jane?” I turn. “Oh, sorry, Linda, I was . . . distracted.” I make a quick detour to the reception desk. “How are you? How is Jeffrey?” “Oh, he’s fine, Jane, he’s fine now! He was sick for almost a week, I tell you, but he’s all better.” I smile. “So glad to hear that. Did he need any medications to get better?” “You know, in the end, he did. At first, they told us it was just a virus, said we don’t need no medication. But then—because it lasted for so long —they took some blood and saw he had a bacterial infection. So then he got some antibiotics and he got fine again within days.” “I’m so happy to hear that, Linda! They should have checked his blood in the first place.” “That’s what I thought. But who am I to contradict the doctors, you know?” I smile. “I know what you mean. All’s well that ends well, isn’t that so?” “You’re sure right!” she says, pointing at me

with her index finger. “Say hi to him, will you?” I move to step away, but Linda intercepts me. “Jane, are you all right?” “Me? I’m all good. No problem.” I try to smile. She tilts her head to one side, slightly frowning. “Yeah. Like Jeff sayin’ he’s all fine when he’s got a bruise on his eye!” I laugh. “It’s not that bad!” “Just because the bruise ain’t visible doesn’t mean it ain’t bad!” I look at her for a moment. You must get some sort of sixth sense or something once you become a parent. “You’re right, Linda. But do you know what happens to bruises?” She shrugs. “They heal.” She smiles a broad smile that looks luminous against her dark skin. “You take care, girl! You’ll be all right.” I nod. “Bye, Jane, see you tomorrow!”

“Good night, Linda!” I smile to her one more time. Then I turn around and the large glass door in front of me opens, the cold air hugging me, pulling me into the evening chill.

Chapter 28 Tuesday 8:47 p.m. My gaze is empty on the kitchen counter as I wait for the microwave to heat up my sweet and sour chicken. I didn’t see Sam this evening. I’m not sure if I should be happy or sad about that. On one hand, I had a fluttering feeling inside me when walking to the entrance, hoping I would see him. Wishing I would see him. But seeing him would have actually been worse. It’s good to get some distance. Keep away. But at the same time, I know I’ll have all the time in the world to “keep away” once he leaves, so part of me just wants to see him now while I still can. Even though it might be painful. The microwave beeps, and I startle. Oh, the food . . . I take the cardboard box out, the rice and

chicken steaming as I place it on the small table in the middle of my kitchen, then I walk to the hallway to put my cell phone back in my handbag. I’d just had a long talk with my sister. I told her what happened with Sam. As predicted, she tried to convince me that his backing out on our plans doesn’t mean anything and that I should try again, invite him for another date. But she doesn’t get it. It’s not that he has something scheduled on Wednesday evening so he can’t go. It’s that he doesn’t want to go. Because it’s with me. I drop the phone in my handbag, and close it, sighing heavily then walk back to the kitchen. The long narrow side cupboard, which at times stores bottles of wine, is now empty. I close it, a bit disappointed. I’m sure my bruise would heal better with a few splashes of red wine. I check the fridge and get a beer instead. That’ll do. Folding one of my legs underneath me, I sit in Aunt Sue’s armchair, turn on the TV, and lean back, digging into my takeout with chopsticks.

My TV is preset to always start on the Discovery Channel, and it manages to drag me away from the present, just a little bit. Soon, an hour is gone, the cardboard box is empty, and the show has finished. I turn around and check the time. It’s just before ten. I could do a bit more research for my paper, but my eyes feel tired and sandy, and my previous sleepless night doesn’t help either. I look at my closed laptop, contemplating if I should still work a bit more or not. Then I decide I should. But before that—I need a coffee. A strong one at that. While the kettle’s warming up, I return to my comfy chair and lean back, looking at the ceiling. But instead of thinking about my paper, I think of—Sam. Of course. I close my eyes and imagine him—and me —in all sorts of positions I’d never dare to share with anyone.

The high-pitched whistle of the boiling kettle changes and transforms into a part of my dream and I fall deeper and deeper, forgetting the coffee, forgetting my research paper, with only Sam in my mind. *** There is a noise. And it keeps repeating. A break, and the noise. Then a break again. Then the noise. It pulls me out of my slumber, and I crack my eyes open. Phone! It’s my phone. I tumble out of the armchair, a bit stiff and sore, wondering why the streetlights are so bright. I hurry to get to the entry hallway where I left my bag and yank it open, my sleeve getting hooked on the Velcro of the cover. I dig out the phone and peel my sleeve away from the bag, silently cursing. “Hello?” I say, my voice cracking. I cough to clear it. “Hi, Jane, it’s Siddhartha. Did I wake you?

I’m sorry, I thought you might be up already.” Up already? I look up at the clock. Oh, for goodness’ sake! It’s half past ten. In the morning! “No, no,” I say, walking back to my living room. “It’s fine. I actually forgot to set my alarm, so it’s great that you called. Otherwise I would have slept until noon. What’s up?” “So, I ran your sample yesterday evening.” I rub my eyes again, trying to align my thoughts. The sample, the sample . . . ? Ah, the food sample of Crazy Gro! “Yes?” “And I thought there was a mistake, so I ran it again this morning, twice. And I got the same result.” My mind is suddenly a lot more focused than it was a second ago. “What—what did you find?” “I hope you wear biohazard suits when you work with this strain. Otherwise you’re in deep . . . trouble.”

“What are you saying, Siddhartha?” “The sample you gave me? It’s the food media for the bacteria you’re working on, right?” “Yes.” “It’s blood agar.” I almost drop the phone, but then I catch it and press it back against my cheek. “What do you mean?” “I mean that the main component in your food agar gel—is blood. Human blood.” My knees become weak. “Siddhartha, are you absolutely, absolutely sure?” “Of course I’m sure! I repeated the test, twice.” “Okay, okay,” I say, starting to hyperventilate. I’m pressing the heel of my palm to my forehead, walking in circles, thinking. Crazy Gro are Thermus, but the Thermus strain doesn’t thrive on blood. How can this possibly be? “Siddhartha, can you just tell me . . .” I now feel like a drowning person clutching on to a straw. “The blood agar . . . is it in any way possible that nonpathogenic strains would use it as their food?” I

know the answer, of course. I just want to hear something else. Anything else. “Jane, you’re the expert here, but to my knowledge, all types of bacteria that grow on blood agar are pathogenic. Period. But you knew all of this, didn’t you?” he continues cautiously. “I mean, blood agar is pretty dark, you must have seen it.” “Yes—no! I just—I just saw the video recording, I didn’t see the real plates,” I say. “Well, I’m not sure what strain you’re working on, but it requires a high level of security. I mean, closed labs, hazmat suits, full protection. We don’t have anything like that in our institute.” “But—” I stop walking in circles, shaking my head in confusion. “Don’t you guys, you and the genomics department, have labs in the basement? You know, with closed labs and robots?” “Umm, no,” he says, stretching his words. “What type of basement labs are you taking about?” “W-well, in the basement of our institute. David told us that genomics and proteomics have at least two labs down there.”

“Where?” By now, my heart is beating wildly. The proteomics guy doesn’t know about the robotics lab where some of the proteomics work is supposedly done. And the media for Crazy Gro—is blood. This feels so wrong I can’t even begin to voice it. “All right, never mind about that. Listen, can you please, please, go to my office on the fourth floor, and, ah, tell Miyako and Frank—well, everyone you see—to please not go down? All right? Just tell them to stay in the office, I will be right there.” “Not to go down? I don’t understand. You mean to this basement lab?” “Yes. Please tell them it’s super important. And don’t say anything to anyone else.” “Jane, you sound—very upset. Shall I call someone for you?” “Don’t call anyone for me, I’m fine!” I yell, then take a deep breath and continue, “I’m sorry, Siddhartha, that was . . .” I sigh. “Please, just do

what I asked, okay? It’s really urgent.” “Fine,” he says, and I can imagine his shrug. “Thank you. I will come by later and explain everything, okay?” “Okay. Thanks. Otherwise it feels a bit off, you know.” I nod. “Yes. I know. Thanks, Siddhartha, for running this for me. See you soon. Bye.” “Bye, Jane.” I lower my hand, my phone still in my fingers. I’ll call the lab myself. I look at the phone and notice then that I had a missed call earlier this morning from Frank. I dial my voice mail inbox, my heart in my throat. “Jane. It’s Francesco. Listen! I . . . shit, I don’t know how to say it. David . . . David had a car accident, just this morning. He’s . . . he’s in hospital, but it . . .” I can hear him swallowing hard. “It doesn’t look good at all.” There is a long break. “And, um . . . there is something else.” He takes a quick, uneven breath. My knees are shaking as I’m waiting for the rest. “I’ve… I’ve looked at the

staining images of Crazy Gro this morning. Jane— this is no Thermus! Can you call me as soon as you get this message? It’s—” He takes another sharp breath. “It’s really important. You need to see this with your own eyes. Call me as soon as you can, all right?” Oh, no! My fingers are shaky and I’m barely standing. “Come as soon as you can,” he says after a few moments’ pause. “I’ll be in the basement lab.” Oh, no—not the basement! As soon as the message ends, I dial Frank back. The phone keeps ringing. C’mon! C’mon! After five times, I get his voicemail. Crap! “Frank, I’m on my way. If you get this, please get out of the robotics lab. I found out what the media is. Frank, it’s blood agar!” I’m pulling my warm sheepskin boots on as I go back to the living room, hopping on one leg and then the other. “I don’t understand half of it, Frank, but it’s bad. Please go up to the fourth floor, and I’ll meet you there. Get the others there too, okay? Bye!”

I hang up, then hurry to the hallway. I take my down jacket from the hanger, pick up my handbag, and drop my phone inside. I quickly look down, checking that my ID card is still hooked onto the belt strap, then grab my keys and walk out. I’m too impatient to wait for the elevator, so I head straight for the stairs and start to quickly descend as I hold onto the rails. Then all of a sudden, the entrance door of the building bursts open. I stop in mid-step. Someone’s inside. And they didn’t use a key.

Chapter 29 Wednesday 10:49 a.m. Not someone. Several people. Their footsteps are quiet, but the old laminate floor creaks as they cross the few feet of the entry hallway and start heading upstairs. I peek over the railing and see several hands holding the banister, moving fast. Sudden chills pass through my body. Oh, this can’t be good. I let go and pull my hand close to my chest, clenching it into a fist, then slowly start climbing back up, trying to stay very quiet. Back on the third floor, I quickly walk to my apartment door, but then I turn around. I don’t hear them anymore. I listen for a moment longer, but there is nothing. I breathe out, relaxing my shoulders. I’m so uptight that I’m seeing danger in everything. I’m just taking a step back toward the stairs

again when, suddenly, a hand grabs mine and yanks me sideways into an apartment. Sam’s apartment. Sam pushes the door closed and leans me against it. “Shhh!” He bends down close to me, pressing a finger against my lips before I manage to say anything. Then he slowly moves his finger from my lips and reaches for the key stuck in the door, silently locking us in. “What are you d—” “Quiet!” he whispers, his face alert, eyes wide open. He’s still tightly holding my hand, and I’m frowning as I look up at him until—I hear something. Something outside, in the corridor. I turn my head sideways, listening harder. The men are on the third floor. They are just outside of Sam’s flat! I stop breathing. The old wooden floor creaks softly as the men silently walk down the hall. And then—a loud crash!

Oh, my God, they broke into my flat! The door of my apartment bangs on the inside wall. I hear the floor creaking under the heavy steps, cupboards and drawers being opened, the thud of stuff being thrown on the floor. What are they doing in there? A moment later, someone walks out into the hall and says, “She’s not here. But we found her laptop.” “Give it to me,” I hear another man’s voice in the corridor. “You two, stay here. If she comes back, take her. Do not harm her! We need her alive.” I hear footsteps heading back to my apartment. The others seem to be heading to the stairs. “Let’s go back to the car,” the man continues. “We need to get this to headquarters. We need to check if there . . .” He continues talking, but he’s already climbing down the stairs and his voice is too quiet for me to hear. As the door of my apartment closes, all is

silent. Sam and I are not moving. I’m still looking sideways, leaning on the door. Sam’s hand is still holding mine; the other one resting on the key at the lock. His face is just a few inches away from me and I can feel his breath on the skin of my neck. Despite everything that has just happened, all I can think of is him—and me, pinned against the door and ridiculously turned on. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to break this moment. Sam is not moving either, his breathing heavy, his eyes on my neck, gazing at the wild pulse in my veins. Then his hand moves away from the key and he props his palm on the door above me, hovering over me in a way that almost makes me feel trapped. And this drives me simply insane. My knees become weak and I heave for another breath, the excitement making an enormous pressure on my chest. Then slowly, very slowly, I turn my head back to him.

My breathing gets shallow, my chest rising irregularly, almost uncontrollably. And we keep looking at each other, neither of us moving, gazes tangled in an enchanted thread impossible to break. And I do the only thing I can do right now, because resisting just became impossible. I lean in for a kiss. Then Sam locks his breath, and I stop just before my lips touch his. He straightens up, pushes himself away from the door, and takes a half step back. “We need to get out of here.” He takes my hand and walks to his living room. I follow—broken, rejected, and aroused to my limits. He brings me to the couch and then lets go of my hand, disappearing into the kitchen. But instead of sitting down, I keep standing, perplexed by everything that has just happened. I should be afraid right now. Some men have just broken into my house and stolen my laptop and are apparently still trying to capture me. The findings about the Crazy Gro cells are

alarming. The cells grow in blood, and Frank says they don’t look like Thermus at all. And David had an accident and is in hospital struggling for his life. All of this should make me feel anxious. And afraid. But it doesn’t. What I actually feel right now—is embarrassment. And sadness too. Because Sam so obviously, so clearly, and so painfully rejected me. Again. Right now, I would like to leave, drop onto my bed, bury my face into the pillows and stay there crying until I fall asleep. But I can’t. There are two strange men in my apartment, and I’m sure they would not let me cry in peace. So I stay here, feeling defeated and vulnerable. I look around and slowly take in my surroundings. There is almost no furniture in his place, only one bare mattress with no bedcover next to a wall. A large red punching bag hangs on a metal

chain in a corner. Shades are down on all of the windows and below them are several heavy boxes that I saw when he moved in. They are still unopened. On the other side of the room stands a large desk with ten computer screens all lined up in a shield, facing a large leather office chair. All the screens display black-and-white images. Aren’t those . . . ? Just as I’m about to focus more closely, Sam comes out of the kitchen carrying two bottles. Then he sees me looking at the screens. He takes a few steps back and presses a button. All the screens go dark. He stops next to me and hands me one of the bottles. I take it automatically. “You’re allowed to sit down, you know.” He smiles and nods to the couch. I’m still not a hundred percent here, still not completely on the ground. I keep trying to connect the dots, make sense out of all this. I slowly sit down next to him and take a sip. It’s cold and refreshing.

I look at the bottle. Pomegranate. I take few more deep gulps, all of a sudden realizing I’m parched. Half of the bottle is gone in no time. I hold the bottle, my gaze unfocused, and look through the pink juice. “This one is my—” “Favorite. I know.” I look at him. “How . . . ?” Sam looks at the floor, his Coke Zero hanging loosely between his knees, the bottleneck hooked between two of his fingers. He brings the bottle to his lips and takes a few sips. And in this most bizarre moment, I am enchanted watching him drink his Coke, the top of the bottle lightly pressing against his lips, small waves of the fizzy brownish liquid disappearing behind his mouth. It would have been the best Coke ad ever. Then he leans his elbows on his knees, bottle hanging down again, as I try to gather my thoughts. “It’s . . . it’s complicated, Jane.”

I take a deep breath. Then I look at him and say, more firmly than I thought I could muster, “I have a PhD in microbiology. I’m sure I can keep up.” He looks at me and smiles a vague smile. “Yes, I’m sure you could. But I can’t.” “What are you talking about?” “Never mind. Listen, those people who came”—he points with his thumb backward—“do you know what they want?” “No. No idea.” “Are you sure?” “Yes, I’m sure.” “Don’t you think it might have to do with your confidential project?” I lift my eyebrows. “What do you know about my confidential project?” “As I said, it’s complicated.” I look at the floor, my eyes searching for some imaginary patterns. It can’t be linked to the Crazy Gro project. Nobody knows about it. It has to be something else. It has to!

“Whatever it is,” he says, his voice unusually calm, “I don’t think they will leave you alone.” I look at him, my heartbeat spiking again. Then, all of a sudden, it dawns on me that if he hadn’t pulled me into his apartment—if I had stayed in the hallway—they would have taken me away. They would have done something to me. And I shiver once, involuntarily and hard. “Hey,” he says, gently touching my shoulder. “You’re okay. You’re safe.” “Yes,” I whisper. Then I look at him. “How did you know they were coming?” He takes another sip and then points to the screens with the bottle neck. “Video surveillance.” I look at the black screens for a few moments, then back at him. “Video surveillance?” “Yep,” he says and takes another sip. “Why . . . ?” “So I can see who’s coming.” “Why?” “For moments like this.” “But you are a . . . a photographer. Right?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead he stands up and sits on the leather chair, then brings the first screen in front of him back to life. “You’re not answering my question,” I press. He still doesn’t respond. He’s typing something: white words on a black screen. It looks like an old DOS system window but I’m sure it’s something else. “We need to disappear for a while,” he says quietly. “What?” I jump from my seat. “No way! I need to go to the institute. Frank is waiting for me there and we need to figure out—” “The institute is probably the worst place you could be right now, Jane.” “No! Francesco is in danger!” I dig into the pockets of my trousers, trying to find my cell phone. “I need to call him. I need to—” “No!” Sam is suddenly next to me. “You can’t. They’ll know where you’re calling from, Jane. They’ll know you’re here.” He takes a deep breath and slowly puts his hands on my shoulders.

“You can’t go to the institute or anywhere else they might expect you. We need to disappear, leaving no trace. All right?” “But . . .” I look at the floor in despair, shaking my head. “I can’t leave. I don’t have any clothes. I—I don’t have anything!” “Don’t worry, Jane. I’ll organize everything you need.” He lets me go and walks back to the computer screens. He’ll organize everything . . . what? “Aren’t you overdoing it a bit?” “Maybe.” He looks back at me and we are silent for a moment. “If I am,” he says calmly, “then there’s no harm done. You’re just taking a small vacation.” “And if you’re not overreacting?” I ask. “Then I’m saving your life,” he says and turns back to the computer.

Chapter 30 “No!” I say. “No what?” “No. I’m not disappearing. If it’s true—if these people are interested in this confidential project—then all my other friends are in danger too. And I need to tell them that.” I turn around and head for the door. “I need to go to the institute.” In two steps, Sam is next to me, holding me at my elbow. “Jane, I know how this must sound, but trust me, you are in danger. And yes, your friends are as well, but if you go to the institute, you are walking into a snake pit. They are waiting for you there.” “My friends need my help! I need to warn them!” I pull my elbow away. “All right! Fine!” He lifts his hands up. “Just—give me a second, will you?” Then he takes a silver flip phone out of his pocket and disappears into the kitchen. I can hear him talking, but he’s so quiet I don’t understand a word.

I turn on my heel and look around his apartment again, just trying to distract myself while I wait. All of this sounds dodgy. Everything. The project, these men breaking into my apartment— and Sam. Yes, Sam too. Appearing out of nowhere, keeping video surveillance equipment in his flat but —I look around his empty space—not much else. I shake my head. This is all so stra— “Let’s go!” He comes out, wearing a black jacket and a small backpack on his shoulder. I turn to the door, but he touches my elbow. “Wrong direction.” He nods the other way. “We’ll take the fire escape. They’re not watching it. Yet.” “How do you know?” He lifts an eyebrow. “Oh, yes,” I say. “Your cameras.” He nods, then heads for the window. “You know, I don’t . . . I don’t get you. Why . . . why the video surveillance? Why would you need that? You are a photographer.” He stops moving and lowers his head. I

watch his back, waiting for an answer. “Sam?” He takes a deep breath before turning around to look at me. “I’ll explain later. I promise. But now, we need to go. Please, trust me, okay?” After a few moments, I nod and follow. He comes close to the window and then opens the blinds halfway. He looks down the back street, first left, then right, scanning it. “Come!” He vaults over the windowsill and lands on the metal grid of the outer staircase. I copy what he did, though his movements looked far more graceful than mine. Once we are both out, we climb down the stairs, the sound of my steps reverberating on the metal construction. I’m anxious I’m making too much noise, so I try to step quietly, imitating Sam. Once we reach the last platform, Sam pushes down the last row of ladders, looking back and forth down the empty alley. He climbs down and jumps the last few feet. He looks up and reaches with both arms to take me by my waist,

while I lean on his shoulders for support. He lowers me down softly, right in front of him. And then—that same timeless moment. My hands on his shoulders, his hands holding my waist, our bodies so close that they are almost touching; we keep looking at each other, forgetting we were going somewhere, forgetting we were in a hurry. Then Sam looks at my lips. It’s a moment full of anticipation and sweet yearning. It could last forever and I still wouldn’t get enough. The next moment, he takes a sharp breath, letting go of my waist. He straightens and takes my hand. “Let’s go!” I trot behind him, pulled by his strong arm, trying to keep up. I cough to clear my voice. “Um, my . . . my car is parked just down that road,” I say and dig my hand into my bag, looking for the car keys. “We’re not taking your car. They’ll be watching it.” We stop at the place where the alley enters

the main road. Sam looks around, then takes my hand and pulls me with him. “Okay. And how are we going to get to the institute?” “Superbike.” I huff. “Super bike? You call your motorbike a ‘super bike’?” “I don’t call it superbike. It is a Superbike.” I shake my head. Boys and their toys. Sam is taking long strides and I literally need to run to keep up with him. Suddenly he stops, and I bump into him. “There you go,” he says, pointing at the bike parked in front of him. “Ducati 1199 Panigale Superbike. Dark Knight, special edition.” Then he turns his head to me. “Superbike is the name of the model.” “Oh!” I say, nodding slowly, then lean sideways to get a better look It does actually look like a super bike, I have to say. All black, the whole front part in one piece, smooth black metal frame, matte finish so it doesn’t reflect any light.

I tilt my head to the side. Haven’t I seen it somewhere befo— “Are you okay with this?” Sam asks, seeing me stare at the bike. I take a quick breath, then look at him. “Yeah. I . . . I think so. I just . . .” “What?” “I’ve never been on a bike before.” “Ever?” “No, never.” “Well, someone once told me there’s a first time for everything…” He takes a black helmet from the seat and gently puts it on my head. He lifts my chin to tilt my head back, then he ties a strap under my jaw. When he’s done, he slides his fingers down, touching my neck for a fraction of a second longer than needed. He must have done this unintentionally, I realize, but my heartbeat still inevitably spikes. “There. You’re all set.” “What about you? Don’t you need one?” “Don’t worry about that right now.” He

mounts the bike, then turns his head toward me and says, “Hop on!” Okay . . . Slowly, and a bit awkwardly, I sit behind him. The seat is quite small, so I need to squeeze in and sit really close to him. I feel his body between my legs, and try as I might, I cannot ignore what this does to me. My breathing becomes erratic and my muscles become wobbly. “You need to hold on to me!” I swallow, then circle my arms around him, feeling him underneath me. Every motion, every movement of his muscles, I feel under my palms, my arms, my body, my legs; the clothes between us are the only boundary. I start to get a bit dizzy. This right here is my own personal fantasy coming to life: sitting on an awesome motorcycle, my arms wrapped around the body of the most beautiful, yet the most intriguing man I have ever met. I take another shaky breath. “Are you all right?” “Y—yeah. I’m fine.”

“Good. Don’t worry, I’ll go slow.” That’s not at all what I’m worried about, but I guess now is not the time to discuss my feelings for him. “You’ll need to cross the river and take Memorial Dr—” He laughs, shaking his head. “I know where you work, Jane.” You do? He looks up the road again and starts the bike, the engine roaring to life. “Ready?” he says, turning his head sideways. “No?” He laughs and leads the bike into traffic.

Chapter 31

He does ride relatively slowly, but still, I’m not very comfortable. I feel like I will fall off on every corner. After the Turnpike, we cross the bridge and turn onto Memorial Drive, the sidewalk full of people, shoppers with large after-Christmas-sale bags, families with children, joggers. I turn my head, resting my helmet on his back, looking at the clear blue river through the grid of the naked trees lining the bank of the Charles. As we ride, Sam keeps looking at the side mirrors, one, then the other, then back. Constantly. Every now and then, I halfway turn my head back to check, but I don’t see anything unusual. Just cars, following the road like small branches on the surface of a river, trailing the curvature of the riverbed. After the main traffic light, rather than

going straight, Sam turns left instead. Using small one-way roads and several turns, he brings us to the back side of the campus and parks the motorbike next to a small truck, hiding it behind the truck’s gray tarp-covered cargo area. He turns off the engine, then turns his head to look back at me. “You’re okay?” I nod. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine, thanks.” He holds out his hand. “Let me help you.” I put my palm in his, then lean in for support and clumsily get off the bike. He dismounts as well, then turns around and steps toward me. He brings his hands to my neck and lifts my chin to unbuckle the helmet. I keep looking at him, transfixed, dazzled in this strange hypnotic state he has somehow induced in me. He takes off the helmet and hangs it on the handlebar, all the time looking into my eyes. We stay like this for a few seconds, an evanescent microworld containing only him and me, where I’m trying to see behind these two blue heart-stirring oceans, read his thoughts, sense his feelings . . . Then, he looks away, and the moment is

gone. “Let’s go find your friends.” He takes my hand and walks to the end of the truck, then peeks behind it. I lean in and look too. There’s no one here. The street is deserted. Sam parked the bike just a few feet away from the side entrance I typically use during the weekends. He looks back at me. “Can we get in through the back entrance?” I look down at my jeans and touch my ID card, hooked at my belt loop. “Yes, we can. But how did you know about this entrance?” Sam looks back down the road and starts walking, pulling me along. “Sam, you’re not answering my question.” He sighs and slows a bit, looking at the ground. “I’ll explain, but later, when we have more time. And are not under immediate threat.” Threat? I look around the empty street. It doesn’t seem like we’re under threat now. But I let it go. Fine, we’ll talk later. We reach the gate, and I’m just about to scan my ID card when we hear a noise coming from our left. Sam and I both turn in the direction

the sound came from, the main entrance of the institute. Coming around the corner, we see a group of people heading our way—four men wearing all black, encircling a fifth person. He staggers, his head is bent forward and there is a cut over his right eye, bleeding profusely. I feel a sharp grip at my heart, my legs turning weak. Oh, no! It’s Frank. Sam grabs me before my knees give in. The people stop next to a black van, open the back door, and push Frank inside, but just before his head disappears behind the tinted window, he sees me. And then he shouts, “Jane! Run!” The men around him look up at Sam and me. “Damn!” Sam says, then spins in the opposite direction and pulls me so hard I almost fall down. As I run behind Sam, I turn my head, trying to look behind me while still keeping my speed.

Two men start running toward us. Amazingly, I find some hidden strength in me, and I speed up. Then, all of a sudden, a gunshot sounds. It shakes me from within: tearing, earsplitting, and full of terror. I instinctively look back. One of the men has a gun in his hand, but his arm is yanked down by another man and his gun points to the ground. Then Sam reaches the truck where the motorbike is parked and he pulls me behind it, the large surface giving us cover. Sam turns and looks at me from head to toe, his scan quick and deliberate. He puts the helmet on me and locks it in an instant. “Sam, that was Frank! Did you see? They took him. Oh, my God, we need to call the police!” Sam doesn’t answer. “Sam?” I shriek. “Later,” he says, mounting the bike. “Get on! Now!” My legs and arms are shaking like crazy. I sit behind him, putting my arms around his waist, but they seem so weak that I’m not sure if I can

hold on to him. He puts one hand over mine, pressing them on his belly, holding them tight, keeping the other hand on the handlebar. The engine starts, but instead of turning onto the road, Sam maneuvers the bike onto the pavement and turns left, the truck cargo box still shielding us from the men behind us. We ride on the narrow sidewalk between parked cars and a red brick wall on our left, heading to the main street. “Hold on!” Sam shouts and lets go of my hands, grabbing the bar now with both hands. For a brief instant, the front wheel is standing still as the back wheel skids, leaving a black mark on the gray concrete. Sam turns right onto the main street, narrowly avoiding the flow of cars. *** We’re getting close to the river, Sam repeatedly looking in the rearview mirrors. We cross Harvard Bridge and turn left. He turns his head sideways for a second to check the traffic from behind, then looks to the front, leaning

forward. I hear him saying something, but I don’t understand. The engine is too loud. The next moment, he accelerates, and I urgently latch myself onto him even more. I want to see what made him speed up, but I’m afraid to turn, scared I’ll lose my hold and fall off. Sam looks back again for a fraction of a second, then accelerates even more. We are now way over the speed limit. After several seconds of this wild ride, I gather my courage, make sure my arms are locked around his waist, and look back. And I see it. The black van, the one we saw behind the institute. It’s aggressively overtaking other cars and getting dangerously close to us. Sam switches lanes all the way to the right, then brakes hard. My body presses flat against his back as he turns right into Pickney. Against the incoming traffic! “Oh, crap!” I yell and I close my eyes hard,

not wanting to look at the cars coming our way. I am trying to tune out everything around me now. All I can feel are the movements of Sam’s body, hearing the orchestral cacophony of horns as he swerves between the cars. He speeds up and my head yanks backward. At the first crossing, he turns left. A car coming our way squeals loudly as the driver slams on the brakes. It barely misses us. Sam accelerates, my head yanking backward again, and we ride north alongside the river, following the flow of traffic again. I breathe out, then turn to look behind us. The black van is gone, but Sam is still riding fast. We’re coming to another crossing and the traffic light starts to change, but Sam speeds up and we pass through a very dark orange light. The type that would usually warrant a fine. I’m just hoping it went unnoticed. Soon after, Sam turns right and heads for a tunnel. The next moment, the bright sunlight and blue sky are gone, replaced by plain white tiles under neon lights, rushing past me, looking like an old public bathroom’s walls.

I hear Sam saying something. “What?” I shout back. “Are you all right?” Sam turns his head toward me. “Yes. Yes, I’m okay.” Sort of. He nods and looks straight again. Sam keeps overtaking, slaloming as if the cars he is passing are the red and blue flags on the ski slopes. He is riding a lot slower now than he was before, his movements smooth and gentle, but he still frequently checks the cars behind us. Soon after Callahan Tunnel, Sam takes the airport exit, then heads toward the arrival terminal, but after a few moments he loops around a curve that tilts the bike sideways to a far greater degree than I am comfortable with and heads in a different direction. I look at the high concrete walls of the buildings surrounding us and I wonder if he really should have taken that turn, because I don’t see any other cars here. After a few more seconds, Sam stops and parks next to several concrete yellow bollards, just behind a large building. I don’t think he’s allowed

to park here, but he turns off the engine nevertheless. I’m still holding onto him. Some kind of rudimentary newborn reflex, I presume, an instinct to not let go. Sam awkwardly turns to me while I’m still pressed tight to his body. “We’re here,” he says, a smug smile on his lips. “Okay,” I say too quietly for him to hear me. I slowly let go of his body and only then realize how sore my arms are from maintaining my tight grip around him. I shake my arms, trying to release the tension. “Quite a grip you have there!” he says, leaning on the handlebar, looking at me. “You can only imagine how it was for me.” “I’m . . . sorry. I didn’t realize—” “I’m just kidding you, Jane. I can handle a grip or two.” He offers me his left hand and I climb off the bike. The pelvic bone between my legs feels sore as well and I squeeze my legs together. “I’m sorry about that,” he says. “Probably not that comfortable on the passenger seat, huh?”

“I didn’t realize there was a passenger seat on that bike.” He chuckles. “Well, you did great. Now, let’s go.” And he takes my hand and pulls me along, taking out his silver cell phone at the same time. He guides me around the outer corner of the airport building, the deafening sound of planes landing and taxiing reverberating off the terminal walls. We keep on walking for several minutes, though none of the paths seem to be made for passengers. During all that time, he keeps his phone to his ear and talks, but with all the noise, I don’t hear a thing. I’m just following, confused and overwhelmed with all that just happened. After several minutes, we stop at an automatic gate and a sliding door opens up, letting us through. There are several people around, mostly airport employees who raise their heads to look at us, slightly taken off guard. Sam ignores them, still focused on his conversation. We step onto the escalator, but Sam continues walking up so we’re moving even faster. At the top, Sam walks directly to an opaque sliding glass door and we enter a

large, brightly lit hall, crowded with people. This time, most of them are passengers. Then all of sudden, Sam abruptly changes his course. I look up. “Um, Sam? What’s going on?” He drops his phone back into his pocket. “Change of plans. We need to go to the international check-in, and we need to be fast.” “International? I—I don’t understand. Where are we going?” He turns his head slightly toward me but keeps his pace. “We need to leave the country.”

Chapter 32

“What?” I stop in my tracks and snatch my hand out of his. “Leave the country? Are you out of your mind?” I’m being louder than I actually intend to be. A few people around us glance in our direction, distracted by my outburst, then continue with their business. Sam scans the people for a moment or two, making sure no one is paying any attention, then moves closer. His eyes on me are wonderfully blue, but now they are piercing and sharp. “Jane, I’m perfectly lucid, but the people who tried to kidnap you—the people who kidnapped Frank—will do a lot more if you stay here. They are a lot better organized than we expected, at least here in the US.” Then he nods once, his eyes boring into mine. “I need to get you to safety. Do you understand?” I feel like a two-year-old when he talks to

me like this. “But what about Frank?” I whisper. “What about the police?” He nods, then takes my hand and pulls me along. “That’s taken care of.” I trot behind him, trying to keep up. “You mean, you called the police?” He takes a breath to answer but stops. Then he licks his lips and continues, “No, but I have . . . connections. They are in touch with the police.” I shake my head, looking at the ground. This is all so confusing. All the information he just gave me, elusive and ambiguous, is blocking my thoughts and giving me a pounding headache. “I—I don’t understand.” “I know, Jane. I’m sorry. I will try to explain . . . as best as I can, later.” And he turns his head to me for a quick glance. “All right?” I nod. “All right, Sam.” He smiles at me and softly squeezes my hand once. We are walking quickly, following the signs to the check-in terminals, but then Sam turns to a small shop selling tobacco, snacks, and magazines.

I’m just blindly following. “Sam,” says a man behind a counter. I peek around Sam to look at the person: he is short, chubby, of Indian origin, and has a receding hairline. “Joshi.” Sam smiles pleasantly at the man. Joshi hands a folded magazine to Sam over the counter and asks, “Would there be anything else?” “No, that’s all. Thank you.” Sam takes some coins from his wallet and hands them to the guy. “Have a safe flight,” Joshi says. “Thank you,” Sam answers, then turns around and walks into the river of travelers, his eyes constantly scanning our surroundings, still tightly holding my hand. It feels surreal, all of it. Everything that has happened. I should be scared, and at some level I guess I am, but somehow, I trust him. I trust Sam. And I don’t know why. For all I know, he could be dragging me to some godforsaken place. If he killed me and

dumped me in some hole, nobody would know about it. But still, for some unexplainable reason, I trust him. His arm is bent back as he holds my hand and every now and then, with certain movements, his leather jacket tightens and his back muscles show, but are then concealed again as the jacket shifts back. I keep looking, transfixed, knowing this is the last thing I should be thinking about right now, but I can’t help it. I think of the skin under his clothes, of me touching it, sliding my palm over his — Sam stops suddenly and I bang into him. Yet again. Pay attention, Jane! Seriously… I lean sideways to look past him. We’ve arrived at the queue in front of a check-in counter. Sam opens the folded magazine he received from Joshi and takes out two passports. I look at the passports and then at him. He’s not looking at me, but I’m sure he sees my gaze. The person in front

of us leaves the counter and Sam walks up, lying our passports down. The flight attendant picks them up, then looks at both of us. I feel self-conscious and I don’t know where to turn my head. “Mr. Swift, do you have any other luggage?” “No, just hand luggage.” “Mrs. Swift?” I look up at the lady. Mrs. Swift? Then I look at Sam. He has a hidden smile on his face as he looks at me. Not turning to the flight attendant, he says, “No, Mrs. Swift has only hand luggage as well.” And just like that, the lady gives us the plane tickets tucked in between the pages of our passports and wishes us a pleasant flight. We leave the counter and head for the security control. I take the passports from Sam and open mine. Jane Swift. Wow. It sounds nice. It does. And the passport looks totally real. My picture is there. My signature too.

I have to smile. “What?” asks Sam, looking at me. “I don’t recall your marriage proposal…” He lifts an eyebrow in a question. “Marriage proposal?” I frown a bit. “Well, yeah, how else would I have your surname?” He tilts his head sideways and smiles mischievously. “Well, maybe, just maybe, you could be my—sister?” I look down at the passport again and see that the field for my maiden name is empty. Oh, he’s right. And my whole body goes a bit slack. I really put my foot in my mouth. “But”—I shake my head—“the lady said Mrs. Swift, not Miss!” Sam chuckles. “I guess she thought you looked too old to be called a Miss.” I look up at him, then punch him in the shoulder. He laughs out loud. “Ouch—Miss Swift! That hurts!” I grunt and look away.

When I turn my head again, I see a crooked smile playing on his lips. After several moments, we arrive at the metal detection gate and stand in what seems to be the shortest queue. Sam takes off his backpack and his leather jacket, and places them onto the conveyor belt leading to the X-ray machine. Then he removes his belt and puts it in a tray. His trousers drop a bit and I just can’t stop myself from looking at his profile, his buttocks, and the strong thighs that I see through his jeans when he steps forward. I close my eyes. After everything that happened, I am looking at his butt. I breathe out angrily and shake my head. I’m going out of my mind! I blink a few times to focus again. I put my jacket in a tray, then touch my pockets to see if I have anything made of metal. My ID card has a small metal clip. I’m about to unhook it and put it in the tray as well, but the security officer stops me, saying that’s okay, it doesn’t need to go through the

X-ray. Then I dig my cell phone out of my pocket and put it in the tray. Sam looks at my phone and then at me. He gives me a look but doesn’t say anything. Then he walks through the detection gate and I follow, glancing at the security officers standing behind the conveyor belt, looking at their screens. Both of us pass without a beep. On the other end, we start gathering our stuff again. “I didn’t realize you had your phone with you,” he says in a low voice, not looking at me. He puts his belt back into his trousers and hooks his jacket around his finger, swinging it over his shoulder. “You need to get rid of it. You’re traceable like this.” “But—I can’t do that. I still need to reach my family,” I say as he takes my hand again and moves along. “We will slip your phone to someone else,” he says. “But—I need to call Miyako! I need to make sure she’s okay. And I need to call Sarah too. And my parents—”

Sam stops a few feet away from a queue waiting at boarding gate fifty-three, apparently heading to Mexico City, and turns to me. He scans the people standing in line, then turns to me and says, “Jane, I need your phone.” I look up at him, clutching my phone to my chest. “No!” Sam looks at me. “Jane, I need it now, please. You can’t keep it.” He reaches out to take my phone. “Wait, wait! Just give me a second to text my sister. I can’t leave and not give her any sign that I’m all right!” “Whatever you write, it’s very likely it will be intercepted by the people who are after you.” “I know, I know! I just need to—” Sam raises one eyebrow, pursing his lips, then offers his open palm to me, a signal to hand over my phone. “Wait! I have an idea.” He closes his eyes for a moment, lifting his head up. Then he looks down and says, “Fine. Thirty seconds.”

“That’s all I need.” I open my chat window with Sarah and write: Hi! Everything is great. We are enjoying our trip very much. Uncle Victor loves it. I think we will need to stay longer than planned. Then I look at the text and add something I normally wouldn’t, but I can’t help it: I love you! Love to my boys, too. Take care, sis. Then I delete sis and type Jane and send it off. I hope she understands. I switch off my phone and give it to Sam. He takes my hand again and we start walking. A large man with two bags, one on each shoulder, is standing at the end of the queue for gate fifty-three. We pass by him and Sam brushes against him, then says, “Excuse me! My fault.” The man turns and smiles. “No problem, buddy. Busy airport, ay?” Sam smiles and nods, then turns around and continues walking, his smile gone. My phone is not in his hand anymore.

*** Sam and I are already in our seats, but more people are still entering the plane. They are loud as they find their places, put away their hand luggage, and slowly settle in. The flight attendants pace up and down, making sure everyone is buckled in, all the overhead compartments are safely closed, and all the children have their in-flight toys and crayons. Sam has been scanning and scrutinizing every passenger coming our way. He is constantly alert. I look outside the window and see the large left plane wing and the airport buildings behind it. The edges of the glass on the window are covered in frost, making a beautiful patterned rim. It is cold outside. And throughout the entire hectic chase this morning, I hadn’t even noticed it. Compliments of the adrenaline. But now, although I’m inside, I slowly feel the cold creeping in. I shake once and hug myself.

Sam looks at me, then reaches for the overhead locker and takes out a blanket. He shakes it open and puts it around me. “Better?” I nod. Then, a second later, I look at Sam and ask quietly, “What’s going to happen to Frank, Sam?” He takes a deep breath, still watching the people entering, and whispers, “I don’t know, Jane. I think . . . I hope he’s still alive.” My breath hitches and I cough. What? I turn my body toward him. “You mean—there’s a chance he might not be?” Sam glances at me quickly before looking to the front again. “If he has information they want, they will keep him alive until . . . until he gives it to them.” My heart is beating wildly now. I don’t want to believe it. This can’t be. “Sam, this—it just can’t happen like this!” “Shhh!” He turns to me, putting a finger to my lips, then looks around quickly. Once he sees that no one is paying attention, he looks back at me

and says quietly, “I’m sorry, Jane. I really am. I realize this is not your world. In fact, it’s not most people’s world. But you’re involved now, and we need to find a safe way out for you.” Safe way out for me? “What about Frank? What about Miya? And the others? Are they in danger too?” He holds a breath before he says, “Possibly.” I look at him for a long moment. Then I turn forward again, my gaze empty on my lap. “Jane,” Sam whispers. “There is no other choice for you right now but to leave. We might be able to help them, but only once you’re safe and out of danger.” “How do you know all of this? And who is ‘we’?” I ask more quietly now. Sam smiles, a faint but warm smile. Then he lifts his arm and gently puts his hand on my cheek. His palm is warm, and it feels so good, so necessary at this moment, that the only thing I can do is close my eyes and lean into his hand. “It has been a strenuous day for you, Jane,”

Sam whispers. “Why don’t you rest now? We can go through Q&As after you’ve had some sleep.” Through the speaker, the pilot announces that the boarding has been completed. The lights dim and the plane starts reversing. I slowly drift into unconsciousness, tiredness pulling me into a heavy slumber. I’m fighting to stay awake, to open my eyes again. “Rest now, Jane.” A whisper and a warm kiss on my forehead. “Rest.” Somewhere at the border of sleep and consciousness, I realize the plane has started speeding down the runway. And before it takes off, I’m asleep.

Chapter 33

I open my eyes slowly, hearing the low hum of the plane flying at forty thousand feet. It is dark in the plane cabin. Two small reading lights, one to the right of me and one to the front, are faintly illuminating the persons underneath. My head is resting on Sam’s chest, and I smile to myself at my innocent physical contact. I don’t move, pretending to still be asleep. “Did you have a good rest?” he asks in a low voice, and I feel the deep vibration of his chest against my ear. He must have felt me stirring. “Yes . . .” I lift my head and smile. “Good.” He smiles warmly. “We have two hours to go. You can still have a snooze if you want . . .” And he lifts up his shoulder to show me I can go back. I smile and take him up on his offer, leaning back on his chest muscles, though I don’t feel like

sleeping anymore. I look through the window to the thin streak of dawn appearing on the horizon. And then—reality comes tumbling in and I remember everything that happened yesterday. And I remember Frank, being dragged away. I press my teeth together and close my eyes again. He needs to be okay. He has to be okay. I deliberately breathe in and out, slowly, to calm myself. Sam puts his hand on mine but doesn’t say anything. He lets me digest this in my own way. After a few minutes, I feel a bit calmer. I need to think about something else. Anything else. I open my eyes again, looking at Sam’s large hands resting on his lap. Several veins are clearly visible, even in this dim light, as they cross over tendons and bones. “So, you do martial arts?” I ask, remembering the punching bag I saw in his apartment. “Yes, I do kickboxing.” “Wow . . . I shouldn’t mess with you, should

I?” He mumbles something that sounds like already did, but it doesn’t make any sense to me. “Sorry, what was that?” “Never mind. It’s irrelevant.” I doubt this, but I don’t voice it. We are silent for a few minutes. I know he’s not going to answer any of the questions I’m really interested in, but I still want to hear him talk. “So are we staying in Barcelona?” I ask. “No. We’re driving to La Rioja. We’re gonna visit a friend of mine. He—Eduardo—was a multiple champion of kickboxing, actually. I used to train with him many years ago. He’s my age, but he was always much better than me.” I can tell that he’s smiling, even though I can’t see his face. “He was a great teacher to learn from, too.” “Impressive. So . . . um, how old is he?” I ask, trying to make the question seem nonchalant. He chuckles and says, “I’m thirty-three, Jane.” I have to smile. He figured me out. “Then we don’t have such a big age difference as I

thought.” “Ah, so you’ve been thinking about our age difference?” His voice rumbles against my ear. Oh, God . . . I close my eyes. You don’t even want to know what else has been playing in my mind. I don’t answer him. Anything I say would only make it worse. Instead, I just enjoy. Enjoy feeling his warmth on my cheek, listening to his heartbeat, moving with his breathing. I wish I could stay like this forever. This is such an innocent touch, but yet—so close. “How come you don’t have any real furniture in your apartment?” I ask. “I, um, like it empty. Also, I change projects every few months, so there’s no point in binding myself to one place too much.” Ah, so you’re one of those guys, huh? “How long do you normally stay on a project?” “It depends on the client.” “And what kind of clients are we talking about?”

“Well, just people who want something photograph—” I lift my head to look at him, raising my eyebrows as I whisper, “False passports, instant plane tickets, surveillance cameras? You’re not really a photographer, are you?” He looks at me but doesn’t answer, his eyes dark in the dim light. “What are you, Sam?” I ask quietly. He swallows, then opens his mouth, but— no words come out. Then he looks down. I put my hand over his, gripping an armrest. “Sam?” He looks at me, and for the first time since I’ve met him, I see fear in his eyes. He’s afraid. Sam is actually afraid. What can he possibly be afraid of? “What, Sam?” “I . . .” But he doesn’t finish; his mouth is open and silent. “Sam!” My voice remains quiet but urgent. My heart is beginning to race. I don’t know what I

was expecting to hear, but his silence is giving me real alarm signals right now. “I collect data,” he blurts out. I frown. “Data? What kind of data?” “Anything, really. Anything suspicious. I take photos, I do surveillance, collect all the data that might be related to any suspicious activity. And then I . . .” He coughs once into his fist. “I send the information to my superiors.” “Oh!” I say, straightening in my seat. “Okay, so like an FBI agent, or something like that?” He looks away. “Yeah. Something like that. Only it’s not exactly a government agency.” Hmm—I guess that makes sense. “So have you been following the research at the institute? My research?” I quickly look around and then lean in more closely. “Was that your job?” He nods. “Yes.” “And when were you assigned to this?” “A few months back.” A few months back? Could it be that he knew about me before we met? My heart rate shifts

into a higher gear. “Dr. Rosenberg was leading the project at the time,” he continues. Oh . . . I lower my gaze. Of course. I came into the picture only when I joined the project myself, two weeks ago. I try to distract myself from these thoughts and focus on something different. Something important. “Did Dr. Rosenberg know what kind of bacteria she was really working on?” “We don’t know. We assume not.” “And who is we?” Just as he’s about to answer, all the lights in the cabin turn on and I need to squint to get used to the brightness again. Sam straightens in his seat, then says, “Let’s talk about it later, okay?”

Chapter 34

After shopping at the Barcelona airport for some clothes, a toothbrush, and a comb for me, we’re driving away in the direction of La Rioja. Considering it’s December, it is pleasantly warm, and I have my window down. I look at the landscape: although the weather is mild, it is clearly the middle of winter. The land is dry, and very few plants have green leaves, but nonetheless the landscape is simply beautiful, small hills covered by rows of grapevines, now brown and woody. Hidden in the midst of vineyard slopes, I see quaint little huts made out of beige colored stone, and I can only imagine how stunning these would look in the summer, engulfed in rich green. We talk about music, his kickboxing, and my family. He tells me stories from Spanish history and his knowledge of the past fascinates me. He talks about his love of photography and how he got interested in it as a teenager. I tell him about my

student years and how I’ve always been considered a nerd, which sends him into fits of laughter, says he never would have thought it. And all of this feels—perfect. It feels like this is exactly how it should be: driving in a foreign land, the windows down, talking and never getting enough of it. The only thing is that it isn’t perfect. We are on the run, my friends are in danger, and he is with me because . . . because it’s his job, because he needs to be with me, not because he wants to be. I keep pushing that thought away, but in time, it takes over and I fall silent. After driving more than four hours, Sam turns right onto a dusty dirt road. On both sides of the path, tall conifer trees are lined up, making it look like a green tunnel. About half a mile down the road, we pass an open iron gate with white sixfoot-high walls on each side. There is writing on the left wall in large, italic letters: El Mar de las Antillas. My Spanish is rusty, but I think it has something to do with the sea.

I peek at Sam. He seems to be in very good spirits as he looks around the estate. I think he is looking forward to meeting with Eduardo, and somehow seeing him like this makes me happy too. Behind the gate, the dirt road takes us downhill. On both sides of the road I see an endless array of grapevines aligned in rows, leafless, knotty, brown fences waiting for the spring to start. It takes us several minutes to drive through the vineyard before we reach a meadow with a large, old-looking house and a parking area covered with grass-pavers. Sam stops the car in between a black Land Rover and a matte-gray Audi convertible, which one can barely see in the dim afternoon light. “All right. We are here!” Sam turns to me with a smile. We get out, and at the same time, the front door opens and a man comes out. He’s a lot smaller than Sam, with dark eyes, dark hair, and an unshaven face. “Sam!” the man cries out through a broad

smile as he comes down the few steps to the parking area. “It’s been ages, amigo.” He reaches us and they shake hands and then hug roughly, slapping each other on the back. Their laughter is combined with coughing from all that back-hitting, and I wonder if this isn’t some old traditional greeting they always use when they meet. When they part, Sam turns to me. “Eduardo, I want you to meet Jane. Jane”—he puts his hand on Eduardo’s shoulder—“this is Eduardo.” “Hi, Eduardo, encantado de conocerte.” “Wow, Sam—no me dijiste que traías una chica española!” Eduardo exclaims. “No, not a Spanish, but very familiar with the language,” Sam explains as he looks at me with a smile on his face. “Right?” “Not really.” I smile. “I had Spanish for only two semesters. But I hope some of it is still in here.” I tap my head with my finger. “Jane, your pronunciation is excellent,” Eduardo says. His English is heavily accented and I like it.

I smile. “Gracias.” Eduardo moves to the side and opens his hands in the direction of the stairs leading to his house. “Please, please, come in. Make yourselves at home.” As we climb the short stairs, a tiny dog comes out of the house and starts barking. Each bark comes with a small jump backward. He looks like a bonsai deer, with short, light brown fur and thin bony legs. “Hush!” says Eduardo to his dog. “These are friends.” He then turns to us. “This is Beast.” I burst out laughing. A second later I stop, realizing that probably wasn’t appropriate. “Uh . . . sorry!” I say, checking for Eduardo’s reaction. He smiles and says, “That’s fine, Jane, that was the idea.” “A Chihuahua?” Sam raises his eyebrows. “I know, I know.” “A Chihuahua, Eduardo?” “I couldn’t help it. I was about to get a Rottweiler, and then on the way to the breeder, I accidentally stopped at a Chihuahua breeder”—

Eduardo winks at me—“and I saw this one. He was nine weeks old at the time and he fell in love with my shoelaces, and I couldn’t shake him off. So I took him with me.” Eduardo chuckles, then enters his house, the bonsai dog loyally following him. Sam smiles and shakes his head. “I’m glad to see you haven’t changed, hermano.” Eduardo closes the door behind us and I feel warm air coming from the far end of the hallway, smell wood burning in a fireplace. He guides us along the lengthy corridor. On each side are several doors, and most of them are open. I peek in. A couple of them are bedrooms, then two bathrooms, one working area, and then one set of closed doors at the very end of the hallway. As we enter the living room, I stop, just behind Sam, and look up. The room is enormous. The ceiling is at least double the height of a regular ceiling and I get a bit dizzy from bending my head backward, looking at the old wooden beams at the top. On one side of the living room is a large

fireplace, and right in front is a cowskin carpet and three large couches made of dark brown leather. On the other side is an open kitchen with white cupboards and a large cooking island. The entire kitchen has a last-century touch, and though it is not my style, I realize I like the way everything is arranged. I focus again on Eduardo who is animatedly talking in Spanish with Sam and I try to focus on the language to see if I can catch and perhaps understand some of what they’re saying, but then Eduardo glances at me and they stop talking. I have a strange feeling that their conversation had something to do with me, and I wish I’d paid more attention to it. They both look at me, not saying anything. Then Sam tidies up a loose hair strand behind my ear. I get goose bumps and my skin tingles all over my body. His touch has a powerful effect on me, even when it’s so innocent. Eduardo gives Sam a quick look. Somehow it looks reprimanding, but I don’t understand why that would be. I must have misinterpreted it. “Let me get you something to drink,”

Eduardo says, walking to the kitchen. He bends down behind the kitchen island to get something from the cabinet underneath. “I’m not going to let you choose, because I want you to try my very own production.” He straightens and places three wineglasses on the light brown wooden counter of the kitchen island. He then leaves through a small door in the back of the kitchen that I hadn’t noticed before. “I also won’t ask you if you like red or white,” he shouts from the other room, “because I’ll serve you what I think is the best this vineyard has to offer. Sangiovese La Puntería.” Sam smiles to himself as if there is some insider joke they have going here. He comes back with a bottle and a wine opener. “When you try this,” he says, pulling the cork, “you’ll never want to leave.” Sam and I both smile. “I see you found your passion,” Sam tells him. “Tienes razón, yet another one.” He pours the wine and hands us our glasses. I am hopeless with wines. I don’t remember their names even if I like them, and all the

descriptions I read on the back, like “fine rose touch” or “wooden oak scent”, are usually lost on me. We taste the wine, Eduardo’s eyes wide as he watches us for our reactions. Sam presses his lips together in a thought and nods, looking at the wineglass. “Well done, Eduardo, well done. I think this passion you should really stick to.” Eduardo smiles and then looks at me. “You like it?” “Yes,” I say, nodding. “It’s a bit strong for me, but it leaves a good aftertaste.” “Sí, that’s what I’m talking about!” Eduardo almost shouts. He takes another sip, then leaves the glass on the kitchen island. “There will be a lot of drinking, amigos, so don’t rush. Now, let me show you where your rooms are.” We leave our glasses on the island and follow Eduardo back to the corridor. “Jane, this here is your bedroom. The bathroom is next door, but you can also reach it through your bedroom. That door there connects to

it.” Eduardo points to the left. “Sam,” he says, nudging him further along the corridor. Two doors down, Eduardo points into the room. “This one’s yours. Your bathroom is on the other side.” Why does he have so many bedrooms? Wouldn’t it be logical to have just one guest bedroom, with one queen bed? One narrow queen bed? I shake my head and walk into my room. I sit on the bed and then flop on my back, my feet hanging over the edge of the mattress. The ceiling is decorated in a baroque-type design, and I follow the lines with my eyes. All of a sudden I realize I am terribly sleepy, even though I had a long sleep on the plane. Somewhere in my consciousness I realize I’m hungry as well, but my determination to get up and search for some food is lost under the heavy blanket of jet lag. I fall asleep within minutes.

Chapter 35

When I open my eyes, it’s dark and I can see yellowish light coming through the half-open door of my room. I’m covered with a blanket. I hear a low murmur of Sam and Eduardo talking, but I can’t make out what they are saying. Either they don’t want to wake me up or they are talking about something they don’t want me to hear. I pull away the blanket and sit up. I feel a bit cold; must be the exhaustion. I wrap the blanket around me and walk to the living room. “—sn’t the smartest thing you’ve done. You know that, don’t you?” Eduardo is standing next to the kitchen island, propping his arms on the wooden surface, looking at Sam. Sam is sitting on a barstool, leaning his elbows on the counter, his fingers in his hair, frozen in the middle of a combing motion. He’s nodding. Then Eduardo sees me. “Jane! Did you

have a good sleep?” “Yes, Eduardo, I did. Thank you. Who covered me?” I ask, as I remove the blanket and fold it, then place it on the sofa. “Sam. Of course,” Eduardo says, giving Sam a sideways look. Sam turns to me and smiles, his face changing from worried to happy in one instant. And that makes me happy too. I smile back. “My wife, Lucretia, made us a lovely dinner,” Eduardo says, and only then do I see a small woman standing in the kitchen. She’s got thick black hair, bright black eyes, and broad hips. She must be over forty, I think, but her smooth skin makes her look a lot younger. I walk over to her and reach out my hand. “I’m Jane, nice to meet you.” She smiles, looking at Eduardo and then back at me as she shakes my hand. “Lo siento, mi Inglés es muy malo.” “Ah, that’s fine. My Spanish is worse.” I smile back to her.

She picks up four plates stacked on the kitchen island and brings them to the table. I take the kitchen utensils from the counter and bring them to table as well, placing the knives and forks next to the plates. For a moment, I look around, wondering where should I sit, then, the next moment, my skin tingles as I feel Sam’s hand touch my back. He’s right behind me, and he’s very, very close. I swallow and turn around. He’s not looking at my eyes but my lips, and my heartbeat speeds up in a second. His jaw muscles tighten and he takes a quick breath through his nose. He licks his lips, closing his eyes for a short moment. He slowly exhales and a gentle smile appears on his face again. He looks at me and asks, “Wanna sit next to me?” My eyes are wide open and I can’t answer. My knees are shaking, my heart is in my throat and I feel like I’m going to faint. His lips curl into a mischievous smile, and I think it’s obvious to him what I’m feeling. He moves to my right and pulls out a chair

for me. After a moment, I sit, happy my knees didn’t let me down. I look at the table, confused. “You’re okay?” he asks. “Y—Yeah.” What am I supposed to tell him: You turn me on every time you’re near me? Every time you touch me by accident? Every time you look at me? I close my eyes for a moment, trying to calm myself down, trying to slow my heartbeat to normal and regain my usual facial coloring. “Let me show you my white beauty now,” Eduardo says and goes into the small room behind the kitchen. Sam takes the wineglasses and a cork screw dangling from a small hook on the wall and walks back to the table. “This one is my favorite!” Eduardo continues, pulling the cork of the wine bottle as Lucretia places a steaming pan on the table. He pours a little bit of wine into Sam’s glass and then waits for his reaction. Sam brings the glass close to his face, smells it, and then takes a sip. After a few moments, he swallows.

“Excellent, Eduardo.” He smiles and holds the glass up for a refill. “That’s what I want to hear!” Eduardo says in Spanish, his tone musical, as if he’s singing a piece from one of the Spanish operas. He then pours wine for me and himself. “You’re not having any wine, Lucretia?” asks Sam in excellent Spanish. “Not now. Not a good time,” she responds in broken English. Eduardo sits down and then raises his glass to the middle of the table. “Welcome to my humble home, Jane, Sam. It is great to see you.” Eduardo looks at Sam with his last sentence and nods very slightly. I look at Sam, then back at Eduardo. It seems to me that these two have been through thick and thin together. Their conversation flows as if they see each other every day, although it’s been years, as far as I recall from Sam. I look at the plate before I take a first forkful. It’s a meal I’ve never tried before, but it looks like minced meat with a white-yellow sauce

baked on the top. I taste it without knowing what to expect. It’s minced meat all right, but there are also many strong spices that burn my tongue. It’s not exactly my kind of food, but it fits this place perfectly, and I find I’m enjoying it. I refocus my attention on Sam and Eduardo’s conversation. Eduardo is translating some bits for Lucretia. “. . . not much to do in winter in the field, but there’s always the preparation for the next season. I mean, if a client cleans out my cellar one year, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s going to do the same next year. It’s a long selling cycle. And if you want to sell, you need to produce top quality,” he says confidently and then takes a sip of his wine. Sam raises his eyebrows and nods slowly. “I’m impressed. It’s a real business endeavor. It seems you now have an official job.” Eduardo glances at me quickly, as if I was not supposed to hear that, but I’m not sure which part. It all sounded very normal. “Yes, well, we all have official jobs, don’t

we, Sam?” he responds, but I have a feeling it was meant for me to hear. “Of course we do,” says Sam. He looks down to his plate and takes a bite. “So, Jane, tell me about your job. What do you do?” I look at Sam thinking, nothing anymore, but I still answer, “I’m a scientist.” “Wow!” says Eduardo. He looks at me, then Sam, then me again. “I work in a basic research institute,” I explain further. “Basic research? What does that mean exactly?” Eduardo asks. “Well, it’s biological research on basic life processes . . .” I don’t really feel like talking about it, but all three look at me with expectant looks on their faces. “I work on bacterial cells,” I explain, and then pause, waiting for Eduardo to translate my words for Lucretia. “Bacteria? Isn’t that dangerous?” she asks in Spanish. “Oh, no, the strains I work with are all safe.

Um . . . I mean, even if some of them are pathogenic—cause diseases—they are all modified to make sure that they can’t grow outside of the lab.” I look down at my plate for a second. “And I work—worked—on the metabolic and structural processes that happen in bacteria during growth. Multiplication and so on.” I want to stop my explanation here, but Eduardo insists. “Can you describe to me one of your discoveries?” I look up in the air, thinking. I don’t want to tell them about Crazy Gro. But I also don’t want to explain about my blocker findings. I decide to explain something a bit simpler, a result I got a few months ago, the one I talked about at the Boston conference. “Well,” I start, “some bacteria can make specific structures called endospores. Basically, if the bacteria are alive and happy, they multiply and grow—but if they sense any kind of unfavorable condition, some strains have the ability to sort of hide. They build a unique wall around their genetic material, which protects them from the hostile

environment.” “That’s interesting. But a bit nasty if you’re talking about dangerous bacteria, isn’t it?” Eduardo prods. “Yes, indeed!” I am now hooked. “So, I studied processes of the endospore’s cortex wall structure, specifically how to interfere with the building of this wall so it’s not so impenetrable.” “Wow! Did you manage?” Eduardo raises his eyebrows. “Yes, she did,” Sam answers before I do. “I had no idea you were interested in scientific research, Sammy,” Eduardo says teasingly. Sam closes his eyes, breaking our gaze, and turns to Eduardo. “Sammy? Really? You haven’t called me that since I was in my twenties.” “Well, then it’s clear why I’m doing it now. Isn’t it, Sammy?” he says, arching one of his eyebrows while nodding excessively. Sam rolls his eyes. I look at Eduardo, then at Sam, then at Eduardo again. To me, it’s not clear at all, but

before I manage to query either of them, Eduardo stands up and asks, “So, who wants dessert?” “Oh!” I raise my hand. “Me! Always.” Lucretia starts to stand, but Eduardo puts his hands on her shoulders. “No, no. Just relax, honey, I’ll take care of it,” he says in Spanish and leaves for the kitchen. I turn to Lucretia and say, “This was very nice, Lucretia. I would love to get your recipe.” “Thank you, Jane. Of course, I only have in Spanish. I hope okay for you?” I smile and glance at Sam. “I’m sure I’ll be able to find someone to translate it for me.”

Chapter 36

I’m sitting at the kitchen island, swiveling slightly on the barstool, looking at my glass of wine. Probably one too many. But Eduardo really does make an excellent wine. I take another sip, then put the glass down and look at Eduardo and Sam standing at the sink. Eduardo has just washed the last plate and is handing it to Sam. Sam takes it and dries it with a kitchen towel, turning to look under the kitchen island. “You know,” Sam says, “you would have room for a small dishwasher here under the counter.” Eduardo turns to look at the spot and then looks back at Sam. “I know. I know.” He squeezes the sponge under the running water and the foam bubbles up in his palm. “But we like to keep things as natural as they can be.” Then he leaves the sponge on the small plate next to the sink.

“Okay. As long as you are equally contributing to this natural way of living, not leaving all to Lucretia.” Sam raises an eyebrow, looking at Eduardo. “Eh!” Eduardo exclaims and gestures with both hands to the sink, now empty of dirty dishes. “What have I been doing just now?” “I’m just saying.” Sam slowly shakes his head. Eduardo waves his hand at him, then wipes his palms on his shirt. “Even I can evolve, you know?” Sam laughs as he puts the last plate in the cupboard and closes it. “This ain’t evolution, hermano. For you—this is revolution!” Eduardo clenches his hands into fists and positions them in front of his chest, a combat posture. “Shall I teach you a new lesson?” “No, guru, thank you. Not this time.” Sam raises his hands, palms next to his face. “I wanna keep all of my bones intact.” Eduardo lowers his hands and nods. “That’s better!”

“But it’s the best reason for revolution, amigo.” Sam looks at Lucretia, who is sitting on the couch, Beast next to her as she mends a torn seam of a pair of Eduardo’s trousers. Eduardo looks at Lucretia, a faint smile on his face. “Si . . . si, you are right.” After a moment or two, he snaps out of his reverie and looks at us. “I’ll bring some wood from the barn. Are you guys okay? Shall I get you anything?” “I’m fine, thanks,” I say. “Me too.” When Eduardo leaves, Sam comes to the kitchen island and leans against it. “Hey. How are you?” I nod, looking at the aged wood on the counter. “I’m fine,” I say. Then I look at him. “The wine helps.” Sam smiles. “It’s good to relax. Let loose. The body can’t handle stress all the time.” I nod but look down again. “What is it?” “I should have taken the data.”

“What data?” I lower my head even more. The genomics data. The data from the email that came in just before I left on Tuesday. I should have copied it onto the memory stick and brought it with me. But I didn’t. I was following the rules: no confidential data outside the institute. What an idiot. “Jane?” I look up at him. “What data?” There’s still this block in my mind where I feel that I can’t talk about this project, about the confidential information. But that doesn’t make any sense, because—Sam knows about it already. I sigh, then start. “On Tuesday, just before I left in the evening, I received the important genomics data I was waiting for.” I look away. “I didn’t check the files. I meant to do it the next morning, but I never got the chance. And I didn’t copy them to the memory stick either, so”—I shrug my shoulders—“I don’t have the data. I can’t find out what these bacteria actually are. But Frank

knows . . . and I think that’s why they kidnapped him.” I look down. “I should have looked at the data when I had the chance.” My throat feels tight and I find myself fighting tears. Sam moves around the island, then stands close to me, taking me in his arms. He slowly strokes my hair, and I simply let go: all the stress, all the fear, all the sadness just pour out in a stream of tears I can’t seem to stop. “Hey,” Sam says softly. He tries to move back a bit so he can look at me, but I don’t let him. I’m tightly fastened to him; I don’t want him to see my face. “Jane, none of this is your fault.” But it is. I should have looked at the data. Now, Frank is in terrible danger and I don’t even know why. He stops trying to look into my eyes and tightens his hug, gently leaning his cheek on my head. We stay like this for several minutes, listening to the crackling of the fire, while our

proximity and Sam’s steady heartbeat slowly calm me down. After few more minutes, I hear steps coming back. Eduardo appears at the kitchen door, then stops. “Is—is everything all right?” I sniff a bit, moving away from Sam, and look at Eduardo. “Yeah. It’s been a rough few days.” Eduardo nods, then walks to the fireplace and sets down a basket full of timber. “Rough days,” he says and walks back to the kitchen. “Yes. I know something about rough days.” He opens the fridge door and bends to reach something from the lower shelf. I turn to Sam. His hands are still on my shoulders. “Sorry about the shirt,” I say, looking at the wet spot right in the middle of his chest on his cobalt-blue shirt. He looks down and smiles at me. “Don’t worry about it.” His shirt color matches his eyes and I fall again into this semi-trance, hypnotized by the

stormy ocean blue of his irises, the dark color mixing with turbulent waves of a windy dusk, while the skies above forecast the wildest storm this sea has ever seen. And I am lost in it. And I can’t escape. I don’t want to escape. I want to be lost in this ocean while the warning lights on the shore flicker and flash, alerting everyone of an approaching gale. But gradually my trance-like fascination changes, evolves into something a lot more tangible, a lot more primal and extremely sensual. A microgravitational force bringing two bodies together, closer and closer— “Guys, there’s lots of space around you. You don’t need to be so close to each other!” Eduardo deliberately reaches between us and puts a plate with a selection of cheeses on the kitchen island. Both Sam and I need to step back to give him space. Sam looks at the plate and says, his voice flat, “Thanks, buddy!” “Oh, you’re welcome. Any time!”

I look at one and then the other. They are talking about the cheese, right? “Thank you!” I say, looking at Eduardo, and then choose a cube of cheese with red stripes. “It’s a pleasure, Jane. These two are a bit spicy, this one’s very mild, all the rest are in the middle. Yes?” “Thank you.” He nods, then turns around and walks over to Lucretia and sits on the opposite side of the couch. Lucretia lifts her legs up and puts her feet on Eduardo’s lap, not stopping with her sewing. Eduardo takes one of her feet and starts with what seems to be an established after-dinner foot massage routine. Nice. I take another piece of spicy cheese. “Jane, you need to tell me more about your project.” I look back at Sam. “The Crazy Gro project?” I say quietly. It’s not really a question. “I have quite a lot of information, but I’m

no PhD. I don’t know what it really means. Can you explain it to me, Jane?” For a second, I hesitate. I still feel restrained by the rules and regulations. But . . . so much has happened, so many uncontrollable, unwanted things, that I don’t care about the rules anymore. Especially if there is a way—any way at all—that Frank can be saved. I look up into Sam’s eyes again. “All right.”

Chapter 37

I walk into Eduardo’s study: dark wooden floor, oriental carpet in the center, and all three walls, including the one we just came through, covered with books from floor to ceiling. The fourth wall has a large window, the weak light of the table lamp reflecting on its surface, the rest of the room engulfed in dark, giving it a soft and cozy feel. On the wooden desk—oiled but clearly old, with several scratches showing the raw wood underneath—stands a desktop computer. Behind is a dark brown leather chair, and in the front, with their backs toward us are two armchairs with high backs and shiny wooden armrests. I sit in the one to the right, falling deeply into the cushion. Sam sits in the other armchair, pulls it closer to me, and turns it so that he faces me completely. He leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “I’m all ears. Tell me.” “This is confidential. You know that, right?”

It’s a ridiculous thing to say, considering the circumstances, but I just have to. I want to be sure that he knows he’s in on a secret and he’s going to keep it that way. He smiles reassuringly. “Yes, Jane. I know. That’s why I’m here.” I take a deep breath and sigh. “Okay. So . . . a week and a half ago, David, my boss, gathered people from his lab for a new project. He said that . . . that it’s confidential, and that Dr. Rosenberg worked on it before. But after she died, he was asked to continue on, since it wasn’t finished yet.” “Did he tell you who funded the project?” I shake my head. “He said it had to be kept a secret, that he couldn’t. He also said the funding was very generous and that we could fund many of our future projects with that money, too.” Sam nods, looking at the floor. Then he looks back at me. “Do you know what happened to Dr. Rosenberg?” I frown. “Well . . . I think she had a— what’s it called—a brain aneurysm, and she had a hemorrhage.”

“She died of a brain hemorrhage all right, but it wasn’t an aneurysm. The hemorrhage was drug induced.” I open my eyes wide. “What?” “She was killed, Jane.” My heart starts pumping wildly. The room starts spinning and I can’t seem to take another breath. My hands start shaking. “Jane!” Sam shouts and takes both of my hands in his. “Calm down. Breathe. Breathe . . .” One breath, and then another. And another. They . . . killed her? He holds my hands tightly but gently. “I’m sorry, Jane. I didn’t wanna . . .” He looks down. “I’m sorry.” These things don’t happen. Not in my life. They—can’t. I look up. “David!” “What about him?” “Frank said that—that he had a car accident. Do you think . . . ?” I can’t even say it. Sam takes a deep breath. “I don’t know, Jane. I haven’t heard anything.”

I look down at the old wooden floor, shaking my head. “What if they did it?” “We don’t know that yet. It could have been just an accident.” I look up at him. “But you don’t believe that, do you?” He takes a breath and holds it for a second. Then he exhales. “No.” I swallow and look down at my hands, trapped inside his, hidden between his large palms. I try hard not to think of Frank and what they could do to him. “Too many . . . bad things . . . have happened,” I whisper. “It shouldn’t be like this.” “I know, Jane. It shouldn’t. But someone wants this project finished. Someone wants results, and they’ll continue until they reach that goal. Let’s try and stop them, all right? So—tell me about your project.” I keep looking at him, but I just can’t think clearly. He lowers his head slightly, still looking at me, and narrows his eyes. “Tell me about the

bacteria, Jane.” “Bacteria . . . yes. Okay . . .” I look at the floor and try to focus. Okay, okay—let’s try and stop them. Though I still don’t know how. I look up and start, “David showed us these new bacteria. He said they belong to the Thermus strain and that they grow at a hundred and fiftyeight degrees Fahrenheit, which is why all the physical work was automated by robotic liquid handlers in a sealed laboratory. “The amazing thing—and I tell you, I’ve never seen anything like it before—was their incredible growth rate.” I look up into Sam’s eyes. “I saw them growing, Sam, with my own eyes. They covered an empty Petri dish within a minute. Full. It was fascinating and scary at the same time.” Sam nods. “That’s what drew our attention to the project in the first place. Do you know how they duplicate so fast?” “I don’t. Apparently, they have a very specific mutation. But”—I lower my gaze to the floor—“I never looked at the data.” “I see. These were the genomics data that

came in on Tuesday evening, right?” I nod. The data I didn’t look at. The data that I didn’t copy onto my memory stick. The data that— “What else do you know about these bacteria?” he asks, not letting me dwell too much on my own failings. “I am pretty sure they don’t grow at a hundred and fifty-eight degrees Fahrenheit.” “Why do you think that?” “There was an experiment we did, where a sample came out of the sealed room, and it was not hot at all. Miyako thought it might have been cooled down during the transfer from the hot lab to us—but then, a few days ago, a proteomics results came in and—” “Which proteomics results?” I wave my hand. “Sorry, I keep jumping. So, the bacteria feeds and grows on a growth medium —” “The gel agar, right?” “That’s right. One of the guys in our lab— Chris—he figured out the food gel of Crazy Gro

wasn’t what we thought it was, so we sent it to the proteomics department. There, they can figure out what the food is made of. And that was—let me think—Wednesday morning—” “Yesterday.” I look up quickly. Yesterday? “Right, yesterday.” It feels like days ago . . . “So, yes, yesterday morning, Siddhartha, from the proteomics lab, called to tell me the results. The food gel—it’s blood agar.” The last sentence comes an octave higher. Sam furrows his eyebrows. “That doesn’t sound good at all.” “No, it isn’t. It means the bacterial cells thrive in blood.” Sam takes a deep breath. Then he stands up and pulls his silver flip phone from his pocket. “I need to report this. Is there anything else?” “Yes.” “Okay . . .” Sam sits down again. “Frank called me yesterday morning too. I . . . I was asleep, but he left a message on my phone. He said that Crazy Gro are not Thermus.”

“What are they?” “He wouldn’t say. He said I needed to see it with my own eyes, and that I should come right away.” Sam nods. “And the genomics results that came in on Tuesday—they would tell you what these cells really are, right?” “Yes.” He stands up again. “We need to find out what’s in that file.” He heads for the door, opening his phone and speed-dialing. Before the person on the other side answers, he disappears into the corridor. I keep looking at the empty doorway for a moment. Then I stand and walk to the window. It faces the same side as my guestroom, so I know I’m looking into a valley of grapevines, but this far away from the bright lights of civilization, all I see is dark. Then I look up and see the stars. Thousands and thousands of them. And they look familiar. And calming. Just like they did on Aunt Sue’s farm at

Pine Creek. The next moment, Eduardo runs into the room. “Jane! Where is Sam?” I turn. “He just walked out. He was about to call someone.” “Mierda!” He turns and strides down the corridor. I run to the door too, following him. “Sam!” Eduardo shouts, looking into the other rooms. Then the front door opens and Sam walks in, just closing his cell phone. “Sam!” Eduardo walks toward him. “We’ve got company!” “Who?” “Don’t know. Two vehicles turned down the road. Crashed the gate.” Sam and Eduardo pace toward the last door on the right. Eduardo puts a hand on the door and waits for a fraction of a second, and the door unlocks. He pushes the door open and continues, Sam following him in. “How many men?”

“I don’t know,” I hear Eduardo say, “Could be eight. Or more.” I stop at the door and look in. The room is dimly lit. There is a computer standing on the small table and next to it are three tall metal racks, stacked with green-blinking servers. Sam and Eduardo stand at the small table, their backs to me. “All you need for the transfer is here,” Eduardo says as he’s putting items into a backpack on the table. “It will get you to the next station.” He closes the backpack, and Sam smoothly picks it up and starts walking back toward me. “Thanks!” “De nada. As always.” I move away from the door, then Eduardo closes it and the door locks again. Lucretia has appeared out of nowhere as well. She is fully dressed, a backpack on her shoulder, Beast under her arm. “Here,” says Eduardo, giving Sam a car key. “Take the Audi. It’s faster than your rental and matte gray is hard to see at night. Go!” “Thanks, Eduardo,” Sam says. “I owe you,

as always.” Then he leans in and hugs both of them at the same time for two seconds, then lets go. “I’m sorry I got you into this mess.” “Don’t worry, Sam. You saved my skin more times than I can remember.” Eduardo pats his shoulder. “Will you two be okay?” “If they try to follow us, they will get lost in the labyrinth of the vineyard.” Eduardo turns to me. I offer my hand for a handshake and I’m about to tell him how nice it was to meet them, but instead of taking my hand, he hugs me, catching me off guard, and I stay speechless. “Take care of yourself,” he whispers. “And of him.” Then he lets me go. “I will.” Lucretia hugs me as well and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you,” I say, hoping it will convey everything else I want to say but don’t have the time to express. “Come, we need to go!” says Sam and takes my hand. “Until next time, amigo!”

“Next time. Be safe.” I hurry behind him, then turn one more time to say goodbye, but the two are already gone. We step into the cool night and walk down to the Audi, almost invisible in the dark. Sam throws our bags into the trunk of the car and closes it with a soft thud. Then we both get in the car and Sam turns on the engine, the car silently purring to life. All the lights are off, but it doesn’t seem to bother Sam. He reverses, then continues down the gravel stone road between the vineyards, opposite the direction we came from. “Can you see where you’re going?” “Yes.” “Are you sure those people are after us?” “Yes.” I turn one more time to see the house, already fading in the dark countryside. “But how did they know where to find—oh, crap!” I duck instinctively. Sam quickly glances into the rearview mirror but continues driving, calm and steady. Two cars just stopped next to the house, their black

shiny metal sides reflecting the warm light coming from the windows. Just before the trail takes us behind a bend, I see men coming out of the cars. Oh, no—they’ll see us! Then, a moment later, Sam makes a curve around a small ridge and we are out of sight. I turn back to the front, my heart pounding. We are quiet for several minutes. Sam still has all the lights turned off, but he is driving faster now. “What about Eduardo and Lucretia?” I ask quietly. “They’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry.” “But they had less time to—” “I know,” he says and looks at me quickly. “Lucretia and Eduardo are safer than we are now, trust me.” I look at the dark road ahead, not quite convinced. We shouldn’t have come! It was us who brought all of this on them. We shouldn’t have— Then, all of a sudden, something catches my attention: an orange light on the windshield. I frown

and lean in to look closer. Then it dawns on me— it’s a reflection from behind us—and I turn around. Over the ridge, the night lights up, an orange bowl of twisting, flickering tongues, slithering through the many windows of the mansion, reaching up to the sky, spitting sparks, and braiding smoke into the dark. The quiet fields of hibernating grapevines surrounding Lucretia and Eduardo’s home are now illuminated by the golden light. “Oh, my God!” I put both hands over my mouth. No! No, they didn’t. They couldn’t have! “Sam . . .” I whimper, looking at him. Sam’s face seems calm, but his jaw muscles are tight, his arms straight and his fists clenched on the steering wheel, knuckles white. I turn around again. Eduardo? Lucretia? Oh, they have to be all right! I want to voice it but my throat is shut. This is horrible! Then Sam’s expression changes and he puts his hand inside his pocket. He takes out the cell phone, leans it on the wheel, and flips it open. He

glances at it, then sighs in relief, leaning his head backward a bit. “What, Sam? What was that?” “Swearing,” he says, as he closes the phone and puts it away. “Lots of Spanish swearing. But they’re fine. They are all right.” I close my eyes and put a hand on my chest, almost physically feeling the weight lifting from me. “Thank you,” I whisper. “Thank you . . .” Sam looks at me and then laughs. I laugh too, finally letting go of the trapped tension. “That was a close one!” I say. “I’ve had closer.” I look at him, my laughter quickly dying out. Closer? Really? Huh… I never imagined collecting information might be so dangerous . . .

Chapter 38

After almost an hour on unpaved roads, we are back on smooth concrete. There is no one on the road; only our headlights and the stars lighting the path ahead. Our pursuers are nowhere to be seen. We seem to have lost them. My thoughts have been everywhere. Worried about Frank, scared that Miyako might get taken as well, concerned about David. I’m anxious about my sister, too. I wonder what she’ll think and how she’ll react to my disappearance. I hope she understands the message I sent her. And I’m also terribly sad that we, in one way or another, chased Lucretia and Eduardo out of their home and that they have nothing to come back to. Because of us . . . And lastly, I’m terrified of Crazy Gro,

fearful of what kind of strain these bacteria really are. But among all these horrid thoughts, there is one that threads through them, one that is bright and clear and immensely positive. And this is—that I’m with Sam. And wherever we go, I’ll be all right, because we are together. I keep secretly glancing at him. He has such a beautiful profile. “Are you okay?” he asks, noticing my glances. I blink a few times and turn my head to the road, trying hard to refocus. “Yeah, I—I am . . .” Sam moves his hand from the steering wheel and puts it over mine, resting on my thigh. I look down. My heartbeat instantly speeds up; I feel the drumming under my chest. His hand is so much larger than mine that it covers it completely, and his fingers touch my thigh. I can feel them through my jeans, and—I’m going out of my mind. I close my eyes. Jane, pull yourself together.

Terrible things have happened. Dr. Rosenberg was killed because of this secret project, Frank was kidnapped and is in great danger, Lucretia and Eduardo’s beautiful home has been destroyed, and I only barely managed to escape. Twice. Thanks to a man I’ve only just met. And—I’m in love with him. I open my eyes again, looking down at his hand. And I can’t even begin to explain why. “You’ll be fine, Jane. You’ll be fine.” He softly squeezes my hand once, then releases it and returns his hand to the steering wheel. He may have moved his hand away, but I’m all focused on the skin he just touched, the delicate remnants of sensations. And then, inevitably, the shame comes. Because how can I possibly be thinking about this when my friends are in danger? Selfish and horny, that’s what I am. I lean on the headrest and look outside at the stars sprinkled on the dark blanket covering these dry plains and try not to think of anything.

After a few minutes, Sam says, “What I don’t get is, how did they find us?” “Maybe . . . maybe they were not after us?” Sam shakes his head, looking at the road. “No. You don’t invade a farm in La Rioja in the middle of the night, breaking through closed gates and burn the whole place down only hours after we get there!” Sam’s shaking his head. “No. Eduardo’s been here for several years and he’s had zero unwanted trespassers. This was about us, I’m sure. I just don’t know how they knew.” Then he looks at me abruptly. “Do you have any electronics with you?” I look back, lifting an eyebrow in surprise. “I didn’t exactly have a chance to pack, you know.” He looks back at the road. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” “My last piece of electronics took a flight to Mexico, I think.” I turn to look through the window, tracing the outlines of the mountains on

the black horizon far away. Then I have a thought. “Did they—did they fly here, after they lost us in Boston?” I ask. Sam takes a few moments before he answers. “I don’t think so. And that’s important.” “Why?” “It means they have resources here in Europe, and that they are ready and accessible on short notice. Means the organization is bigger than I thought.” “But you don’t know who they are, right?” “No. Not yet.” “Who do you think they are?” He shrugs. “Could be anyone. A mad cult, an extreme political group, terrorists. . . we’re not sure yet.” “But what do they want? I still don’t understand the link between these people”—I wave my hand around—“and my research. What do they want with it?” “My best guess is biological warfare.” I slowly turn my head to him, my eyes wide open. “Warfare? Like, a biological weapon?”

He nods. All of a sudden, my lungs lack air. I need a few moments to grasp the concept. “The blood agar. The sealed lab. It was all there, I just didn’t see it,” I say quietly. “It makes sense . . .” “Jane, you couldn’t have known. No one expects something like that in their everyday life.” “But Dr. Rosenberg did. She found out, didn’t she? That’s why they killed her.” After a moment, he says, “Yes, I believe so.” And Frank found out too. I close my eyes. “Sam, do you think—” My throat constricts. “Francesco?” I nod. “I don’t know, Jane.” His voice is an octave deeper. “I think it all depends on how well he can trade.” “Trade? I don’t—” “They took him for a reason. It means they want something from him. He needs to be able to

tell them something, but not everything. Just enough for them to keep him alive.” “Until?” “Until a rescue.” “What rescue?” I turn my body all the way to face him. “Sam, is there a rescue being planned for him? Do you know something?” He shakes his head. “I don’t have any details on a rescue plan, but that would be the standard protocol.” “Whose standard protocol?” He looks at me. “Sentinel.” “Should I know wha—” “No. And I’m not at liberty to say anything more. You’re just gonna have to trust me.” I look back to the road, my thoughts tumbling in confusion, fear, and dread. But underneath, hidden under these layers, is a tiny shred of hope. Frank might be saved. He might live. There’s hope. My shoulders relax just slightly. Then a thought comes, a sharp dagger cutting though the

soft net I’ve just created. “Why was there no rescue for Dr. Rosenberg?” “She wasn’t captured. She was . . . eliminated.” I shudder involuntarily. “Why?” I ask after a few moments. “I don’t know. I reckon she tried to stop them. She might have threatened to take it public.” “Sounds brave,” I say quietly. “True as that may be, it was her undoing. She misjudged the whole situation, but as I said before”—he looks at me for a second—“nobody is really ready for this kind of scenario. No one is ready for that. And she wasn’t either.” I look through the window again. Everything feels surreal. Everything feels untrue—a movie script I got cast for although I didn’t even audition. I glance sideways at Sam. Including this unbelievably gorgeous man sitting next to me. In no other scenario would a man like that be sitting next to a woman like me. But it’s his job to protect me.

And so here he is. “Get some sleep, Jane. There’s a long road ahead of us,” he says, his voice deep and rumbly. I don’t think I can sleep after all that has happened, but my eyes automatically start to close, as if Sam pressed a button. “Where are we going?” I say, blinking a few times, trying to stay awake. “You’ll see . . .” His voice is warm and comforting. And then my eyes close. I drift to sleep, wondering where is he taking me next.

Chapter 39

I wake up as the car pulls to a stop. We’ve been driving for more than ten hours and I’ve been going in and out of sleep during the whole time: the last two days of heightened stress and multiple boosts of adrenaline, combined with jet lag, have left me drained and exhausted. Sam seems unaffected by it all, including this long ride. “We’ll stay here for the night,” he says. “We need to switch the car as well. I have one stationed here.” I nod slowly, still waking up. Sam gets out of the car as I rub my eyes to clear them. The car door opens but I keep sitting. Then Sam peeks in and asks, through a mischievous grin, “Can you walk or shall I carry you?” “Funny, funny,” I say, then get out of the car, stepping onto gravel. The parking lot is small, with a few parked cars and empty spots. Surrounding it is a knee-high

dense hedge. There is a small exit where a cobblestone path leads to the back side of a fivestory hotel. The building looks old, ivy decorates the dark red mortar, and yellow lights shine from the windows. We pass the empty tables and chained-up chairs outside the hotel restaurant, and I glance inside. Through the white transparent curtains, I see people having lunch, conversing at the tables. Sam turns to me and offers his open hand. I look down, then back at his eyes, and lace my fingers with his. My heartbeat speeds up and blood rushes to my cheeks. I’m glad it’s dark so he can’t see me blushing. I am now wide awake, and at this moment, while he’s holding my hand like this, I am simply— happy. He smiles and squeezes my fingers gently, then continues forward. We walk along the narrow path around the building, turn the corner and head for the hotel entrance. We enter through an old charming revolving doors. Inside, a lot of people pass by, either arriving at the restaurant or just

finishing their meal. Sam walks over to the reception desk, where a small thin man with dark hair and a pointy nose is leaning over a computer. “I will be right with you,” he says politely, still looking down at the screen. His accent is hard, as if chiseled out of marble stone. Sam waits. A few moments later, the man looks up and gives us a broad smile. “Good evening. What can I do for you?” “Hello. We have a reservation under the name Smith.” I glance at Sam. Smith? “Of course. Do you have your passports or ID cards with you?” From his pocket, Sam takes a different set of passports than the ones we came to Europe with. I am really curious where he got them. Must be from Eduardo. Where else? The man opens our passports then bends over his computer to enter our details. Within a few moments, our room card is

ready. The receptionist places the key card, a map of the town, and a tourist brochure on the desk. As he explains to Sam where to find our room, I tilt my head sideways to read the name on the map. Solothurn. “Where are we?” I ask Sam quietly. “Switzerland.” I smile to myself. I’d always wanted to visit Switzerland, though I somehow doubt we’ll see any cows with bells hanging from their necks at this time of the year. The man points us toward the elevator and we leave the reception, heading for the small patio. An elevator door opens and several elderly people walk out, speaking the most bizarre language. It almost sounds like German, only it is not. We enter the elevator and the door closes. Sam’s still holding my hand, and I am out-of-thisworld happy—with just a slight pinch of anxiety. We are going to share one room. As Mr. and Mrs. Smith. I find it hilarious! And a bit nerve-racking too. But most of all, I find it extremely exciting.

I lean toward him and touch his arm with mine. I look at him sideways, unable to wipe the smile off my face. He glances at me, but then quickly looks away. With his eyes on the floor, he releases my fingers and moves away from me. My smile fades instantly. What did I do? The elevator opens on the third floor, and he walks out. I just follow, feeling broken. We walk to the door at the end of the corridor. Sam presses the key card to the sensor pad and the door unlocks. He enters but stops me from coming in, raising his hand. “Wait here for a second.” He walks in and I lose sight of him. After a few moments, the lights turn on and Sam appears in the small hallway. “All good,” he says and picks up his bag from the floor. “You can come in.” I walk into the room. It is small, with light brown and orange furniture, a small TV, a king-size bed, a large old-fashioned couch, a desk, and a

chair. On the right of the hallway, a bathroom door is open. I walk in, switch the light on, and close the door behind me. I lean against a sink and look at myself in the mirror. My cheeks are still red from the spark of excitement a moment ago—and, actually, it doesn’t look as bad with my red hair as I thought it did. Or perhaps it’s this soft yellowish light that gives that impression. “I’ll make us some tea, okay?” I hear Sam through the door. “Yeah, okay,” I say, but so quietly that I doubt he heard me. I turn on the cold water, and splash my face a few times. I look at myself in the mirror again, the water dripping from my face. I don’t recognize myself like this. I am in control. I am always in control. Why not now? Why does he have such enormous power over me? He smiles, I’m happy; he releases my hand, I fall down an abyss. I shake my head, staring at the bottom of

the sink. I don’t understand. Perhaps it’s the adrenaline, the fight-or-flight mode? Perhaps I wouldn’t be like this at all if we weren’t on the run? Only . . . Only that’s not true. I stand up and look at my reflection, my untidy red hair pulled into a ponytail. It’s not true, because I noticed him the first day he moved in. I fell for him long before the escape. I close my eyes and lean my head backward. I’m a mess, a pile of emotional rubble. And I don’t know how to go back. I don’t know how to be my old self again. I look at myself in the mirror again, then grab a small towel next to the sink and dry my face. I sigh. I don’t want to go out. I don’t want to face him. I just want to disappear. Then, I glance sideways at the shower.

Why not? A few more minutes on my own. I retrieve my backpack from the corridor and then lock myself in the bathroom again. The sound of water is comforting, and I stall while taking off my clothes. I walk into the cabin and close the door, trapping the steam inside, while the waterdrops slide over my body, washing away the sorrow, confusion, and lust. The calming flow relaxes my face, loosens my muscles and empties my thoughts. After several minutes, I feel a lot better. I reach behind me to grab a small tube of a body wash. Lavender and wild orchid. I take a sniff. Nice. Then I pour a small amount on my open palm and spread the foam all over my body. The scent fills the small shower cabin completely and although it’s intense, it’s relaxing and calming at the same time. A few more moments of solitude pass under the warm flow of water.

I sigh. I can’t hide here forever. Then I switch off the water and dry myself. I put my jeans back on, the ID card dangling at my side as I button up my trousers. I unzip the backpack and pull out a new shirt we bought at the Barcelona airport. It’s a little bit big for me, but that’s fine. I’ll use it as pajamas, anyway. I comb my hair and make a new ponytail, then turn and leave the bathroom, not looking back at the mirror. There’s a steaming mug on the coffee table next to the couch. I assume it’s for me. As I sit down, I’m reminded of my Aunt Sue’s old armchair. And then I remember seeing Sam sitting in it, chest bare, wearing only his jeans, both arms resting on the sides, a wicked grin on his face. I swallow the thought and close my eyes. Think of something else! Think of something else! I hear Sam approaching from the small kitchen area and I open my eyes.

“Jane, are you okay?” I nod. Then I decide that wasn’t convincing enough, so I say, trying hard to seem aloof, “I’m fine, Sam. I’m okay.” He tilts his head, looking at me intently. He’s not buying it. I look away, breaking our eye contact. He sits next to me, putting his own tea mug on the table next to mine. “Jane, I know this is stressful. I . . . I can only imagine how you must feel, taken away from your normal life, not sure what’s gonna happen next . . .” Then he places his warm palm on mine resting on my lap. And there it is again, this little incidental touch, forcing my heart into higher gear, making my head spin. “But you don’t need to worry. I promise. I’ll protect you as long as you’re in my care.” And after that? You’ll leave me? I’m silent. I don’t trust myself to talk. “Jane, please.” He slides off the couch, kneels next to my feet, and looks up at me from below. “This isn’t like you. Please, say something.”

What am I supposed to tell him? That I don’t care I can’t go back to my home? That I don’t care that we are fleeing for our lives? That I don’t care that people are trying to capture me? I don’t care about any of that. I want him. I want him to touch me. I want him to kiss me. I want him to make love to me. I close my eyes. I’m afraid he’ll be able to read my thoughts if I keep my eyes open. Then I feel his palm on my cheek, and I look into his eyes, the ocean under the night skies. Involuntarily, I look at his lips, my desire steaming more than ever before, speeding my heartbeat, hindering my breathing. “What is it, Jane?” he whispers. I take a breath. “I . . .” “What?” “I want you.”

Chapter 40

Crap! I bite my lip. I shouldn’t have said that. He looks at me, his posture frozen. I’m not breathing either. The next moment, he stands up smoothly, as if there’s no gravity pull on him, and walks over to the window, his back toward me. For several minutes, he doesn’t say anything. And I keep looking at him, petrified in this moment of anguish. “I . . .” he starts quietly. “I can’t be with you, Jane. It’s too dangerous. I am not . . . I’m not who you think I am.” He turns around. “I’m not good for you.” My blood boils instantly. I’m not good for you? I’m not good for you? It’s a classic ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ excuse. And I know all about those.

I rise from the couch, forgetting the pull of gravity myself. “Fine! In fact, I don’t think you’re good for me either, now that I think about it. I think I’d better go.” Then I turn away and almost run to the door. I grab the door handle and start opening it, but the next moment it’s closed shut with a bang. Sam’s next to me, pushing the door with his shoulder, looking at me. His eyes are now dark gray, not a single bit of blue in them. “Jane, you’re in real danger—you can’t leave!” “I don’t care!” I yell back. He grabs me by my shoulders and yells back, “This is not a joke! If they find you, they will kill you!” “I don’t care,” I continue yelling. “I don’t care . . .” I grab the handle again to try to open it. He leans on the door now with his back, slamming it shut again. Tight in his grip, we are so close I can feel his entire body with mine. Our gazes locked on each other, our lips nearly touching—it’s

unbearable. The next moment, his gaze falls to my lips. And then, I see it: his shoulders relax just slightly, his head tilts a tiny bit to the side, and his eyes turn dark blue again. It’s a surrender, sweet and unmistakable. He leans in and kisses me, opening my mouth with his; no restraints. Our tongues fold over each other, a tango, as if rehearsed many times over. I wrap my arms around his neck, feeling tight muscles underneath my palms. He bends lower, his hands sliding down my back, my buttocks, down my thighs, then he pulls my legs up and I lock them around his waist. I’m wrapped around him and I kiss him, wildly, madly, desperately. I’m a starved person raving over a large, delicious buffet. And he tastes so good. He walks away from the door and back to the center of the room as I keep pressing my hips to his body, trying to quench the thirst of desire I feel for him. He kneels on the floor until I’m sitting on

his lap, my knees touching the carpet. My heartbeat loud in my ears, my blood burns as it races through my veins. His arms are around me, pressing me to him, tightly, as if I’d escape if he wasn’t kissing me like he’s doing now. And I love his tongue, his lips, the way we fit to each other—it’s magic. Then I stop and move a bit away to look at him. His eyes are shadowed by his eyebrows. I put my palm on his face, gently covering his eye and cheek. My hand looks small compared to his face. I smile inwardly: I’ve wanted to touch his face like this ever since I saw him for the first time. He’s just beautiful. I look at every part of his face; I want to make sure he’s really here, and that we are together, and that he’s with me, right now. I slide my hands down his chest, feeling his muscles underneath my palms, then grab the black cotton and pull his T-shirt up over his head. I look down at his body. It’s covered with silvery scars. I put my finger on one and slide it

from his right shoulder across the left chest muscles, ending above his last rib bone. I can hear him swallowing. “I told you . . .” he starts. I look up at his eyes. “I told you, I’m not who you think I am,” he says quietly. “I know who you are, Sam. And here is exactly where you need to be.” And he smiles, but the thread of sadness at the side of his lips is unmistakable. “I’ll take it,” he whispers. “For as long as I can have it.” He looks at my lips, and then he leans in and kisses me, his lips soft, fitting perfectly to mine. We kiss deeply, slowly, intimately, as if time has ceased to exist, both of us wrapped in each other’s arms. His kisses drift over my lips, cheeks, chin, nose, down my neck . . . And it ignites my skin a thousand times more, fire and ice, at the same time, all over my body. I press my hips to his, trying to tame the

need I feel for him, but instead it does exactly the opposite. I can feel him pressing against me, and that turns me on unlike anything else ever has. Our kissing becomes wild. Our clothes disappear one by one. I’m not even aware where are they landing. We are both naked, aroused, and full of deep carnal desire. His lips leave a burning sensation all over my body. The rough skin of his hands slides and scrapes over me, my sensitivity rising to new levels with every stroke. And he moves me; he’s over me, he’s under me, he’s around me: I’m like a rag doll in the strong arms of a Greek god. Then, I feel his lips—Oh!—on the inside of my thighs. My skin is on fire, sensitive, tight, on the edge. He pulls me closer to him. And touches me. With his tongue. I moan loudly, instinctively opening my legs wider.

It’s like—swimming. With no clothes on. First, a gentle current of water swirls around my body, raising the sensitivity of my skin, higher and higher Then it changes. The calm mountain lake becomes a river, moving faster, pushing with more force, the twists and turns making a rhythm. I instinctively move my hips, following the rhythm, but Sam keeps me still. He holds my hips tightly with his hands, feasting, not letting go. My fingers are tangled in his hair; what he’s doing is amazing. I don’t know how he does it. And I don’t care. I stop trying to figure it out and just let go. I let him take this river to the edge, let him push it over the dark black stone of the abyss, let him steer it down the waterfall. And I fall with it, trembling, my muscles clenching, my whole body convulsing in delirium. For a few moments, I am outside of this dimension, floating in a dense fog of pleasure. My world disappears and then reshapes again. When I dive out of this outwardly trance,

Sam is on his side. He’s leaning with one elbow on the floor while gently stroking my cheek, looking down at me, a faint smile on his lips. I’m still breathless, bewildered, and amazed. He lowers his head next to my ear and whispers, “You. Are. So. Delicious.” At these words, my inner muscles clench once again. “I want more,” I say. He looks at me, his smile broadening. “I was hoping you’d say that.” And a new feast begins. This time, I am the assertive one. I touch him all over his body, his neck, his back, his buttocks, all tight with the muscles underneath. And it is such a treat to feel him under my palms, to smell the scent of his skin so close to me, to hear him breathing so heavily. I need him—I crave him—so much that it hurts. Our kissing grows impatient again. I am trembling with excitement; my breath is broken and shallow, my muscles tight and exhausted from anticipation. I am wrapped all around him, my

whole body screaming: Take me. He’s just a quarter of an inch away. I can feel him, but he holds back. Why is he doing this to me? I open my eyes to look at him. “Sam . . .” I plead. “Please.” Please. He needs to understand. He is . . . doubting? Why is he doubting? What is there to doubt? “Sam, I’ll go mad if you continue like this! Take me!” In a second, thousands of emotions cross his face; it’s painful to watch. But the next moment, they melt away, and instead there is something else. Happiness? Gratitude? Love? He leans in, and just before his lips touch mine, he says, “I don’t deserve you.” And he kisses me before I manage to deny it. Then, at last, he enters, finally giving me what I need. It’s such an exhilarating moment that we both stop moving, two marble statues frozen in time.

Our tongues folded over each other, my legs locked behind his back—we are trapped in a closed electrical circuit. Then, slowly, our bodies unlock, melting the molded stone, and the dance continues, smooth, rhythmic, and with only one possible ending. Every one of his movements is invigorating and my body instinctively responds. Deep within me a new sensation is growing, the answer to the needy ache I felt every time he touched me. Sam’s eyes are closed, his lips open, and every breath he takes carries a moan. And I love hearing him like this! The music changes and so does our rhythm. I love watching him, but I need to close my eyes now, because every deep contact we share sends me higher and higher on my pleasure curve. We are loud, sweaty, and so close to the end. Then, all of a sudden, Sam stops. No! I open my eyes to look at him. A dark, stormy sea—thunder and lightning under his eyelashes—and he whispers, “I love

you.” And he falls back into me, bringing with it a sensation so strong, so powerful as to shift the continents. Both of us egocentric in our pleasure, taking it all and giving everything.

Chapter 41

I must have fallen asleep, because we are in bed now, the last few rays of sunshine touching the cold windows. His head is resting on my chest. It’s heavy and my breathing is a bit strained, but I like it. I bring my arm around and gently stroke his hair. “You’re awake,” he says, without moving. “Yes . . . I thought you were asleep.” “No, I’ve been awake for a while . . . I’m listening to your heart.” “What does my heart say?” I ask and smile, wondering what his answer will be. He lifts his head up and props it on his hand, his elbow on the mattress. He just looks at me, not saying anything. Then he leans toward me and kisses me, a soft touch of his lips. “Sam ,why didn’t you want to go to the ice hockey match with me?” I ask. He sighs and leans back on a pillow. Then

he turns his head to look at me. “I thought it would be better to keep some distance between us.” “Why?” “Because if we didn’t, I had a strong feeling we would end up like this.” He gives me a gentle smile and strokes my cheek with the back of his fingers. “Why would that be a bad thing?” He turns his head and looks at the ceiling. “I told you, Jane, I am not who you think I am. You . . . you deserve someone else, someone better.” I turn sideways to look at him, stabbing my elbow onto the pillow, leaning my head on my palm. “Why do you keep saying that?” “Eduardo thinks so too.” I huff and roll my eyes. “Why would I care what Eduardo thinks?” “Jane, you don’t know me.” He shakes his head, still looking at the ceiling. “He does.” “I know everything I need to know, Sam. You are—” A loud knocking on the door. “Mr. Smith!” There is a muffled sound

outside our hotel room. “Mr. Smith, a gentleman would like to have a word with you. C—could you please open up?” I hear the sound of the door unlocking—a sudden panic clutches at my heart—but then I notice that Sam had jammed the door with a chair and the door doesn’t budge. “Mr. Smith . . .” The concierge’s voice is low and trembling. “Mr. Smith, please, open the door.” Sam looks at me and puts his index finger over his lips. Then he pushes me to move off the bed and slides down himself. He reaches for a backpack next to our bed, then quickly grabs all our clothes from the floor and stuffs them into the bag. He stands up and slides open the window. The rush of cold air sweeps in from the outside. He glances over the windowsill. “We’re gonna jump,” he whispers. “What?” I look at him, my eyes wide open. He doesn’t respond but instead takes my arm and pulls me up to sit on the windowsill. There is a startling bang on the door. He ignores it. He lifts

my legs over the sill, holding me at my waist, and then he does the same. I look down, our legs swaying three floors over the ground. My heart is drumming wildly in my ribcage, my hands clutching the windowsill, my stomach crumpled into a tiny ball. “You’re crazy!” I say without a breath. “I know.” As the door bursts open with a crash, Sam pushes me forward, and we fall. My mouth is open for a scream, but no sound comes out. The next moment we’re falling onto the outstretched awning of the hotel’s outdoor restaurant and the landing is so soft that I’m amazed. Sam quickly stands and reaches for my hand. I grab it and we flounder to the edge of the outstretched fabric, then jump down to a hibernating flowerbed and onto the ground. And we start to run. Completely naked. I don’t have the time or the courage to look at the people having dinner in the restaurant, but I can only imagine what their thoughts are. I’m breathing heavily and my heart’s

pumping under a rush of adrenaline. I turn and look back up at our window. I see a man leaning out, holding something to his ear. The next moment, Sam pulls me around the corner and then stops abruptly. I bang into him. What follows next happens so fast I don’t even perceive it in real time. Over Sam’s shoulder, directly in front of us, I see a man. He’s turning, stretching his arm toward us, holding—a gun? Sam lets go of my hand and I freeze. In a split second, Sam is next to the man, his leg stretched out in a kick. And then—an earsplitting sound. It’s so sudden that I don’t have a chance to cover my ears. And then, the gun is flying into the air. The man is looking up at the gun, frozen in shock. I’m sure somewhere in his brain a command to catch that gun must have been sent. But the synapse impulse never reached his muscles. The next moment, the man is staring down the barrel of his own gun, its grip tight in Sam’s fist now.

The man’s face is blank, a frown just beginning to form. Another earsplitting sound. His face is now placid and calm. A tiny round red hole in the middle of his forehead. There is a moment of stillness, while echoes of the gunshot vibrate around the building. Then the man falls to his knees and crashes over sideways, a dull thud as his heavy body hits the ground. Sam turns around. “C’mon!” I am looking at the man on the floor. My brain is shouting all sorts of instructions right now, yet none of my muscles respond. I can’t move. I am rooted to the spot. Sam takes my hand and pulls me down the small staircase the man was guarding. He opens a white wooden door and peeks in, holding me at a safe distance behind him. Then he enters and pulls me inside as well. After several steps through a small dark corridor, we go through another door; behind is a brightly lit hall.

It’s an indoor parking garage. Sam runs toward a white Land Rover parked in a corner and I’m stumbling behind. At the driver’s door, Sam reaches for the handle and the car beeps and unlocks, the lights flashing twice. “Get in!” he says, opening the door. Naked and cold, I bundle myself into the passenger’s seat, hugging my knees. He quickly sits next to me, closing the door, then pushes the ignition button and the engine starts smoothly. He pulls his seatbelt on, then looks at me expectantly. I look back, not sure if I should understand his stare. “The seatbelt?” I blink. The seatbelt? Then it lands. The seatbelt, yes. I buckle my seatbelt as quickly as I possibly can and Sam starts reversing. While the car is still going backward, he changes gears, then stamps his foot down on the accelerator. With squealing tires, the car races forward and we zoom up the exit ramp, the parking barrier flying off into the air as we crash through.

Chapter 42

We’ve been driving in silence for some time now. It doesn’t seem like we’re being followed, but Sam’s making sure we are driving just at the speed limit. Though we’re both still naked, the air conditioner is on, and I don’t feel cold. Also, I am so distracted by my thoughts that being naked in a car is the last thing on my mind. It was obvious, of course, right there in front of me the whole time. I was just too blind to see it. I close my eyes. I can still see the dark red hole on the man’s blank face. Just like that—he was gone. I shudder involuntarily. “Are you cold?” Sam asks. “No . . .” He nevertheless adjusts the heating. Another minute passes in silence. He takes a breath, but there is a moment of

hesitation before he says, “I told you, Jane. I’m not who you thought I was.” His voice sounds cold and distant. I can barely recognize it. The chills spread through my body and I automatically move away from him toward the door. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “You will need to stay with me until you’re safe again.” I don’t look at him. I lean my forehead against the window, and although it feels cold, I don’t move away. The scenery has changed, and now we’re driving between gentle hillsides covered with a fine layer of snow. Cypress trees extend in the air like dull black arrows pointing to the red sky, as the sun disappears behind the horizon. “This wasn’t the first time you’ve killed a man?” I say it like a question, but it really is not. “No.” “How many?” “Jane, you don’t need to—”

“How many?” First, silence. Then: “Many.” “Why?” “I had orders.” I turn to him. “And you just killed because you had orders?” He doesn’t respond. I turn to look at the road again. Every now and then a car passes by, but the people inside never look at us. Nevertheless, Sam says, “Let’s get dressed.” And he pulls over at an empty rest stop. He turns to the back seat and opens the backpack, taking out our clothes. He somehow managed to pack everything: my shirt, my shoes, my old jeans, my jacket. Even my underwear. He dresses quickly while I’m still looking dully at my clothes. Then I turn to him. “What are you, Sam? Who are you exactly?” He stops in the middle of putting on his shoes. Then he leans back. “I’m a . . . I’m a special agent, Jane. I track people. I gather information from them, and . . . sometimes . . . orders come to

eliminate them.” “Eliminate . . .” I repeat flatly. “It means—” “I know what it means!” I shout. The silence that follows is even louder. Sam sighs, then looks at me. “I’m an assassin, Jane. And I’m very good at what I do.” I stare at him, bluntly. I feel like I’m in a dream where I am aware that I’m dreaming and I expect to wake up. But I don’t wake up. And this is not a dream. “Have you ever refused the order to . . . eliminate someone?” “No.” I hoped for a different answer, but I don’t say anything. “I’m sorry, Jane.” He looks away. “I wish you never had to find that out.” I look at him. A beautiful body, amazing power and grace, a courageous and compassionate heart. But right now, he feels like a stranger. I don’t know him as a special agent, as a

person who can kill other people. I know him as brave, strong, sacrificing, funny, loving person. How can these two people be in the same body? “What is Sentinel?” I ask. He looks at me, seemingly surprised by my question. “It’s an organization.” “What kind of organization?” He glances at me. “That’s classified.” “Well, I told you about my confidential work, didn’t I?” He smiles, the first one in several hours. “Yes. Yes, you did.” “So?” “The full name is the International Sentinel Agency. They are powerful and extremely well connected. The group was founded by three men: a very experienced former special operative, a savvy business owner, and a computer scientist. They were all . . . unhappy with the general level of international coordination to prevent terror attacks. So this became their role, their mission: to identify, to track and to assess any suspected terrorist activity. Worldwide. And then, if required—to

intervene, with a group of trained special agents. Before a bomb goes off. Before a group of terrorists slaughter innocent people.” He looks at me. “Before someone releases a dangerous strain of bacteria in a crowded place.” “How come I’ve never heard of them?” He shakes his head. “You wouldn’t have. Our existence is a closely kept secret. No one outside of Sentinel knows about us. Which is also part of the reason why we are so effective. Even national intelligence agencies can’t interfere.” “Oh,” I try to joke. “It seems I just became a liability.” He sighs. “So it would appear.” He doesn’t seem to think it’s funny. “And I just broke the first rule by telling you about Sentinel.” “Well,” I say with new vigor in my voice. “I’m not going to tell anyone. I promise.” He nods and attempts a smile. “I know that, Jane.” After a few moments of silence, I continue, “So, how come you work for Sentinel?” He doesn’t answer right away. Then,

looking down at his lap, he says, “They recruited me.” “Why you?” “Ah, it’s, um . . . it has to do with something that happened in my life, before.” I expect him to continue, but he doesn’t. Finally, I ask, “Would you mind telling me about it?” He opens his mouth and I expect him to say no, but instead he says, “I had just turned eighteen. My mom and sister were killed when the Twin Towers went down….” Oh, no! This is horrible! I shift in my seat away from the door and turn toward him. “My dad died soon after. He just . . . lost his will to live. And I—after denial and depression— got stuck in anger with only one goal in mind. Revenge.” He gives me an empty smile. “I quit school, joined the army, made it to the special forces. And then soon got noticed by Sentinel.” “Do you know why they noticed you?” I ask quietly.

He shakes his head and looks through the windshield. “I don’t know. I think it was because… because I didn’t treasure my own life anymore. It wasn’t important. What was important was to stop the terror. To stop innocent people being killed.” He looks at me. “Like my mom. My sister.” I bow my head, still looking at him. “I am so sorry, Sam.” He looks down at his lap again. “When they recruited me, they explained their vision, their goal, and I realized that Sentinel was exactly where I needed to be—because their goal was my own.” He takes a deep breath and straightens in his seat. “I’ve been a member of Sentinel for ten years, and although many terrorist attacks still happen in the world, we have been able to prevent many, many more.” I guess it all makes more sense now. “So, all the people you killed—were they bad people?” “Yes. That’s what the agency thinks. That’s what I think.” “Sam, why didn’t you tell me that on the plane, when I asked you?”

He looks at me, arching his eyebrow. “Something like ‘I kill people but for a good cause’? Would you have believed me?” I smile. “No. Probably not.” He chuckles and looks down again. “That’s what I thought . . .” There are several minutes of silence as I slowly adjust to this new reality. “I’m sorry, Sam. When I saw that man die. And—and the bullet hole . . .” I shudder once more. “I was just shocked.” “I know. I wish you didn’t have to see that. I’m sorry…” He looks into my eyes, but then his gaze drifts downwards. He blinks, then looks outside. “Why don’t you”—he coughs into his fist —“get dressed? We should get going.” I look down and realize I’m still completely naked. “Yes, of course. Sorry,” I say, trying to hide my smile, then quickly put on my clothes. As soon as I click on the safety belt, Sam starts the car and we drive off. “So, you were put on the Crazy Gro project?”

“Yes. Sentinel had some information on the project, but not a lot. Still, something didn’t feel quite right. So they sent me to investigate. Find out what it’s all about.” “Why didn’t you try and get the information from David? Why pick me?” “I did find things out from David. But it was clear from the start that he put all his faith in you, so I knew I needed to observe you most of all. But . . . me moving in next to you wasn’t part of the assignment. In the beginning, I told myself it would help me keep better track of you, but I could have done that from anywhere in the city. That’s how I would normally do it, anyway.” “So, why did you move in next to me?” Sam doesn’t answer right away. He is looking at the road, eyes fixed, as if he didn’t even hear me. Just before I want to repeat my question, he asks, “Do you remember asking me about the best photo I ever took?” The photo. I snort in my mind. Yes, I remember the photo. Why on Earth is he bringing this up? I had almost managed to delete that from

my memory. “Yes, I do. Why?” “I wanna show it to you.” I raise my eyebrows. “The photo? You have it? Here?” He smiles, a soft, warm, and gentle smile. “Yes. Always.” I stop my sigh before it escapes my lips. The pang jealousy bubbles up all the way to the surface again. Who am I kidding? Assassin or not, I’m totally, completely into him. “Could you get out my wallet, please? It’s in the backpack.” I purse my lips but do as he asked. I push my arm into the backpack. The binding at the top touches my chin as I root around at the bottom of the bag. Once I find his wallet, I take it out, then sit back again and look at him. “And?” “There’s a flap on the inside. Can you open it?” I open the wallet. There’s quite a lot of money inside—euros. After a bit of trying, I find the flap and open it. The photo is reversed, showing

the white back, so I take it out and turn it over. And my mouth drops.

Chapter 43

Sam’s smile broadens. “Surprised?” I gawk at him for several moments, then look back at the photo. The woman in the photo is me. “I—I don’t understand. You were there? At the Boston conference?” “Yes. You weren’t on the Crazy Gro project yet, and I was following Rosenberg at the time. I didn’t need to take this photo at all, but . . .” He smiles, looking into the distance. “It was a spontaneous decision.” He looks at me. “A once-ina-lifetime kind.” Oh, Sam . . . He looks back to the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift. I keep looking at him, and he seems—calm. Finally, the secret he was keeping from me is out in the open, and the tension, so obvious in his demeanor before, is gone.

I understand him now. I understand what he did and why he did it. Somewhere inside me, a bundled-up sadness rises to the surface. Guilt, and sorrow, for the things he did. But who am I to forgive him for what he has done? Would there have been more bombs, more terrorist attacks? Would I have lost someone dear to me if Sentinel wasn’t around? If Sam wasn’t around? I don’t know . . . I don’t know. I turn to him. But I know this: He is the one I’ve been looking for. He is the man I want. And I will take him as he is. I gently put my hand on top of his, resting on the gearshift. He glances at me quickly, then he smiles. He turns his hand over and laces his fingers with mine, bringing it up to his face. He presses the back of my hand to his lips and leaves it there for a

long moment. It’s such a warm, deep, and almost passionate kiss that I’m mesmerized; I keep looking at him. After a while, he puts our hands—still laced together—back on the gearshift. “Are you hungry?” he asks quietly. “I . . . don’t know. Not quite what I was thinking of right now.” “Well, we should get something to eat. We have a couple more hours to the closest safe place, and”—he glances at the dashboard—“we should fill up with gas.” “Another safe place? How many of those do you have in Europe?” He smiles. “A few.” Of course. I smile in response, then lean back and watch as the two bright cone-shaped streaks, cast by the headlights, illuminate the road. For several minutes, we don’t talk. But I feel comfortable like this. I feel that saying anything else would disturb the balance we just found.

After a while, he removes his hand from the gear and puts it back on the wheel. I look back at him. He’s frowning. “What is it?” I ask. He shakes his head. “They knew where to find us. Again. And I can’t figure out why.” I look at him from the side. “Could they follow your cell phone, perhaps?” He shakes his head. “No. It’s untraceable. And they don’t even know who I am.” A few minutes pass. Then Sam looks at me and asks, “Is there anything, anything at all, that you’ve been carrying with you since we left?” I look down at myself. “No. I mean . . . well, I have the same jeans, but . . .” “Do you have anything in your pockets?” “I’m almost a hundred percent sure I don’t,” I say while I lift my shirt to reach into the front pocket of my pants. My ID card is still hanging on the belt and I push it to the side, then dig into the pocket. “See! It’s em—” “What was that?” “What?”

“That thing you just moved away. What is that?” I look down. “Oh—it’s my ID card.” Sam’s frowning, his furrowed eyebrows making wrinkles at the base of his nose. “And you had it since you started at the institute?” “Yes. No! Actually, this one . . .” Opens the Crazy Gro lab. I look back at Sam. “This one’s new. David gave them to us when he put us on the Crazy Gro project. Could they have a tracking device in here? It’s so small.” Sam sighs. “That’s the culprit. Damn it! I should have thought of that. We have to throw it away,” he says. I immediately lower my side window. “No, wait!” I turn my head back to him, the ID card on the rim of the window. “If we throw it away now, they will know we figured out how they were tracking us. But if we put it in some other car, they can continue tracking it while we head in the opposite direction.”

I look back at the card. “But then they know where we are right now, don’t they? Isn’t it dangerous to keep it any longer?” “We are just one mile from a gas station. We’ll swap it there.” I hold the card a bit away from me, as if it’s stinky and I don’t want it to touch me. It doesn’t matter, of course; they still know where I am, even if I don’t have the tracking device directly on me. Still, I keep it a few inches away. Within a minute, Sam pulls the car into a brightly lit gas station. He stops next to the pump and then looks around before he gets out. Next to us is an old station wagon with a woman snoozing on the passenger seat and two children sleeping in back. I look at Sam and shake my head. He nods. Then I turn my head to look again. Across from us in the parking area to the left is an oldlooking rusty car. It’s empty, and I wonder if it was left here because it wouldn’t drive anymore. We can’t use that one. We need to find a car

that will lead our pursuers away from this gas station—ideally in the opposite direction from us. Several feet away from that rusty car, parked facing the opposite direction, is a dark blue minivan. Sam gets out of the car and bends down again to look at me. “I’ll fill up with gas. Do you need to go to the bathroom?” “Hmm—no, thanks, I’m fine.” He shuts the door, and I lean back in the seat and look to the front. In the gas station, a couple of people are wandering around the small aisles, clearly focused on their shopping needs. My eyes feel tired and I slide down in my seat a bit more to get some sleep. I can hear the rumbling as the gas fills the tank in the back of the car . Just as I’m slowly falling asleep, the door opens and I startle. “Sorry,” Sam says, realizing he’d given me a fright. “I’ll go and pay for the gas now. I’ll also get some food from the shop. Any particular needs or wishes?”

A vivid picture of him naked beneath me instantly forms in my mind, and I have to smile at my automatic mental response to his question. “What?” he asks, smiling back. I shake my head. “No particular food needs. Just get something. Surprise me.” “Okay. And”—he reaches with his open hand—“I need that ID card now, please.” “Ah! There you go.” “Thanks! And don’t leave the car, okay?” I nod vigorously. “Okay!” He smiles and closes the door. I watch him as he’s walking to the shop. His jacket reaches to his waist and I look at his buttocks, his glute muscles tightening in turn as he shifts the pressure from one leg to another. He’s got the sexiest butt I’ve ever seen. Though I’m probably biased. He enters the shop and turns right, walking slowly between the aisles, his head down, looking for some food he wants to surprise me with. I close my eyes and slide down in the seat for another snooze, but after a moment, I realize

that Sam’s suggestion to go to the bathroom makes a lot of sense. But I can’t go now; he told me to stay in the car. I rearrange my position, pressing my groin into the seat. But it doesn’t help. Oh, crap! I look around and spot the sign for the bathrooms, so I open the door and rush toward the left corner of the shop, passing the blue minivan. The side of the building is in the dark; the lamp above the bathroom is smashed, pieces of broken glass scattered on the floor just outside the open door. I slow down, checking where to step, and then—I hear a sound behind me. I start to turn. In the next moment, my nose and mouth are covered by a foul-smelling cloth, a strong hand pressing it to my face. I grab at the arm and try to pull it away, but within a second, all my strength is gone. My arms flop down, my knees let go, and I start to fall, but the person behind me grabs me and picks me up, my head dangling downward.

Then, all is black and I lose consciousness.

Chapter 44

I hear male voices, but my eyes don’t want to open. I try harder. My eyelids seem glued together. Two of them—no, three—are talking in a language I don’t understand. I lift my head; my neck hurts. Finally, I manage to open my eyes. Everything seems blurry, but I can make out the contours. The three men are sitting around a small table, smoking. A lamp above the table casts a focal light on the brown wooden surface, knots of smoke floating and reshaping in the air. Everything else is hidden in the shadows. My stomach feels nauseous and I can still smell the residue of the intense-smelling cloth. I look down. I’m sitting on a wooden chair with my hands behind me and my ankles strapped together with silvery duct tape. How did I get here? I try to think back. The driving . . . the gas station . . . Yes, I remember.

Stupid. I should have been more careful. Oh, but I felt so safe with Sam. My throat is dry and itchy. I need to cough, but I force myself not to. I don’t want to draw any attention to me. I slowly look around the room. It’s very dim, but I can see no furniture other than the wooden table and the chairs in front of me. The laminate floor is worn from use. I turn sideways. The windows on my right start at shoulder height and reach the top of the very high ceiling. They remind me of old warehouse windows. It’s completely dark outside. No lights from other buildings. I sigh inwardly. We are in a secluded place, far from anyone else. My throat still itches and I cough through my closed mouth, trying to be silent. But I’m not silent enough, because one of the men turns in my direction and stands up, pushing his chair back. The chair legs squeak against the floor.

He says something to the others, but I don’t understand it. He comes closer and I can make out his face. He’s tanned, with dark hair and dark eyes; almost handsome—if he were not where he is and I were not where I am. He smiles, and I almost have an instinctive urge to smile back until I see he’s holding a gun in one hand. He brings the gun close to my face and moves a strand of my hair with the muzzle. I shiver. The man with the gun turns around and says something to the other two sitting at the table, then one of the men pulls an old-looking black telephone closer and dials a number. After a few moments, he says in heavily accented English, “We have the girl. What do we do?” He waits for several moments. Then he moves the handset away, covering the mouthpiece with his hand, and turns to the gunman with a question. Gun takes my chin in his fingers and turns

my head one way and then the other. “Yu sim awake enough, no?” Then he says something back. The man at the table puts the phone back to his ear and continues, “We will find out what she knows. We will call you back.” He remains on the phone for a few seconds longer. “Yes, is clear, sir. You don’t need to worry, sir, we know what we doing.” Then he hangs up. He turns to Gun and says something. Gun nods his head, still looking at me. “Good, good,” he says, a sly grin on his face. “Let’s find out what yu know, swithart.” Then he moves away, saying something to the other two. They stand up. Both are really large men. As they approach, I feel my muscles start to shake. I know this: the fight-or-flight instinct. But right now, I can do neither. They stand next to me, grab me under my arms, and lift me up, then drag me to the table. Once there, Gun pulls a chair behind me and the two guys holding me drop me hard onto the wooden chair, the legs of it creaking from the force.

The jarring movement makes my head throb. I close my eyes and try to steady my head. “Open yor eyes, swithart.” The sound is disgustingly close to my ear. I open my eyes. In front of me there is now a laptop, and on the screen is a window with many different folder icons. I look at them. A creepy, tingly feeling starts crawling up my legs, up my spine. The name of each folder starts with the same three letters: FDM. I shut my eyes hard. “What is it, swithart?” Gun asks. “Yu recognize this, no?” And he laughs. With my eyes still closed, I ask, “What did you do? Where is Francesco?” These folders come from Frank’s memory stick. These are his Crazy Gro data. I open my eyes and look at Gun from the corner of my eyes. He straightens up and puts an index finger to his mouth, tapping his lips. “Now,

let me think. Well”—he looks down at me—“let’s just say he won’t be niding it anymore.” I start shaking my head, first slowly, then more violently. “No! No, I don’t believe you!” “Swithart, yu better believe it.” Then he presses a hand hard on the top of my head. “Now, let’s not shake this brain of yors; otherwise, we don’t get much information, just like we did not with yor little friend.” He leans in closer. “He was useless.” I close my eyes, the tears pouring through. He was brave. “Now, now! Open yor eyes. Yu are going to help us. Yu si, we are on tight schedule here. Only thri wiks to go. We nid antidote.” I swallow and open my eyes, my voice thick. “Three weeks until what? Which antidote?” “Bomb, swithart. It’s going to go boom!” He opens his eyes while making a round motion with his hands. “Right in center.” “Center of what?” “New York, swithart. Where else?” All of a sudden, the man sitting next to me,

who’d been quiet the whole time, stands up and starts shouting at Gun, raising his hands in agitation. Gun turns to him and shouts back, waving a hand. The man stops and slowly sits back down, while Gun turns back toward me, slowly shaking his head. “No . . . she’s not going anywhere.” Then he opens the laptop further. “Now, what yu nid to tell me is how to stop growth.” I frown. “I don’t know. We didn’t have time to find that out.” Asshole! Gun smiles flatly. “Well . . . yor little friend saw something.” “What are you talking about?” “Oh, swithart! No nid to pretend. We have yor whole lab bugged. We know every word yu say. And we know Francesco called yu, and that he was really eager to tell yu something. We think he find answer.” Did he really? Gun narrows his eyes. “So yu si, there is no point pretending. He had answer. And now yu are going to look at his results and yu are going to tell us what he saw.”

I lift my chin up. “Watch me!” The man lifts his head up and starts to laugh, a loud, forced sound. Then he abruptly stops and looks at me. “We have hero right here.” Damn right you do! Then he tilts his head sideways. “Well, there is something that will make yu talk. Something that will make yu sing like bird.” A tight squeeze around my heart. Oh, no! “Yu si, in room behind yu, strapped to chair just like yu—we have yor boyfriend.”

Chapter 45

A sob escapes me. No! No, it can’t be! He wouldn’t let himself be caught—he’s too good at his job. It can’t be. It can’t . . . I bow my head low. “Yes . . .” He stretches out the word. “And if yu are not talking, well . . . we will find slow, painful way for him to go. And yor going to watch. And then, we’ll do same thing to yu.” Gun sits in a chair opposite me, behind the laptop, and leans back. “So, for short, we nid to know what blocks growth of bacteria.” I’m silent. “Yu understand English, no?” They all laugh. “Yours is a bit hard to understand, to be quite honest,” I say. His mocking smile disappears in an instant. He looks at me, utterly terrifying with a stern glare

and cold eyes. He leans in over the screen. “Yu give me what I want, swithart, or yu don’t si the light of another day.” I huff despite myself. His eyes widen. “As if you’ll let me go once I tell you,” I say, trying to look defiant. He smiles broadly and leans back. “But of course, swithart, of course. What else would we do with yu?” And as he says it, his eyes slide up and down my body and stop at my breasts. I have the urge to cross my arms and cover myself, but my hands are tied at my back. I can’t. The man on the left says something in their language, and they all laugh again. “Yes, yes,” says Gun, looking me in the eyes. “Maybe later.” Then he leans his elbow on the table, lifting his gun to rest on the top of the screen. “Go on then,” he urges. I look at the dark gray metal tube in front of me, Gun’s face blurred behind it. My hands are sweating and my heart is pounding.

“All right,” I say, “but you need to release my hands so that I can work on the computer.” Gun laughs. “Yu think we were born yesterday?” And he laughs some more. Then he says something to the person standing to my right and the man leans in and puts his hands next to the keyboard. “He is now yor personal servant,” Gun says. “He will be yor hands.” I swallow. I don’t know what my idea was with my free hands, but it didn’t work anyway. “Fine. Click on ‘FDM_CG_staining.’” He does it, and a new window opens with several folders inside. I try to scan them quickly, at the same time trying to decide what to do. One of the folders reads “FMD_CG_Genomics_new.” I suck in a breath. These must be the genomics data of Crazy Gro that came in the day before we left, the ones that I didn’t copy onto my memory stick . But Frank did. And they are here now. If I could only view the data!

But even if I opened the file, I’d only know what bacteria this was if I compared it to the online prokaryotic databank, and for that I’d need the internet. I wouldn’t be able to sell that to these guys. I check the names of the other folders. Then I see that Frank did classical staining for Crazy Gro too. “Go to ‘FDM_CG_Gramm.’” “Um . . .” The guy’s leaning in, trying to read the file names. “The third one from the top?” “Ah, yes. There.” He clicks on it. And an image opens. Holy crap! This is what had Frank so shocked! The image has a white background. In the middle, the dark purple cells are beaded in a row like a necklace. The bacteria are thin and elongated. I would recognize this strain anytime. This is Streptococcus. And whatever type this Strep is, it is bad. Any type of Streptococcus growing this fast is a

disaster. I swallow but try to appear calm. “No,” I say, “that’s not the one. Can you close it?” He does. Think! Think, Jane! Okay, let’s see the images for antibiotics staining. Maybe these guys are right. Maybe he did find an antibiotic that finally works. “Can you . . . can you open ‘FDM_Schaefer-Fulton_ABs’?” Several other image folders appear. These are all the different antibiotics he worked with. And he combined antibiotic treatments with endospore staining, just like I suggested. “The one that says ‘FDM_Schaeffer_PEN’?” The folder is full of images. “Click on ‘zerozero-three-two.’” He mutters, obviously not happy to be acting as my “hands,” but opens it anyway. The image opens. Oh! My breath hitches, but I purposefully

make myself breathe normally. Beside the green cells I expected, the normal living bacterial cells, there are also blue ones. This Streptococcus makes endospores! I knew it! I knew there had to be a reason for the slow-down that Frank noticed when he added the antibiotic. This is ultra-interesting! But what does it mean? If I could only— But of course not. I’m not walking out of this alive. “No, this is not it,” I say. “Can you go back and click on a different folder?” I go through several different folders, checking a couple of images in each, but none of them show a reduction in the number of cells. Crazy Gro seems to continue growing as if there was no antibiotic treatment at all. Frank didn’t find the answer after all. But these guys don’t know that. All right, think, Jane! What can I—

Oh! I have it! “Can you click on the ‘FDM_Schaefer_AZTR_PC’?” Azithromycin. Positive control. Every experiment needs a positive control, so you can see if your reagent works or not. In this case, Frank needed to see if his antibiotics worked, and he must have used his own Streptococcus strain to check it. If I’m right, these images should be empty of cells, because azithromycin killed them all. The man opens it and—it’s empty! Only a black background. I close my eyes. Ah, thank heavens! “So?” asks Gun. I look at him and nod. “This is the antibiotic you need. Azithromycin, um, PC.” I pretend PC is part of the name of the antibiotic. I hope they don’t realize what PC actually means. Gun stands up and moves to our side of the table to have a look. “Yu think we are stupid?” he says and bangs the top of my head with the grip of his gun. My face contorts, my eyes clenched shut

against the excruciating pain deep in my skull. “There is nothing in this picture!” he shouts. “That means the cells are dead, you idiot!” I yell, my eyes still shut, wishing I had a free hand to rub my head with. “Yur sure this will stop bacteria?” “Yes!” I look up, glaring at him through thin slits. He straightens up and looks down at me. “All right, then. Thank yu for yor cooperation.” Then he says something to the guys and they both grab my arms again and drag me back to my old chair in the middle of the room. I am more prepared for the drop now, so I’m able to soften my fall. “Stay!” one of them says as they turn around and return to the table where Gun is sitting. As if I could go anywhere. Gun is hunched over the computer, typing something. Then he leans back in his chair, one arm hanging over the backrest, the other leaning on the table. He looks sideways at me. “Let’s si, swithart.

Let’s si.” Idiot. The only way they’ll know if the antibiotic works or not is if they do the whole experiment again themselves. And this buys me some time. Not a lot, but some. I close my eyes and try to move my hands to see how tight the binding is. The duct tape pulls my hairs and burns my skin, but my hands stay bound, as if I hadn’t done anything. Oh, it’s impossible. The phone rings and Gun picks it up. He doesn’t say anything. Just listens. At the end, just before hanging up, he says, “Yes. Understood.” Another break, then a laugh. “Don’t worry, sir. It is very hard to identify ashes.” The other two men laugh, while my stomach instinctively crumples. Gun hangs up, and they all look at me. Gun says something to the guy on his right, and just the way he looked at me as he said it makes my hair stand on end. “Well, swithart,” Gun says as he starts to

walk toward me. “It seems it is time to say bye-bye to world.” My heart skips a beat. No! It wasn’t supposed to happen like this! I thought I still had some time. “Don’t you want to try it out? The antibiotic?” He comes very close to me, leaning on his knees with his hands—one of them holding the gun —so that he’s at eye level with me. “Oh, swithart, I thought yu told us truth. Yu wouldn’t lie to us, would yu?” He arches his eyebrows at me. “And anyway, we will find out at demo, won’t we?” “Demo?” I frown. “Yes, demo. What do yu think bomb is about anyway? It would be good that antidote works. It would brings us some tens of millions more. But as yu can imagine, our high price comes from killer bacteria, or—what did yu call it—Crazy Gro.” He chuckles. “So cute.” I blink a few times. “You’re planning on selling it?” He smiles a broad smile. “Yu are clever

one.” “To whom?” He shrugs. “Whoever makes highest bid. And there are many who will.” These guys aren’t typical terrorists themselves, but they are selling Crazy Gro to people who are. To get rich. And they want an antidote to raise the value of the biological weapon. “But if you guys made it,” I ask, “why didn’t you already make the antidote yourself?” “I’m sure we would have. If we made it ourselves. But”—he moves his head from side to side—“we stumbled on it and . . . we borrowed it. Without asking. So it’s ours now, to sell to—” The man at the table says something loudly, waving his hand in the air, then bangs it back on the table, a deep frown on his face. Gun straightens up. “My friend is right.” Then his gaze crawls from my face, down my jaw, over my collarbone, following the V line of my shirt and ending between my breasts. “Enough of talking. Let’s do something much more interesting.” He turns his head slightly and says

something to the men at the table. They chuckle and say something back. My throat is shut tight, as if someone’s grabbing my neck. I have the urge to vomit. Through my closed teeth, I say, “Don’t even think about it!” He raises his eyebrows. “Oh, yu understood what we said? Well . . .” He lowers his head again, a few inches from my face. His breath smells of smoke. “Yu si, no one asked yu.” He calls out and one of the men behind him stands up to join him. Gun looks at him sideways. “It would be real shame not to have some fun first.” Then he looks down at me. “Wouldn’t it, swithart?” He says something to the man beside him and he comes to my side, grabs my hair, and pulls it back down so I’m looking at the ceiling, a labyrinth of pipes and tubes. Gun comes closer. Then he grabs my breast so hard it hurts. I scream and shake my body as much as I possibly can and manage to pull free of his grip.

“Oh, yu are fiery one!” Gun says. The man holding my hair pulls it even tighter, bringing tears to my eyes and pins my shoulders down so I can’t move. I can hear Gun opening a buckle, unzipping his trousers. I’m shivering within; my jaws are tight and I’m trying to pull my arms away, though I know I can’t free them. I know there is no way out. And the only thing I can think of right now is that I’ll never see Sam again. Gun bends down and tries to grab my jeans. I jerk my knees up as fast as I can but I just miss his chin. He stands up and slaps me. For a moment, everything is black; my hair is sprayed over my face. Then his hands claw at my hips, trying to pull off my jeans. I open my knees so he can’t get them off. He’s yelling something and I hear the man at the table pushing his chair back to stand up. And then—a whizzing sound. And a thud. On the wooden table behind them.

The two men holding me relax their grip and turn to look at the third guy. He’s slumped forward, his head resting on the table, his left ear pressed against the wood, his eyes open in an accusing stare. Out of his right temple, a sharp, thin piece of metal is poking out. Gun fumbles with his zipper and looks around, wildly pointing his gun in every direction. The second man lets me go and starts walking slowly toward the table, while peering into the shadows. He reaches the table, quickly glancing at the dead guy, blood now starting to drip from the table to the floor. He looks at Gun and gives a barely noticeable shake of his head. Then he starts retreating toward us, slowly, still scrutinizing the area. But then, I hear something. A metallic highpitched lashing sound. The man stops. His expression changes, tense lines on his face soften. His furrowed angry eyebrows slightly

arch in surprise. A thin line appears at his neck. His lips part a bit as if he wants to say something. But he doesn’t. A moment later, the thin line around his neck opens up and blood pours out, instantly covering his chest in a dark red. Then he drops to his knees and crashes flat on the floor. Gun leaps behind me. He presses the gun barrel to my ear. His breathing is erratic. He’s shaking and the metal digs into my skin. I’m afraid he will fire, simply out of fear. “I’m going to shoot! I’m going to shoot her!” My throat shuts tight and I close my eyes. I’m pressing my jaws to stop my teeth from chattering. The next moment, I hear a horrid crackling sound. The pressure of the gun is gone, and the man behind me falls sideways to the floor. I shakily turn my head to look at him, barely breathing. Gun is lying on his side, the weapon still in his hand, but his head is twisted in an unnatural

angle toward his back. A moment later there is a cutting sound, and my hands strapped behind me are freed. Sam comes into view from my left and kneels at my feet, cutting off the tape at my ankles as well. I’m free, but I stay seated. I can’t move. I look at Sam, my whole body shaking, and I can’t speak. He looks up, into my eyes, and very gently puts his palm on my cheek. “It’s all right, Jane. It’s over.” The jeans at my groin feel warm and I realize I just peed. I give a little whimper, and Sam takes me in his arms and carries me out of the warehouse hall. My whimpering turns into crying and then into sobbing. I’m shaking violently, and Sam holds me tighter. “It’s over now, you’re safe. It’s over.” But I can’t stop crying and I can’t stop shaking. Was it finding out about Frank? Or almost being raped and killed? Or was it seeing those men fall down like

pieces on a child’s board game, with no idea what took them? Sam. Sam. I shiver again. I want to tell him that we should take their laptop, that I want to look at Frank’s data, but before I manage it, my mind goes blank, and I collapse.

Chapter 46

I wake up slowly. It’s warm, and there is a lovely aroma of something being cooked. I look around. The place is very small, with an open kitchen, a small living area, and a bathroom door in one corner. Everything is made of wood, and it gives the space a warm and cozy feeling. I’m lying on a couch with a warm blanket over me. I lift up the blanket and see that I’m wearing Sam’s button-up shirt and boxer shorts. He must have changed me. How embarrassing. I slowly push myself off the couch and sit up. Sam is cutting up some vegetables on the kitchen island. His head is bent forward; he’s completely focused on what he’s doing. I look at the nape of his neck, the muscles connecting to his back stretched and beautifully defined, his shoulders making a large shadow over the cutting board. In this position, his hips are pushed forward,

and through the loose shirt I can see his abdominal muscles contracting whenever he pushes the knife onto the cutting board. It’s captivating and I find myself unable to look away. I look at his hips, but then realize that he has stopped chopping. I look up to meet his eyes. He has a mischievous grin on his face. “Good morning. Or—good evening.” He puts down the knife on the cutting board and walks over to me, taking a steaming cup from the dining table. He kneels next to the couch and says, “Here, drink this.” I take the cup and sip slowly. The liquid is not so hot, but it still burns as it passes down my throat. I cough. “What is that?” “Tea . . . and some rum.” He looks at me and smiles. “It will warm you up.” I smile and take another sip. “Is this your safe place?” “Yes.” Then he looks down at the floor and whispers, “I’m so sorry you had to go through

that.” He looks back. “I never should have let you out of my sight.” I smile weakly. Never out of his sight. I like that. Then I frown and look at him. “But how did you get free? I thought they caught you too.” “They did.” “So how did you—” “You were already in their van when I came out. I knew I couldn’t fight them without putting you in danger, so the only way to rescue you was to allow myself to get captured as well, hoping they would take me to the same place as you. And not just kill me, of course.” He chuckles. “But how did you free yourself, then? Weren’t you tied up like me? And where did you get the weapons? Didn’t they search you?” “They did search me, and yes, I was tied up.” Then he stops and looks down. “Look, I don’t want you to think about that.” “Why not?” “It’s just . . .” He sighs. “It’s just what I do.” “I know, but—”

“Jane! Please, just . . . leave it. You don’t need to know how I did it.” I look at him while images of the last moments in the warehouse flash before my eyes. He didn’t have weapons of his own. He had to improvise. Yes. I think he’s right. I don’t actually need to know all the details. “Okay,” I say and nod. He exhales, and it’s loaded with relief. “Good. I’ll continue making dinner, okay?” I put the cup on the small table next to the couch and rub my eyes to wake myself up. “Sam!” I say abruptly. He turns quickly. “What?” “Did you—did you take their laptop? With Frank’s data?” His face relaxes. “I did.” “Oh, that’s great!” He waves his hand dismissively. “It’s just part of the job.” He walks over to the dinner table to fetch his own laptop. “I copied Frank’s data on here,” he says as he puts it on the coffee table and sits down next to me. He opens it up and signs in,

then stands up again. “Let me know what you find out.” “Absolutely,” I say. “You’ll get a live commentary. Did you find anything else on their laptop?” “Emails and other files. But all encrypted. I sent them to the Sentinel tech guys. They should be able to crack them.” The folder with Frank’s data is already open. I look at his initials and smile, remembering how Frank wanted to exchange his memory stick with someone else’s because the ink on his own had smeared. And then—it all comes flooding back. The shock, the sadness, the pain. They killed him. Because he couldn’t give them what they wanted. I close my eyes and try to bury these thoughts deep in the cellar of my mind, try to lock them behind a heavy door, sealed with an iron bolt, not letting them surface, because like this, I can’t think. I can’t. And I need to think. I need to figure this

one out, because . . . a lot more people will die if I don’t. Then I feel Sam’s hand on my shoulder, touching me softly. I open my eyes. “Are you all right?” he asks. I try to smile but it doesn’t quite work out as I planned. “I’m . . . no, not really.” He sits next to me and squeezes me against him. I find a place between his shoulder and neck and lean my head into it, then close my eyes. “I’m sorry you lost your friend, Jane,” he says, his voice deep and calm. I expect him to say something else, but he doesn’t. He just lets me ride through this, like a buoy on the waves, letting this sorrow pass underneath me, until the ocean calms down and I feel peaceful again. After a long while, he says, “Your other colleagues, Jane—they are fine. They are safe. And David as well. He’s recovering in the hospital.” I look up at him. “Really?” He nods once and smiles. “Your family too.”

“Oh, thank God!” I say, leaning back onto his shoulder, a weight I didn’t realize I was carrying lifting off. “So are they under the protection of Sentinel?” “No. It was initiated by Sentinel, of course, but it’s official police protection. Your colleagues don’t know about Sentinel, and neither does your family. No one outside of Sentinel knows about us, not even the police.” I don’t care who provides the protection, as long as they are safe. “Feeling a bit better?” he says. I nod. Though I wish they’d managed to save Frank. Sam releases his hug and turns to look at me. “Hey, why don’t we eat first? Get some energy for the brain. Then we can look into the data. Okay?” I attempt a smile. “Okay.” *** I’m munching on the dinner Sam just made:

chicken and rice with red peppers and sour cream. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until he put the plate in front of me. I don’t take any breaks to talk, and within minutes, my plate is empty. “Is there more?” I look up. He smiles. “Sure, let me get it for you.” “Thanks!” He picks up my plate and returns to the kitchen. He is wearing old jeans and they hang on his hips. I cannot help but stare at him as he walks away. Then I shake my head to clear my mind and look back at the laptop. “All right, let’s first check this one,” I say as I double-click on the file. It opens, and soon I’m looking at the sequencing lines. “What are we looking at?” His voice is a bit muffled coming from the kitchen with his back to me. “Genomics data,” I say, loud enough for him to hear me. He comes back and sits on the floor next to me, putting my plate behind the computer and

looking at the screen. “Does that tell you anything? Looks like gibberish to me . . .” I laugh. “Hey!” He lifts his hands up. “I don’t have your IQ!” I chuckle. “It has nothing to do with IQ,” I say, opening a new browser window. “You can’t tell anything just from looking at the sequence. I can’t either. What we need to do is to compare the database sequence of Crazy Gro with a prokaryotic databank. And that’s what I’m doing now.” I copy-paste the sequence and click for mapping. The screen is blank while it matches different sequences to known bacterial strains. “How long do we need to wait?” I shrug my shoulders. “It depends. I’m almost one hundred percent sure that Crazy Gro is a hybrid.” He raises his eyebrows. “Which means . . . ?” “Which means that it’s made out of different strains, different pieces of DNA all

combined together to make one bacterial genome, possibly with several mutations, like the one for the superfast growth. And that means that the database system”—I point to the screen—“needs to find all the different strains and also pinpoint the mutations. So it will take a few minutes.” He nods. “I know the main portion of the strain is made out of Streptococcus, not Thermus. That is what Frank wanted to tell me. That is the part that shocked him.” “Why would that shock him? Didn’t you work with Streptococcus too?” I nod once. “Yes, true—but you see, my strains have a mutation in them that makes them vulnerable anywhere outside of my Petri dish. They’re missing a specific amino acid—” Sam frowns. “Translation, please?” “Their DNA is missing a section needed to build an important building block: they can’t make it on their own, which means they can’t build new cells on their own, so I put that missing building block in their food. In that way, they can reproduce

normally inside controlled lab conditions, but not outside. This one”—I point to the folder showing the genomic data of Crazy Gro—“for sure doesn’t have that genetic safeguard. This is a huge problem, because it grows so fast. I mean, even the most harmless bacteria growing that fast would be an issue. Take E. coli, which is important for our digestive system—it would kill us if it grew like Crazy Gro.” I sigh. “The growth speed of Crazy Gro is just scary, independent of what kind of Strep it is.” “I see,” Sam says. “So they deceived the whole team from the beginning, back when they told you—or when they told David, actually—it was Thermus and that it wouldn’t be able to grow at normal temperatures, right?” “Exactly.” I look back at the screen. “Ah, you see—the first part is done.” Sam looks at the screen, but shakes his head, raising his eyebrows. “What am I looking at?” “The highest percentage of Crazy Gro’s DNA is made out of Streptococcus DNA. That’s

why the cells look like Streptococcus under the microscope. That’s what we figured, right?” “No.” He laughs. “That’s what you figured.” I smile to him. “You help me think.” “Really?” I look up. “Actually, no. If I remember correctly, you distract me from all thinking.” “Oh! Sorry about that . . .” A mischievous smile forms on his lips. “It’s fine. I like being distracted by you.” And I lean in and kiss him. Just then a beeping noise announces another match and I turn back to check. I sigh. “Jane?” Sam says, stretching my name. “You see this?” I say, pointing to the screen. “It’s a rather small part of Crazy Gro’s DNA, but it’s taken from a bacterial strain that spreads through the air. This makes Crazy Gro airborne and that means that whatever disease this bacteria causes, is transmitted through air, and not through physical contact, like tetanus for example.”

“That figures. The airborne transmission is the best way to spread it around.” I look down at the screen, checking the new finding. “Hmm . . .” “What?” “It’s strange . . . the DNA also contains a part of the Bacillus genome.” I shake my head. “Crazy Gro really is a hybrid. Why is it so complex, I wonder?” Sam shrugs his shoulders. “If it was engineered, then there’s probably a reason behind every piece in the hybrid.” “You’re right. It has to be something like that . . .” There is another notification sound on the computer. I look down. Another result has just come in. I open the match sequence. And stop breathing. Oh, no!

Chapter 47

My throat is shut, my lungs empty of air. “Jane, what is it?” Sam is looking at me, then at the screen, then back at me. “What is this? I don’t understand this, Jane. What does this mean?” After a moment, I take a breath. I turn to Sam, my eyes still on the screen. “This is bad, Sam. This is really, really bad.” “Jane!” “This strain produces a toxin.” “What? Which toxin?” I look at him, then say, “Beta-hemolysin.” “What is that? What does it do?” “This toxin destroys erythrocytes, the red blood cells, and it causes anemia. If left untreated, it’s lethal.” Sam straightens up, nodding. “And with the speed these cells grow, there is no time for treatment. The anemia is instantaneous. It would kill a person within minutes.”

We stay silent for a few moments. “But,” I start, “if the disease advances so fast in a human body, a broad epidemic would not be possible because it would kill the victims before they had a chance to spread it around, right? Don’t you think?” “You’re exactly right. And that right there makes it perfect as a biological weapon, because you have a limited and clearly defined target area. It doesn’t go anywhere it’s not intended to.” He picks up his cell phone. “I need to contact Sentinel. This is huge.” He gets up and heads to the kitchen counter. “Sam, did you also hear them talk about New York?” He turns around. “No. What about New York?” “Well, the main guy said that they have three weeks until the deadline and by then they need to have an antidote. The antidote was the goal of our project—a treatment that stops the growth of Crazy Gro.” “All right.” Sam puts the phone back into

his pocket and sits next to me. “So what do they wanna do, did they say?” “They want to detonate a bomb that contains Crazy Gro. In the center of New York.” “F—” he starts but the word dies out. He takes a quick breath. “I knew there was a reason they put such pressure on the project. Damn terrorists!” “Sam, I don’t think this is an ordinary terrorist attack.” He frowns. “I . . . what do you mean? I don’t understand.” “It’s a demonstration.” “A demonstration?” He shakes his head. “What…?” “If I understood them correctly, these people that have been chasing us are not actually regular terrorists.” He arches an eyebrow at me. “What are they? Pacifists?” I huff. “No. What I mean is that they are not your typical extremists or fundamentalists. They want to make a profit, they want to sell these

bacteria to other terrorist groups.” “Ah! I see now. And the explosion is the demonstration. A bomb explodes in the middle of New York and kills everyone within the blast radius. Then they wait for the bids to come in.” I nod. “That’s how I understood it.” “But what about the antidote then? Why were they using Rosenberg—using you—then? And”—he shakes his head—“why didn’t they just make an antidote on their own, if they already designed the hybrid?” “They didn’t. They stole it.” “They stole the Crazy Gro bacteria? From whom?” I shrug. “I don’t know. But they didn’t make it themselves, which is why they couldn’t make the antidote either.” “All right, all right. That makes sense. But why is the antidote so important? They already have the bacteria to make the trade.” “Well, apparently, the antidote makes the whole package more attractive. That way, whichever terrorist group buys it would have the

means to protect their own people. The man with the gun said they would get tens of millions more if they have the antidote as well.” Sam’s face is serious, eyes narrowed, his mind racing. Then he nods. “Well, first thing’s first. Sentinel needs to know about this ASAP.” He stands up and takes out his cell phone again. I’m about to turn back to the screen, but Sam turns around and smiles. Then he gently strokes my cheek, the skin of his palm rough but warm. “Thank you, Jane. This is . . . amazingly helpful.” A smile bubbles up from within me. His praise fills me with pride more than any other time in my scientific career. These findings really can change the world. “All of this is making me hungry. I’ll make one more round of food.” He heads for the kitchen. “Do you still want something?” “No, thanks. I’m fine.” He speed-dials and waits a few moments for a response. There is a muffled answer. He looks at the phone keyboard and presses a few more

buttons, then puts the phone back to his ear and walks to the kitchen, putting the pan back onto the stove. I don’t quite hear what he’s saying, but the sound of Sam preparing more food, cutting the veggies and meat, steady and rhythmic, calms me down. I focus back on the screen. I want to check the images again. There is something that I’m missing, something important, but I just can’t put my finger on it. I open a new folder with a set of images. Frank ran several different experiments, but the ones that look most interesting are these two: the one where the cells grow under the treatment of antibiotic, and the other, the negative control, where they grow with no treatment. I had briefly looked at both sets of images at the warehouse, but I take more time now. I scan dozens of them. What am I missing? I’m slowly shaking my head, thinking. Something . . .

Then it dawns on me. I go back to the original folder and check the name. “FDM_Schaefer_PC.” This is Crazy Gro stained for endospores: positive control, meaning no treatment. And “FDM_Schaefer_Abs.” That one relates to Crazy Gro stained for endospores, but this time under the antibiotic treatment. In both experiments, Crazy Gro was stained for endospores, but they are present only under the antibiotic treatment. That means that the cells definitely respond to the antibiotics, they definitely sense it in the media, but they don’t stop growing as other bacteria would. Instead, they make endospores. And continue growing. I close my eyes. They make endospores and continue growing, resisting the antibiotic. Wow! This finding is just as incredible as the fast-growing mutation. I turn to Sam and try to grab his attention, but he’s talking on the phone. He’s trying to jam his

cell phone between his head and shoulder as he’s chopping a leek, but the phone keeps slipping. He then puts the knife to the side, takes the cell phone, puts the speaker on, and lays it next to the cutting board, then continues chopping. I keep looking at him, thinking how amazing and wonderful and courageous and beautiful he is. “. . . it’s even worse than expected,” a man on the phone says. “You need to bring more people in. We need to destroy it.” Sam peeks at me and sees me staring. Then he smiles and blows me a silent kiss. I smile back. “We already have quite a lot of information from the encrypted data you sent us. We know now where they store the material,” the person on the phone continues. “We are preparing a new strike team now. And I want you to get back to headquarters, Eleven. Is that clear?” “Yes, sir. But I wanna be on that team too.” I look up at him, shaking my head. I don’t want him to go back. He’s done enough already. He

might get hurt if he goes . . . But he’s not looking at me. “Sam, you did what you had to do. You got the information out of the girl; that was your assignment. But now you need to come home.” Got the information out . . . what? “The girl, Eleven. She knows about you, she knows about Sentinel, she knows about the bioweapon. She just knows too much. You know what you need to do.” Sam stops chopping, his knife frozen in the air. “Eleven, she needs to be eliminated.”

Chapter 48

I stop breathing, my gaze frozen on Sam. He’s looking at the cutting board. He’s not moving. “Eleven, do you copy?” Sam slowly puts down the knife. Then he takes the phone and ever so slowly puts it to his ear, then turns around. He’s off the speaker. I can’t tell what the other person is saying, but I can hear Sam. “I copy.” I’m looking at his back, not blinking. Not breathing either. My blood is swooshing in my veins; I can hear it in my ears. Sam presses the phone hard against his head. “Yes.” More talking on the other side. “I understand.” Silence. Then the person says something else, and Sam responds, “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll take

care of it.” And he switches the phone off and lays it down on the kitchen counter. I’m looking at his back. And I don’t know what to do. Should I try and run? From him? But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Could he? I thought he . . . I thought he loved me. I’m not going to run. I can’t. Not from him. He turns around. Under the bright ceiling lights, his eyebrows cast shadows over his eyes. And they are narrow, dark blue crystals, behind thin slits. No! I don’t believe it. I won’t. I stand up and then slowly walk to the kitchen, continually looking at his eyes. His gaze follows me as I approach. I come to the kitchen island and put my palm on the cold black marble. “Sam?” I ask, my voice just a whisper. I move closer, and he turns his body toward me. I can’t read anything in his face. It’s like he

has put a solid wall over it; his thoughts, his emotions, hidden behind his calm and beautiful face. I take another step, looking up into his eyes, only a few inches between us now. My heart is drumming in my chest—love, fear, desire, passion, all mixed together. Sam slowly lifts his hands to my neck. I keep looking at his eyes, trying to read past them, trying to see behind them. And I can’t. As his fingers are about to touch the skin on my neck, I remember the first time I saw him. Not long ago, but still ages ago. That was the day of the first snow. I fell in love with him right then and there. And I don’t care what happens now. I love him. I do. And he touches the side of my throat, his fingers light as they slide to the back of my neck. Then he stops, cupping the back of my neck in his palm. My ears are buzzing, a storm inside my

chest; I’m barely standing. He’d only need to make one single hand movement—and he could do it so fast I probably wouldn’t even be aware of it—and my life would be gone. I swallow, looking straight into his eyes. Then he slightly tilts his head sideways and gently pulls me toward him, bringing me closer. He lowers his head to mine, our lips so very close, yet he doesn’t kiss me. “You are,” he whispers, “the most courageous person I have even known.” He breathes his words onto my lips. I lower my gaze to his mouth. Why is he so perfect? “I don’t deserve you, Jane McGregor. But you are my life now, and I will do anything to keep you safe.” Then he kisses me, opening my lips with his, reaching with his tongue to find mine, desperate and needy and passionate. And the fire deep inside me bursts with a new flame, burns through my veins, scorches under my skin, as I press my hips to

him. The need within me, the greed I feel for him right now; it’s lava, melting rocks, flames reaching high in the air, and it’s unstoppable. I pull off his T-shirt and drop it on the floor. Sam grabs the collar of the shirt I’m wearing and rips it open, white buttons flying in the air. I hook my fingers in the waistband of his trousers and push them down, leaving nail marks on his hips. He lifts me up on the kitchen counter, and then slides off the boxers I’m wearing . His hand slips behind my neck, his fingers knotted in my hair; his other hand low on my back, pressing me toward him. And then he stops and just looks at me. We are still, and he keeps looking into my eyes, as if he’s searching for something deep inside me, something that puzzles him, something that fills him with wonder. He keeps searching, looking into my eyes but coming closer and closer. I can barely keep still. I feel him between my legs, and it turns me on so much I’m getting dizzy. My eyes are closing and I am short of breath. He touches the sides of my lips with his, then gently

kisses my cheek. Then he slides down to my neck and kisses me again, this time passionately, lustfully, his lips leaving hot traces on my skin. And it’s driving me crazy. I put my arms around his neck and pull him closer. He moans. “Take me, Sam . . .” I whisper. “I need you . . . take me . . . now . . .” He breathes in and moves his hips slightly back, and then—enters. Oh . . . I move my head back. Yes. Yes, Sam. Our moves become wild in an instant. He moves fast, and I need him to be. We kiss fiercely, taking each other with our tongues, with our lips, with our arms and hands. And we move in rhythm, fast, wild, and desperate for release. I feel him deep in me. And I want it, every single time, bringing me closer. I need it: every plunge, every dive, every thrust, because this is our love. And no one can break it.

Our lovemaking is so charged that the climax comes within seconds; the ripples of our pleasure crashing from him to me and back again like waves. We drop back onto the counter, panting and sweaty. His head is lying on my chest and his breath breezes over my skin, cooling it down. I comb my fingers through his hair and hug him, my legs wrapped around his back. After a few minutes, our breaths steady, but we stay as we are. He inhales deeply, but doesn’t say anything. I anticipate. “We need to go.” He nods. Then he stands, bringing me up with him. He cups my face in his hands and kisses me softly on my lips, for a long time. When he stops, he looks into my eyes and says, “Time to escape. Again.” And he smiles mischievously. “That is what I’m good at.”

Chapter 49

I walk slowly, carefully balancing my steps on three-inch heels. The last time I wore something like this was twenty years ago trying out my grandmother’s high-heel pumps, which at the time were far too big for me, certain I would wear shoes just like that when I grew up. I grew up and slid into comfortable sneakers. And that never changed. A snug-fitting, dark blue, satin dress falls down my body all the way down to my ankles. My shoulders and upper back are free, and I feel just a tiny bit cold, now that the steward has taken off my coat to place it in the wardrobe. I’m waiting behind the large entrance to the casino, looking through the glass at the twinkling lights of the Eiffel Tower in background. Sam just paid the taxi driver and he’s entering the casino now. He is wearing a black tux, black shoes, and a dark crimson shirt open at the neck. He looks gorgeous.

He smiles his irresistible smile and takes my hand but moves two steps back, scanning me from head to toes, and back again. “Wow! Why didn’t anybody steal you before me, I wonder?” I blush. “I have something for you. Turn around.” I turn to face the side mirror and see him place a necklace around my neck: an intricate flat golden chain with several large dark blue stone. I look at it closely. Where have I seen this before? Then I take a deep breath as it dawns on me. “I’ve seen this stone before! In the mall, the one that saleslady showed me on the day we m—” Then I turn my head to him. “Were you at the mall, the day you moved in?” “Yes, I was.” I turn around completely. “No!” “Yes.” “Really?” He laughs. “Yes. Now turn around, I don’t wanna drop this.”

I turn around and he hooks it into place. “There.” I’m staring into the mirror with wide-open eyes, lightly stroking the blue stones. I am shocked. Shocked that he was there with me, shocked at how beautiful this necklace is—and shocked at the price. I clearly remember the price of the tanzanite the saleslady showed me. And this necklace here —has several of them! “Sam, it’s wonderful, but I just can’t—” I want to turn around to face him, but I lose my balance on my uncomfortably high heels. Sam quickly catches and steadies me. “You’re overwhelmed, I see . . .” He smirks. “Sam, it’s beautiful, but I can’t keep it.” “You know, I’d love to pretend this is just a spur-of-the-moment thing: jewelry for the lady from the guy she has enchanted. But there is more to this.” He touches the necklace and then slides his fingers over my collarbone down my shoulder, all the way to my hand. Then he laces his fingers into mine. My heartbeat picks up immediately and I’m

sorry we are in a public place. “Did you know that tanzanite”—he points his finger to the necklace as he starts to walk toward the entrance—“is found in only one place in the world?” I shake my head, not really understanding the point of the story. We enter the large bright hallway, full of glass and light. I hear the low murmur of many people talking at the end of the hallway. As we are walking, Sam continues, “It is found only in the Manyara region in Tanzania. And the reserves for tanzanite are quickly depleting. When all of it is gone, the value, as you can imagine, will increase manyfold.” “That’s nice, but why are you telling this to me now?” “Because in the future, this necklace will be very, very valuable.” “More reasons why you shouldn’t give it to me!” “Twenty-two-karat gold and fourteen-carat tanzanite stones should, depending on the country,

give you financial support for a pretty long time.” “Sam, you are crazy! No way!” Then he stops and looks at me, the blue of his own tanzanite eyes hiding under the shadow of his eyebrows. His look is serious and his smile is gone. “Jane, I’m not joking now. You need to keep it. This is your financial safety net in case—” He lowers his gaze for a moment. “In case of what, Sam?” He looks back. “It’s your safety net.” He smiles, but it’s a forced smile. “And anyway, you will see it fits this place perfectly.” He winks at me and walks into the large hall. I’m silent and uncomfortable. I don’t like this safety net he’s talking about. I feel it somehow excludes him, and that’s a future I don’t want to have. Also, this kind of jewelry makes me feel uncomfortable too. I rarely wear jewelry, and never something of this value. I even feel awkward touching it, so I keep my free hand squeezed against my thigh. The area we enter is large and has many

different side rooms as well. The people are gathered in different groups around tables. This whole place is full of expensive-looking dresses, tuxedos, diamond rings, and golden necklaces. I relax a bit, realizing that I am actually dressed for the occasion. As we walk along, I’m holding Sam’s hand for support and I glance at the tables. The ones closest to us are for poker and blackjack; the dealers are making funny exaggerated movements with their hands to show they are not holding any cards. At the back, next to the bar, are four large roulette tables, and next to each is a screen showing a close-up view of the roulette wheel turning around. All of a sudden, there is a cry and sudden cheer in the back. It makes me jump and I turn around. A group of people raise their hands in the air, laughing and shouting. “Someone got lucky,” says Sam and smiles. “Come, let’s get a drink.” We walk to the bar and sit on the high bar stools. I am really only leaning on mine because, with this long dress and high heels, I can’t really

hop onto it as I normally would, and it probably wouldn’t look very sophisticated if I tried. “What would you like?” I ignore his question. “Sam, why are we here again? This isn’t really the best place to hide, you know.” He smiles. “Sometimes attracting attention is the best disguise.” “I’m guessing we’re not here to gamble, right?” “No, not tonight. There is a person here I need to meet with.” “Why? What for?” I’m starting to get upset about not knowing what’s happening. “Jane, calm down,” he says, then he continues more quietly, “We need new identities. I can’t count on Sentinel now. And there is only one person I trust who can organize new papers for us without leaving a trace.” I try calming my breathing. “Why would he help you?” “Because of this.” And he flips a dark blue poker chip in the air and catches it with his other

hand. “A chip?” “Yes.” “It must be worth a lot.” “Actually, not really—a few thousand dollars. But for him, this is not about money. It’s a memento.” “I don’t get it.” “Not to bore you with the details, but a few years back I won a poker game against this guy, and I won the chip. It… it means something special to him.” “Okay . . .” I look at the chip and back at him. “And, if you give him back the chip, you think he will give you what you ask of him?” “No.” He smiles a broad smile. “I know he will.” The waiter comes over to us. “Madam, sir, what can I serve you?” “I’ll take a martini. Jane?” “Make that two.” “Very well, madam, sir. Would that be all?” “For the moment,” Sam says.

“Thank you.” The waiter leaves and Sam turns to me. “Can you stay here for a moment, Jane?” “Where are you going? Can’t I go with you?” “I think you’d better not,” he says and stands up. “Don’t talk to any strangers.” He winks at me. “I’ll be right back.” The memory of the gas station comes to my mind. My throat feels tight and my palms start to sweat immediately, so I grab him at the elbow and stop him. He turns around, then tilts his head sideways and places his hands on my shoulders. “Jane, I’m not going far. Look here!” And he points to the glass wall behind him, separating the nonsmoking casino area from the smoking room. “I’ll be right there. You’ll be able to see me, and I will sit so that I can see you at all times. All right?” I nod and swallow. I lean back on the barstool and force myself to breathe calmly. Sam smiles and walks to the smoking area.

He enters and closes the glass door behind him, then looks around as if searching for a place to sit, although he told me exactly where he would be sitting. He walks over to a corner with a small table and a few large armchairs around it. There is a woman sitting on the handrest of one armchair, and in it, comfortably snuggled into the seat, sits a man with a long blond plait with his back toward me. I might have thought it was a woman, but he’s wearing a tuxedo, and when he turns to the side, I can see he’s got a beard. One of his hands is resting on the woman’s thigh and the other, leaning over the other handrest, loosely holds a large cigar. Sam walks to the empty armchair but doesn’t sit down right away. He says something to the man with blond hair. The man’s body shakes and I assume he is laughing. Then he points with his cigar hand to the free armchair. Sam sits. I realize I am all pins and needles as I watch them, trying to figure out from Sam’s lips what he is talking about. I can’t tell a thing, of course, so I

close my eyes for a moment. The waiter returns, bringing two martinis. “Madam, your martinis. Enjoy.” Good, just what I need. I take the glass between my fingers and sip. The alcohol burns as it slides down my throat. I shiver. Ugh, this tastes awful! I set the glass back on the bar and push it away, then look back through the glass wall. Sam is holding his chip between his middle and ring finger, his palm facing down. He has a wicked grin on his face and I can tell he is the one holding the cards. Then he flips his fingers and the chip flies up in the air, making a loop, and lands in the open palm of the blonde man. He, in turn, leans against the backrest and scratches his beard with the chip. In response to a question from the man, Sam shakes his head and smiles. The man puts the chip in his pocket and then takes out a cell phone. For a few moments, he talks. I wish Sam would look at me so I can see how everything is going, but

he doesn’t. He keeps looking at the man. I realize I’m losing my nerves. I look back at the bar and pick up the glass again. Oh, no, this tastes really strong. I set the glass back down. I can’t imagine I actually liked martinis before. “Madam, would you like something else?” I was hoping my reaction to the drink wasn’t so obvious. “Ah, could you please get me a glass of orange juice?” “Of course, madam. I’ll be right back.” The bartender smiles kindly and turns away. I look back at Sam. He’s standing now as he says something to the man, who nods and puts his hand to his forehead like a soldier’s salute but remains sitting. Sam walks away, pulls open the glass door and exits. He sits down next to me without saying anything. I look back at the blonde man. He’s pushing himself up with his arms on the armrests and turning around to look at us. Now that I can see his

face, I realize he’s carrying a few extra pounds. “Sam, he’s looking at us,” I whisper, trying not to move my mouth. “I know. Don’t worry.” He takes his martini glass and brings it between us. “To new beginnings.” I raise the glass of orange juice the waiter just placed in front of me and clink Sam’s martini glass. Sam raises his eyebrows. “No martini?” “No, I just . . . didn’t feel like it.” He brings his glass to his lips and empties it in one go. “Good choice. It’s healthier, anyway.” “What did he say?” I ask. “We’re good.” “What does that mean?” “We’ll get what we need.” “When?” “Soon.” I’m getting more and more anxious. Bright lights, lots of people—I don’t like it. “Don’t worry,” Sam reassures me. “Okay. Okay,” I say, but I keep fiddling

with my fingers. Sam smiles, then he looks behind me. “What?” I say and turn around too. A man passes by me and stands next to Sam. “Your documents,” he says in a French accent and hands Sam a thick envelope. “Thank you.” Sam nods and puts the envelope in the inside pocket of his tuxedo. “I wish you a safe journey,” the man says and leaves. Sam looks at me and grins. “Shall we go?” He stands, lifting his arm. I can’t resist his boyish smile so I wrap my hand around his elbow. He moves his arm back to his body, gently squeezing my hand in between. “Where are we going now?” “Ah, you’ll see. There is something special I wanna show you.” He looks at me sideways and winks.

Chapter 50

An hour after sunrise and the day is already bright and blinding. Paris Gare du Nord is full, the loudspeaker echoing in the large hall leading to the tracks. I don’t understand any of it, but it’s French and I like the way it sounds. I walk along the track next to the stationary train. It looks futuristic, a long silvery bullet shape with black windows and a yellow band at the base of the coaches. I look to the front. Some hundred feet away I see Sam. He’s wearing a brown leather jacket, cargo trousers, and hiking shoes. It looks as if he’s doing a train tour through Europe. The only luggage he has is a bulky backpack. I look again at my new passport and train ticket. Besides this, my thick clothes, a few hundred euros, and the tanzanite necklace I carry in my travel pouch are the only things I have on me. Sam’s carrying everything else.

We’re not traveling with each other. Sam said it’s safer: not traveling as a couple, we’re not attracting the same level of attention. I check the carriage number I need to take and then look to the side to see which one I am just passing. Number fifteen. I look to the front and don’t see Sam anymore. My heart skips a beat, but I realize he must have already gotten on the train. I speed up, then enter the first door of the coach number thirteen. The train has a futuristic design on the inside as well, with light gray seats and orange headrests. Most chairs face in the same direction, but some face two and two together with a table in between. I look again at the train ticket to check my seat number and then walk to the end of the carriage. As I walk, I brush against someone’s arm. I look sideways and see beautiful dark blue eyes and a mischievous grin. “Pardonne-moi,” Sam says and shifts in his

seat, moving away from the aisle armrest. My heartbeat picks up immediately and I can tell I’m blushing. “It’s . . . all right.” I smile. He never seems to stop affecting me in this way. Someone is just behind me, so I continue walking. As I move forward I keep checking the small screens above the seats displaying the seat numbers and reservation information. ‘Paris to London’ is written on the dark LCD display above seat number thirty-three. It is facing the same direction as Sam’s seat, and I’m a bit disappointed that I can’t look at him during our train ride. I take off my thick jacket and fold it on the top luggage shelf, peeking inconspicuously at Sam. He is looking at me, his head bent a little bit forward, his eyes thin slits as he eyes me from head to toe. There are no innocent thoughts in his mind right now; that’s obvious from his expression. The sweet anticipation of desire squeezing at my core makes it almost impossible to simply sit down and ignore him. I look down, swallow, and try

to focus. When I sit, I don’t lean on the backrest. Instead, I sit straight, pressing my groin against the hard fabric of the seat, releasing some of the tension I feel trapped there. I shake my head and relax against the backrest. At times, I hate how he affects me: a turmoil of hormones dictating my actions instead of my brain. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and hold it. Calm down, focus on something else. My seat tremors just slightly and I realize the train is moving, though I hadn’t noticed it starting. I exhale and open my eyes just to see Sam sitting down opposite me, wearing the most mischievous grin. My calm disappears as quickly as it came and I’m back to my brainless self, my blood burning through my veins. I swallow and then cough to clear my voice. “I thought we weren’t supposed to travel together,” I say quietly. He purses his lips together and shrugs. “It’s

stronger than me. Can’t help it.” I smile. At least I’m not the only brainless one here. I lean on the small table in front of me to come closer. “So ,why London? Is this going to be my new hideaway?” He leans forward onto his elbows. “Not exactly. It’s a… stop-over before the last hiding place.” “Okay. And there is something you want to show me there, right?” “Yes.” He smiles and lifts his head smugly. I frown slightly. “Is this something really so important right now? Shouldn’t you be saving the world?” His face relaxes in a sad way and he looks down at his crossed arms on the table. “I think now is probably the best time.” He looks back at me. “Because you don’t know if we’ll get another chance?” I ask in a low voice, hoping that’s not what he meant. He doesn’t say anything, and I feel as if a cold, heavy wind has just swept over me.

I look at him and then slide forward and touch his forearms with my palms. He feels warm. He smiles again, then comes a tiny bit closer to my face, his gaze falling to my lips. Whenever he does that—without exception—my heartbeat speeds up, my breathing accelerates, and a needy, almost desperate ache appears right behind my breastbone. I move toward him and we kiss gently. I love the feel of his lips on mine. I wish we could stay like this forever. Together. Not letting go. We do stay like this for a long time until a trolley with snacks and coffee passes us by, a steward bonjour-ing everybody as he walks backward. Our lips part and Sam leans back on the headrest. He lowers his head just slightly; his eyes on me, his gaze intense and alluring. The side of his lips curls into a smile. I think I have a pretty good idea of where his thoughts are taking him. Then he licks his lips and says, “I think I’ll need to use the restroom.” I let go off his arms and lean backward to

give him space. He stands up and then stops next to my seat, offering his hand. “Would you like to join me?” he whispers. As soon as I understand his train of thought, my aching need pools down from my solar plexus into my lower belly, the dull ache turning into a delicious and sweet craving for what’s to come. I smile and take his hand.

Chapter 51

Sam’s London place is a small red-brick house with white window frames and a tiny garden in the front, surrounded by a low brick wall. It’s one in a row of dozens of identical houses that line both sides of Oakbank Grove. It’s the perfect safe house: it’s inconspicuous from the outside, but it has top security within: hidden surveillance cameras, silent alarms, bullet-proof doors and windows. We’ve spent thirteen hours in bed— sleeping. Most of the time. It’s past noon now, and after a classic English breakfast, Sam takes my hand and leads me to sit next to a small working desk. It is covered with brushes, tubes, and an assortment of bottles and boxes. In the background, I can hear music playing quietly. Ed Sheeran.

I smile. “Like my playlist?” Sam asks. “Perfect.” I wink at him. “So, what are we doing?” I look down at a makeup palette on the desk. “You’ll see!” he says with a mischievous grin. “There’s a place I wanna take you. But before we go, we need to do this. Now, please, close your eyes.” I frown but do as he asks. With my eyes closed, I realize I’m paying extra attention to all my other senses to figure out what he’s doing. I can hear him opening some of the tubes, then setting the tops and the tubes back on the desk; I hear small plastic rods make a clinking sound as he takes them out of a crackly plastic bag and drops them on the table. He then moves toward me and I feel his breath on my face. I can’t help but smile. He puts cream on my face with his fingers and spreads it nicely all over my forehead, cheeks, nose, and chin. Then he takes more cream and spreads it over my neck. My skin is sensitive there,

and I involuntarily shiver with pleasure. I swallow hard and clench my jaw to stay focused. He chuckles at my reaction. Once he is done with covering my skin, he removes the extra cream by pressing a napkin on my face. Next, he uses a wooden spatula to cover my skin with an unpleasantly smelling ointment. I frown. “Hey, I need a smooth face for this step.” I sigh and try to relax my face, forcing myself to think of something else. Then I remember something I’ve been meaning to ask him. “Sam, your Superbike—and also the Land Rover—they both started without a key? How did you do that?” I ask awkwardly, trying not to move my mouth. “Ah that. Well, I have an NFC chip— a Near Field Communication chip—inserted in my hand.”

I open my eyes. “Really? Where?” He chuckles, then with a tip of the brush he points to the area on his right hand between thumb and index finger. “Ouch!” I cringe. “Didn’t hurt all that much. And it’s extremely useful: it’s coded to open and start all of my vehicles. And my safe houses as well.” I nod as he continues working on me, then ask, “Is that how Eduardo opened the computer room in his home?” “That’s exactly right.” “Interesting… Still. I prefer carrying keys around. Even if I can never find them in my bag.” He laughs. After several moments, he says, “So, tell me, back in the French house, when I was talking to Sentinel, it looked like you were trying to grab my attention.” “Oh, I thought you didn’t see that.” “Few things happen around me that I’m not aware of.” “Show-off!”

“It’s true. So?” he asks again. “Well, to cut it short, I think I might have found a way to stop Crazy Gro.” He stops putting on the cream. I open my eyes to look at him. His arms are hanging down and he’s giving me a wide-eyed look. “You’re joking, right?” I shake my head. “No. I think I know what will work. I’d need to try it out, but . . .” He sighs and smiles, then continues with his work. “You’re a work of art, you know that?” “Why?” He stops again. “You’ve had the answer to the important question your team was set up to investigate for the last day and a half, and you don’t tell me?” Umm… he has a point there. “All right. True. But I was being distracted.” “Distracted . . .” He mimics my voice, then puts the spatula down on the table next to him, leaning back and looking at my cheeks and neck. He nods once, then turns to look at the selection of different makeup items on the table, and reaches

for a plastic box of wax all the way in the back. “Close your eyes,” he reminds me. I do as he asks. “So?” he stretches out the word. “You’re keeping me in suspense here!” “Oh, right! So, Frank tried to block the growth of Crazy Gro using antibiotics, but that didn’t work. They just kept growing as if nothing happened.” Then I stop. “Well, not quite like that. Their growth slowed down briefly just when the antibiotic was added to the experiment.” “Okay, what does that mean?” “That means that they somehow do sense it —the antibiotic—but it doesn’t do what it normally does to bacterial cells. It means that these bacteria have a way of protecting themselves. So I suggested that Frank stain for endospores—” “Ah, I remember, you spoke about them at the Boston conference—the Constantinople siege story, right?” “That’s right. Basically, whenever you have tough conditions, some bacterial strains—and Bacillus is one of them—can protect themselves

and enclose their DNA in an endospore.” I lift my finger. “This is what normal cells do. When enclosed in endospores, they wait for better conditions. And it can take years, even thousands of years, before they revive. “But, you might remember, when we checked the genomic sequence of Crazy Gro, they contained a part of Bacillus. And I didn’t know what to make of it, until I realized that Crazy Gro can make endospores. And what’s really amazing— well, crazy and amazing—is that these cells can continue multiplying even though they have endospore walls around them.” I stop and take a deep breath. “Well, assuming I’m right in my assessment. But if that’s the case, it’s a huge finding! I mean, I hate that this is such a dangerous strain, but the findings are astounding! Oh, it would make such a cool research paper!” Though I keep my eyes closed, I can tell he’s smiling. “I can imagine why this is so thrilling for you,” he says, putting on extra layers of wax. “But you said you know how to stop the growth of Crazy Gro, didn’t you?”

“Well, if I am correct, there are two ways out.” “I’m all ears.” “Well, in my talk in Boston, you might remember, I described a reagent that destabilizes endospore walls. So if this reagent is present, Crazy Gro can’t protect themselves anymore as they normally would, and are therefore vulnerable to antibiotics. And this reagent—I mean, I’d still need to test it—but hypothetically, this reagent can be used in vivo.” “In what?” “It could be used for humans. So, if someone gets infected, the destabilizer reagent combined with an antibiotic would act as an antidote.” He stops and looks at me. “Really? Wow! That’s brilliant! Are you sure?” I shrug. “Pretty sure.” “You clever girl!” And he kisses the top of my head and continues with his work. “I know, right?” I smile through the thick layer on my skin. “Not the clever girl part . . . I

meant, you know, the findings . . .” He laughs, then says, “At any rate, I need to get that information to Sentinel.” “But you disobeyed them. Won’t they be— angry at you?” “Angry?” He laughs, but it sounds empty, depleted of any joy. “Oh, yes, they will be angry. But I just need to do it. They need to know, it will save lives. There is no way around it. I just hope they don’t do away with me…” I open my eyes and push his hand away. “What do you mean, ‘do away with you’?” “Going rogue is not something they are fond of. But if I can get them to understand how important you are for resolving of this all project, and when they realize that they can’t eliminate you because you still need to complete your research— which will help millions— then, they will change their mind, I’m sure of it. And, hopefully, they will understand why I disobeyed them and, ahm… will, you know, keep me alive. “Now, please, could you close your eyes again?”

I close my eyes, but my heart is a wreck. “Sam, this . . . I mean, getting in touch with Sentinel, it just seems too dangerous.” He is gently molding the soft wax on my face. “Hey, don’t worry. It will . . . it will be all right, you’ll see.” I know he’s trying to make me feel better, but I don’t think he’s all that confident himself. In my heart, I want us to run away, to disappear together, to never let Sentinel hear of us again. But I know he’d never do that. And, rationally, I know that I wouldn’t want him to either. I know what he must do. But I am afraid. I am so afraid for him. “So, let’s repeat that again,” he says with new energy in his voice. He just finished with the wax, and now I can hear him picking up something else from the makeup table. “Your endospore destabilizer reagent—and by the way, I’ll need all of this in writing, I won’t remember half of what you said—can be used on people who are already infected, right? Like, if a cobra bites you, you can use an antidote. Correct?”

“That’s right,” I say and smile. Even after everything that’s happened, he still manages to distract me from my somber thoughts. “It just needs to be a combo: the reagent and the antibiotic together.” “Got it! However, that means it needs to be available almost instantly upon exposure to the pathogen. That might work for soldiers—for example, arriving at a combat zone—but it won’t work for the general population when the bomb disperses the bacteria.” “Well, there is one more thing that might work . . .” He stops working again. “Which thing?” “Remember our conversation in the elevator?” “Oh, yes, I do. You and me, trapped in a tight place.” He chuckles. “I enjoyed that. Made sure it lasted a bit longer than our usual ride to the third floor.” I open my eyes again. “What do you mean?” “I jammed the elevator with an electronic

remote. It was a bit tricky with that old construction, but it worked.” “Are you serious?” He nods and continues putting on another layer of makeup. “Sure. I thought three floors was way too short, and I wanted some quality time with you.” I smile and close my eyes. And I thought I was just lucky to get trapped with Sam there. Oh, if I’d only known. “So, yes, the elevator conversation. You were talking about your current work at the time, right? Before the Crazy Gro project?” “Yes, that’s what I wanted to mention! In those experiments, I used the same blocker for my cells that I could use on Crazy Gro, because they are both Streptococcus and they both have the same sensor. Therefore, they should react to the same blocker.” “You lost me! What do the blocker and sensor do again?” “So, if the bacterial cells find themselves surrounded by lots of food, the sensor protein tells

them, ‘Hey, there’s food around; go ahead and multiply.’ But if the sensor is blocked, by one of my blocker proteins, even if there’s food around, the sensor would then say, ‘Don’t multiply, there’s no food around—but don’t die either.’ So the cells would wait. “Now, here’s the cool thing. In one of the Crazy Gro experiments I did, I saw that as soon as Crazy Gro deplete their food, all the cells die. Programmed cell death, that’s what it’s called. So, let’s imagine a Crazy Gro cell enters a human body. Now, let’s say the body has been treated by a blocker reagent beforehand. In that case, the blocker will sit on the sensor of the Crazy Gro cell and tell it, ‘No food around, sorry.’ Now, normally, cells would then wait. But not Crazy Gro! This cell walks right into programmed cell death!” “Wow!” He stops working. “So it would act like a vaccine in a way, treating people ahead of time so that when they meet the pathogenic bacteria, they are protected. Very clever! And this mechanism makes perfect sense, actually. Because it’s designed as a biological weapon, you’d need the

bacteria to first kill its victims in a specific blast radius—but then, when other troops come into the contaminated area, they would not get infected, because by then, the pathogen would have died out. It’s really cleverly designed . . .” He shakes his head, thinking. “But are you sure your blocker reagent can be used on humans?” I shrug my shoulders. “It should, considering the composition of the protein, but it needs to be tested.” “Hmm,” he says, pondering. “I . . . I need to think of something. Either way, Sentinel needs to know about this. That’s the best lead they have, and I need to find a way for you to run those tests . . . Now, I still need to finish this piece of art, otherwise we’ll be late. Close your eyes again, please.” “Okay.” I relax my face and resign myself to patience. He works on my face with some kind of tool I can’t identify. “So, are you finished soon?” “Yes, very soon. Just hold on a bit longer.” He walks over to the small kitchen and

changes the playlist. Then he comes back and continues with what seems to be the last stage. He uses soft brushes, but I can hardly feel anything through all the layers I have on my face. My eyes are still closed, and I’m getting used to resisting the temptation to open them. “All right, almost done,” he says and goes to another room. I sigh. The truth is, I wouldn’t mind if he continued doing this for another two hours. I enjoy him touching me, even if it’s in the most unsexy way. I simply enjoy whenever he’s around me. Sam comes back but stands behind me. Then he takes my hair and pulls it gently together into a flat bun. It doesn’t work well, so he needs to let it go. My hair falls down and he tries again. And fails again. I have to laugh. “Do you need any assistance?” I ask. “Assistance? No way, I’m a professional,” he says, but the bun he’s attempting to do is once more too loose. “That might be true, but my hair is another

story altogether,” I say. Once he has failed for the fourth time, he says, “All right. I need help. Can you please place it here”—he touches a spot on my head—“and make it flat?” I curl my hair into a flat bun and he presses some kind of tight cap over my head. It’s a bit uncomfortable as the rubbery inside of the cap pulls on my hair. I make a face. “Sorry, sorry,” he says. “Almost done.” The cap covers all of my hair. “All right, I’m finished. You can open your eyes.” I open them slowly. They feel quite heavy from being closed for so long and also from the soft putty he has put around them. I see him smiling. He looks proud of whatever he did to my face. And the way he looks at me makes me curious too. “Come, let’s check the mirror,” he says and takes my hand. As I stand up to take his hand, Sam frowns.

“Oh, I forgot the hands. Never mind, you can wear gloves. It’s cold anyway. Come.” We enter the bathroom, but I keep my eyes focused on him, a tiny bit afraid of what I’m going to see in the mirror. He looks at me, then looks at my reflection. I’m still fixed on him. “Don’t you wanna see it?” “Yes . . . I think . . .” I squeak. He sighs and drops his shoulders. “Would you just look in the mirror?” I turn around slowly to face the large bathroom mirror. Oh, my . . . My eyes are wide open, but the eyes of the old lady I see in the mirror are tiny slits under wrinkled eyelids. Her face is tanned and her skin carries the mark of long years of unprotected sunbathing, deep wrinkles engraved on her cheeks and neck. Wow—real special-effects movie prosthetic makeup! I am lost for words.

I look at Sam’s reflection. His head is up, his teeth pearling in a broad smile. “Speechless, I see,” he says, his voice sounding a bit different than usual. “I often have that effect on woman.” He winks at me. Why does that sound so famil— I turn around. “It was you!” He raises his eyebrows, looking all innocent. “Me? What?” “At the Boston conference! You were Dr. Grant, weren’t you?” He smiles broadly. “All me. Well, me and a little bit more.” “Wow—I would never have guessed!” “Well,” he says, patting his flat stomach, “I did have a few extra pounds to cover me up. And to be quite honest, I’d be disappointed in my skills if you’d figured me out.” I smile, then look back at my reflection and admire my new-old self. “This is awesome. Where did you learn that?” “Ah, the crafts of the profession,” he says, but his enthusiasm sinks.

I can imagine why he would need to disguise himself. “Well,” I say, trying to lift the mood, “I guess you wanted me to be closer to your age, Mr. Grayhair.” I smile again, but my reflection doesn’t show it as such at all. My skin underneath stretches and burns a bit from pulling against the prosthetic silicone wax. I relax my face again. “So very funny, Miss McGregor!” His smile is back. “In fact, you will turn out to be a lot, lot older than me,” he says as he pulls a short black wig over his grizzled hair. Giving himself a sideways look in the mirror, he continues, “Hmm, we might even be related. Perhaps you’ll be my granny.” I punch him lightly on the arm. “This has been a lot of fun, but Halloween passed some time ago.” “Well, we need to go to a specific public place and be unrecognizable.” “Okay . . . to do what?” “You’ll see!” And he smiles a mischievous

grin. “Give me a few moments for my youth treatment, will you?” He winks at me again through the reflection in the mirror and leaves the bathroom.

Chapter 52

We exit the subway at Piccadilly Circus. It’s dark and all the neon signs are lit, flashing brightly above the dense jam of people underneath. We are crossing the shopping battlefield, people carrying large plastic bags in both hands, crossing each other’s paths, an after-Christmas sale going wild. And in the midst of all of these people, I feel safe. Sam is holding me under my arm, and I’m leaning more than I need to on his forearm. We walk along a broad street, old architecture on both sides illuminated by streetlights giving off a yellowish glow. On the other side of the street I see a large building with tall pillars that very much looks like a theater. Excited about that thought, I wonder if we’re going to cross the road, but instead we stop next to a small, old, wood-carved entrance on our side of the street where dozens of people are

queuing to enter. The doors only let two people in at a time, and we need to wait a bit. I wonder what this is. I look to the side of the entrance but don’t see anything that would give it away. Then I look up and realize I’m standing just underneath the marquee above the entrance. From this angle, I can’t decipher what it says. “Did you see it?” he asks. “No, no. I just missed it.” “Good!” He sighs with relief. “Very good!” I’m excited. Sam and I are doing something together! It feels just like a normal evening out, and I’m happy. This is what our time should always look like: going out, holding hands, kissing . . . well, perhaps not with this mask on. I smile. Once we are inside the theater, we give our coats to the wardrobe personnel and Sam keeps telling me where I shouldn’t look. I play along, avoiding the posters on the walls and theater programs. I want to be surprised. We make our way to our seats, and I look

around. There is no free space available and there is an excited murmur all around. Our seats are in the parterre, but I see people crowding two stories of galleries, which form a half circle at the back of the theatre hall. The stage is hidden by a heavy red curtain, golden tassels spread on the stage floor. Both sides of the stage are decorated by grandiose golden angels and gargoyles. People are talking, and I’m trying to get a hint of what show we are going to see, but among such a hum I can’t distinguish specific conversations. I’m bubbling with anticipation, keeping my back straight, peeking over to the podium. I almost forget the thick makeup I’m wearing. I look at Sam. His gaze has been on me all the time. He’s wearing a broad smile, enthusiasm brimming all over his face. “You seem young tonight, Granny.” He winks at me and takes my hand. I try to smile back but it feels so awkward under all the layers. I hunch a little bit, adapting to my role.

Suddenly, the lights dim, voices quiet, and the heavy red curtain swings to the side of the stage. Several characters occupy the scarcely lit stage. Light is shining on only one side, making heavy shadows on the faces and clothing of the actors. One man starts talking. I’ve heard this before . . . After few minutes, he ends his monolog. “Perhaps we could scare away the ghosts from so many years ago with a little . . . illumination.” The stage chandelier bursts into light and the orchestra starts, the organ loud and breathtaking. I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it—he brought me to see The Phantom of the Opera! “Oh, Sam!” I whisper and hug him from the side, squeezing him against me. “Thank you!” Sam’s face melts into a smile and he kisses my forehead. “I thought you’d like it.” *** We exit the theater and the cold wind blows

snowflakes against our faces. I am in this wonderful emotional bubble created by a beautiful musical performance and—a date, a real proper date—with Sam. I look up at him. “Sam, that was amazing! Thank you.” Sam hugs me and I circle my arm around his waist. “You’re welcome, Jane. The pleasure was all mine.” We walk down Haymarket Road. We don’t need to fight our way through the crowd anymore, but the city is still very much alive, even though it’s close to midnight. One day, I would like to live in Europe. An image appears in my mind: Sam and I walking along a cobblestone road, finding our way among the narrow streets of an old historic town, passing small coffee shops and jewelry stores. I look up at Sam. A possibility or a complete improbability? The answer is very clear, but I shut it away. I don’t want to know.

Sam stops and looks up, sticking his tongue out for a fresh snowflake. I smile, close my eyes, and do the same. They are cold as they fall on my tongue, but only for a fraction of a second. Then they melt and leave tiny pools of lukewarm water in their place. “Sam?” I look up at his face. “What’s going to happen next?” Sam sighs, then continues walking slowly, keeping me by his side in a hug. “There is a person I trust who will help you get settled.” My gaze falls to the ground. A person. Someone. But not Sam. “The flight is tomorrow at ten,” he continues. He’s trying to sound upbeat, but I can hear the solemnity in his voice. “Where am I going?” “Athens.” “Athens?” “Yes.” “Athens, Greece?” “Yes.” I stop walking to look at him. “What am I

going to do in Athens? I don’t even speak Greek!” “Don’t worry about that now. Konsta will help you get on your feet. The way I see it, this information you’ve uncovered, the results—they need to be public knowledge, and you need a place to do your research. Konsta will organize a place for you at the University of Athens.” “Organize a place . . . ?” “Yes. You’ll be running a microbiology laboratory—” “What?” I say louder than I should. Sam looks around and then back at me. I continue in a hushed voice. “I don’t know how to run a lab!” He tilts his head and smiles, but stays silent for a bit. “I don’t doubt for one second that you’ll be perfect. You’ll be set up with two technicians at the start, and there’ll be two open positions for graduate students as well.” I am flabbergasted. I shake my head and say, “Sam, this is a bit above my qualifications. I can’t run a lab . . .” “You actually can,” he says. “And you will.

Jane, I know this has been your dream all along. And, in any case, your findings on Crazy Gro need to be published. There’s no way around it. They need to become public knowledge. So don’t think your stay in Athens will be just about sightseeing the Parthenon and tasting ouzo, is that clear?” He’s trying to joke about the situation, but I feel like my rib cage just got smaller, making my breathing more difficult. “I don’t know . . . I don’t know, Sam.” My gaze is on the floor, following irregular patterns on the pavement. “I don’t think I can do this . . . alone.” Sam leans his head toward me and touches my forehead with his. I can’t feel his skin as I would want to through the layers of makeup on my face, but I enjoy it all the same. “Jane, there’s no doubt in my mind that you can handle all of that. You are a very strong, independent”—then he chuckles, looking at my face—“young woman. Wrinkles and all.” He winks at me. I smile and we continue walking. “Sam,” I ask eventually, still looking at the

ground. “Will I be able to contact you, when I’m there?” He doesn’t say anything for a long while. “It wouldn’t be very smart.” I nod slowly. I knew he was going to say that, but I just needed to ask. We turn left to the subway entrance. “Sam, could you please do something for me?” “Of course, Jane, anything.” “Well, two things.” Sam raises his eyebrows. “All right. What?” “First, could you please contact my sister, make sure she knows I’m all right and that she shouldn’t worry?” Sam nods. “Yes, I can do that, Jane.” We pass through the subway gate and turn right for our platform. “What is the second thing?” he asks. I stop and look at him. “Stay alive. And come back to me.” It’s a small corridor and we are blocking the way for other people. “That’s three things,” he says and smiles.

Then he takes my hand and we push forward. We find our place among the many people waiting for the train. “I will try my best, Jane,” he says in a solemn voice. He’s avoiding my gaze, looking over my shoulder at large posters on the tiled wall on the other side of the train tracks. I look down at the floor. He’s not sure if he can keep his promise. I swallow and clench my jaws tight. The train comes and we get in. I keep glancing at him. I want to know what he is going to do, but I don’t want to ask him here, in a train full of people. So I stay quiet. And wait. At Holborn station, we get off. Only a few other people get off at the same time, and they all hurry ahead of us, so we hug and walk slowly up the stairs together. The winter air welcomes us as we step into the street. “What is it?” Sam asks. I look up at him. “What do you mean?” “I can tell you’re burning to say something,” he says and then looks down at me.

“How could you tell?” “I’m very perceptive.” He winks at me. “So?” “What are you going to do, Sam? What’s going to happen?” I look at him again. “First of all, I need to convince Sentinel that you are too valuable to eliminate. I need to convince them that you should be allowed to do your research and publish your findings on the antidote. And, that during that time, you will tell no one what happened. Second, the entire supply of Crazy Gro bacteria the bad guys stole needs to be destroyed. And the third thing: we need to make sure that this group never does anything like this again, which means Sentinel needs to find them, and eliminate them.” “Will you—” I swallow. “Will you be on that team, Sam?” “Yes.” He says it without hesitation. “This group is a lot bigger and better organized than we originally thought. We know that they have people both in the US and Europe, potentially in other places as well. It will take a series of strikes, in

several locations, to eradicate them all. I will need to be there.” I stop walking. “But what if you get hurt, Sam? What if they kill you?” And I circle my arms around his waist and bury my head in his chest. “I’m so afraid, Sam.” He hugs me around my shoulders and chuckles. I look up at him. “Why is this funny for you?” He looks at my eyes for several seconds before he says, “It’s very sweet that you… worry about me… so much. But I am trained to do this, Jane. And I’m really, really good at it.” But you’re not bullet-proof, Sam… I lower my gaze. He leans in and lifts my chin up with his finger. “Hey, look at me.” I look up, diving once again into the depths of the two dark blue oceans. “It will be okay.” Then he smiles, and kisses me. But I can’t feel his lips. Then I realize he

has just kissed an old woman’s lips. “You don’t mind the wrinkles, do you?” I blink at him few times. “No.” He looks at me gently, his voice warm and deep. “But right now, I wanna make love to a stunning young woman. So, let’s get home and take this mask off, shall we?”

Chapter 53

It’s a bright though cold winter day. The sun is shining through the glass panels which make up the entire side wall of the airport hall. A lot of people around me shield their eyes with their hands. I don’t. I squint, but I want to feel the sun on my face. Sam is holding my hand as we walk, and every now and then he looks at me and smiles. It doesn’t feel like a goodbye at all. It feels like we are going somewhere together. “What are you thinking about?” he asks. I stay silent for a moment. I don’t want to mention my thoughts of goodbyes. Saying it out loud might make it more real. So instead, I ask, “Why did you give me the Phantom of the Opera CD?” “It was Christmas. I thought it would be nice to give you a present.”

“That’s not what I meant.” I frown. “Why did you give me that CD and not something else?” Sam looks forward again and waits a few moments before responding. “I guess . . . I guess I wanted to tell you more about me . . . without telling you directly.” He looks at me and shrugs. “Do you think you’re a monster?” “I don’t think.” He looks away. “I know.” “Oh, rubbish!” I say quickly and shake my head. He looks at me in surprise. “If you were,” I explain, “I’d be dead!” He smiles, but it’s a sad smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Bad people can still fall in love.” My heart skips a beat hearing him say that. Then I stop and turn to face at him. “Sam, you are not a bad person. Because of you, many people are alive today who might otherwise not be. You can’t be a bad person!” My eyebrows are raised as I wait for his response. He gently puts his arm around my shoulder and continues walking, nudging me forward. But he doesn’t answer.

We follow the signs for my departure gate and within a minute we reach the security control. Sam places his jacket and his belt on the conveyer belt. Then he takes out his wallet and passport, and puts it in the tray to pass through the X-ray machine. All this time, I keep looking at him, expecting an answer, while I place my belongings on the conveyer belt as well. We pass through the metal detector. He seems calm as he puts his belt and shoes back on, hooking his jacket on a finger, hanging it over his right shoulder. Not even a hundred feet from the security control is my gate. Sam stops next to a row of free chairs and drops his jacket on the backrest of the nearest one. Then he turns to me, puts his hands on my shoulders, leans his head to one side, and says quietly, “I am, Jane. I killed many people—” “But they deserved it!” He looks down for a moment, then back at me. “I like to think that. That’s why I did it. But in an ideal world, no one should take another person’s

life.” “Sam,” I whisper, “you’re about to destroy one of the potentially most dangerous strains of bacteria in the world: a biological weapon that could kill thousands, millions of people! That counts for something.” Sam smiles at me gently. Then he picks a strand of my hair and tucks it behind my ear. “I don’t do it for thousands or millions of people, Jane. I do it for you. Because, somewhere, at some point, you might be among those thousands. Among those millions. And I will never let that happen.” And I am speechless. What do you say to a person who doesn’t care if the whole world falls apart as long as I’m safe? So I don’t say anything. Instead I close my eyes, stand on my tiptoes, and kiss him. After a long while, we part, but I keep my palms flat on his chest, my gaze unfocused somewhere on the pattern of his shirt. “What if it’s too big for you?” I finally asked the question that had been

boiling in my mind. I look up to see him smiling. “I’m pretty resourceful.” Leaning my cheek against his chest, I slide my hands behind his back in a tight hug. “I thought you’d say that,” I whisper. He laughs and hugs me as well. “I love you, Jane,” he whispers. “I think I fell in love with you the first time I saw you talking on the podium—energetic, clever, passionate, and drop-dead gorgeous—though it took me a while to realize it. Soon after the conference, Dr. Rosenberg asked David for help on the project, and David picked you. “You were part of the project before you even knew about it. And I, of course, was very eager to communicate this to Sentinel. Subsequently, they assigned me to track you. So”— he shrugs—“I bugged your phone, hacked your laptop, set up the video surveillance . . . I even made sure your door didn’t squeak so I could get in and out without making a noise—” I look up at him. “You fixed my door?”

He winces. “Creepy, I know.” I smile. Not really. Not when it’s you. “But moving in next to you had nothing to do with the project. I told myself that it did, at first. I told myself I would be able to monitor you better if I was closer. But in reality, I was just fooling myself. I’ve always observed people from afar before. I tried to convince myself that this was just a job and my only interest in you was because of the Crazy Gro project, nothing more. And I believed it . . . right up until the moment you got in danger the very first time.” I look at him. “What do you mean?” “After your celebration at the bar, remember?” Yes. Yes, I remember. “It was you who stopped those two men?” He nods. “Yes. Gave them enough cuts and bruises that they’ll never think of doing that again.” I hug him tightly again, not wanting to let go. “I figured then that it was more than just a job. But I couldn’t see a future for us. Not . . . not

with me being what I am. And I tried to push you away. I really did, but . . .” He takes a deep, serene breath. “You didn’t let me.” He kisses my hair and then rests his cheek gently on the top of my head. “You saved me, Jane. You saved me in the best way a person can be saved. Thank you.” My throat feels tight and I need to swallow. “You make it sound like a definite goodbye,” I finally whisper. He sighs with a smile. “People tend to say things like that in airports.” I hug him again, leaning my face against his shirt, and he hugs me closer. We stay like this until the official at the gate announces that the boarding will begin shortly. I see people gather and pass through the gate with one open eye; the other one is pressed against Sam’s shirt. I don’t want to go. I tighten my grip. “I love you, Sam.” He hugs me tighter too. “I love you more.”

We stay like this for a long while. There are no people passing through the boarding gate anymore. I am the last one. But I don’t want to. I can’t go. Sam finally releases his embrace. “Time to go, honey.” I move half a step away but don’t look him in the eyes. He gently lifts my chin with his hand. “Catch you later.” He winks at me and smiles. Then he turns around and leaves, not looking back once. He disappears around a corner, and I keep looking at that corner hoping that this is not it. That he will return, that he will come back and get on the plane with me. But he doesn’t. And I keep looking at that corner, my back to the gate, hopelessly waiting. “Miss?” I hear a female voice next to me. I turn my empty gaze toward a young flight attendant wearing a pleasant smile on her face. “Miss, we are waiting for you.” I blink at her. Then I look back at the corner where I saw Sam last. I look for a few more

seconds, hoping. Then I turn to the young woman again. “Yes.” I can only whisper, because my throat is closed shut, a terrible dull pressure building behind my chest. I swallow and clench my jaws, fighting the tears. I look one more time at the corner. Come back to me, Sam . . .Please, come back… Then I take a heavy breath, turn around and pass through the gate.

Epilogue

I walk briskly along the corridor, heels echoing in the empty space, the sound bouncing off the walls of the old building. I stop when I reach the doors and place my hand on the copper leaf-shaped door handle. And wait looking at the floor. It has been seven months. And I am broken. Time heals all wounds? I think I must have said something like this to my friends in my past life, but . . . I don’t believe it. Not now. Not anymore. I’m broken, shattered in a thousand pieces all over the globe, wherever he is, wherever he might be. I close my eyes tight so my tears don’t escape. He’s alive. He’s alive. He has to be alive.

He needs to be alive. Even if I never see him again. And then the tears roll down my face, again, falling onto the old stone floor. EcoRI enzyme cuts GAATTC sequence, SmaI cleaves CCCGGG, DNA ligase seals it . . . After repeating my mantra over and over again, I slowly manage to calm myself down. I wipe the tears away from my face with the back of my hand and wait a few moments, until I’m sure my eyes are not red anymore. Then I enter the auditorium. The buzz of more than a hundred chatty students slowly stops, and they turn their faces to me. I am Agatha Manos. I was born in Greece, but my parents moved to the US when I was two years old. Feeling patriotic, I recently moved back to Greece, but I still keep in regular contact with one of my friends back in Boston, Sarah McGregor, and her family. I teach genetics at the National University of Athens, and since my Greek is rusty, I have to

teach in English. I also run a microbiology laboratory that does research on pathogenic strains of bacteria: a laboratory that recently became famous worldwide. I turn to my students and begin. “Last time we talked about normal carbon metabolism. Let’s change gears today and talk about a recently published paper describing the metabolism of rapidly multiplying pathogenic bacterial cells.” The students start knocking on their desks and stomping on the wooden floor. It’s a sign of great respect, a tribute for the work done in my lab. My lecture class normally has about fortyfive students. Today, the auditorium is full because they know the topic of today’s lecture: the study of the Crazy Gro cells and their efficient blockers that my lab published few months ago. I’m still receiving daily requests for collaborations from various labs all around the world. Even several global pharmaceutical companies have offered to start clinical trials for

the reagents. It all turned out exactly as Sam planned it. I turn to face the whiteboard and start. Black lines, words, drawings. I’m presenting in a confident voice. No one knows what’s hidden beneath the façade. I’ve practiced my lecture enough. Forty-five minutes pass in a blink. The bell rings. I turn around and say, “And I was just about to tell you the most interesting part, but I guess you’ll need to wait until the next lecture.” Students laugh, and then some of them clap and some knock on their desks. I smile and nod once in acknowledgement. The applause and knocking gradually stop as students stand up to leave the auditorium, making a drumming noise as they walk down the wooden floor. Many of them come up and shake my hand, offering praise for the research my lab did and ask additional questions. The doors keep squeaking as students continuously open and close them.

Standing takes a toll on me these days, so I sit awkwardly on an office chair behind the desk and turn to the window. The sunshine is reflecting off the old scratchy glass surface and I can’t see the university buildings on the other side of the road. I don’t really care: I love the blinding sunshine. The buzz is now outside and I’m finally alone. I look down to the floor, knowing what I will do next. Because I always do the same thing. I open my bag that’s lying on the desk and pull out the scrap of well-worn newspaper. Above the article is a picture of a burned-down building, with still some smoke coming out of the windows and many firemen surrounding the premises. The title reads: “EXPLOSION AT CRYOBANK-TWO DEAD.” Subtitles explain: “At 9:20 p.m. yesterday evening, a series of explosions shook the neighboring village as a bio-storage facility, run by the privately owned Cryobank Genetics Inc., burned down due to the faulty wiring of laboratory equipment. The company handled the storage of

various biomaterials. Two security guards were killed in the fire and the entire stock of genetic and bacterial samples has been destroyed.” I glance at the text I know by heart. Then I look again at the bright window and take in the light. I am certain that this Cryobank was where Crazy Gro was stored. And I am also sure that Sam and his Sentinel team were the ones who set off the explosions. The first time I read this article, I was ecstatic. And, embarrassingly enough, it wasn’t because he managed to destroy the dangerous pathogen. I was ecstatic because I thought—I hoped —that he would now come. He would come to me and we would live the life I want. My life with him. That was six months ago. He didn’t come. I lower my gaze to the floor, fighting tears again. I clench my jaw and shake my head. Soon enough, I will have to be strong. And perhaps it

won’t be so difficult, when the day comes. I slide my palm slowly along the side of my large, round belly. And just this makes me feel a lot better. I hear the creak of the wooden floor just behind me and I turn around quickly. “Very interesting lecture, Dr. Manos,” says an elderly man. I slowly stand up, holding on to the armrest. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize there was someone still here, Mr. . . . ?” “Mr. Moore,” he says, his face wrinkles multiplying as his lips spread into a smile. He’s hunched over and has shoulder-length, messy gray hair, pulled back by a blue baseball cap. His eyes are shadowed by the cap shield. I don’t trust him. I lift my head and push my chin out. “The lecture is finished, Mr. Moore. If you have any questions, please bring them up at the beginning of the next lecture.” I raise my hand, pointing to the doors. I’m hoping it will make him leave. But he doesn’t move. Instead, he looks

down at my pregnant belly. I swallow and my heartbeat picks up. I’m trying to stay calm, but I automatically put my hand over my belly. “I was,” he continues slowly, “surprised to find out that . . . you’re expecting a child.” He looks up into my eyes again. My right hand folds into a fist and all my muscles tighten. “I don’t think that’s any of your business, Mr. Moore.” He tilts his head to one side, and I am suddenly surprised by this familiar motion. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that. . . I would very much like to make it my business.” Then he straightens up from his hunched position, squaring his shoulders and taking off his cap to reveal the most amazing dark blue eyes. My jaw drops and my knees give in. Before I fall, Sam catches me, just like on the first day. And the only thing I can do is stare into his eyes. “You don’t mind the wrinkles, do you?”

Then he winks at me and kisses me with his waxy lips.

<<<<>>>>

Hello! Did you enjoy reading Swift Escape? I hope you liked it and I hope you managed to escape for just a little bit into the invisible parallel dimension of my imaginative world. Thank you for your trust in picking up Swift Escape out of the millions of other books that are available and also thank you for the several hours of your life you spent reading it. If you could spare a few minutes of your time, I would greatly appreciate if you could leave a review. It would mean the world to me. Thank you! And if you are interested to find out when my next book is coming out, please consider joining my newsletter. If you would like to contact me, you can find me on these sites: Facebook Twitter

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Acknowledgments

On an episode of The Creative Penn, a podcast I religiously follow, I once heard: “Writing is often not done by a sole genius; writing is always a combination of team work, in whatever ratio that may be.” And it is truly so. None of this work would have been possible without my husband, for supporting me in my (adventurous) role as a writer, for standing as a sounding board for my ideas and giving me continuous input through the years, for being my behind-the-scenes storyline editor, and for making me happy. A big thank you to my two wonderful boys. You are still too young to read this, but you are my true fans, whistling and cheering as I announced that I completed Swift Escape. :-) To my parents, thank you! I wish we lived

closer to each other, but technology manages to bridge that gap somewhat, and I am happy to have long conversations about my books, about the characters, and the universe with you. My family gives me enormous backing and support, and I wouldn’t have been able to let my inner muse work if I didn’t feel so happy and so secure. Thank you! I am so grateful to Sarah Kolb-Williams, my developmental and copy editor, for helping me, supporting me, and giving me important guidelines to improve my writing craft. Sarah, although Swift Escape is not your favorite genre, I am so happy you took on my project again. Thank you! To my sister IL, Karin Brown, thank you for being a full-time supporter, for reading through all the different drafts of Swift Escape, for giving me such great tips on the plot and character background. Your feedback was immensely helpful! To Barbara Tenner, my early, middle, and late beta-reader. You gave me many important tips and valuable input, which I integrated into the storyline. Thank you so much!

Stephen McEwen, without you, I would’ve had to skip the motorbike chase in Swift Escape. Thank you for talking me through the encyclopedia of motorbike brands and describing various driving experiences when riding a motorbike. To Vanda Pogacic, thanks a lot for reading through the final draft of Swift Escape and giving a thumbs-up to the science aspects of the story during our very entertaining cocktail evening chats. :-) To Carmen Arribas, thanks so much for translating Eduardo’s and Frank’s words into Spanish and Italian. To Mara Ramseier, thank you for your comments and input on my early draft. I appreciate your reading through the work while it was far from being ready for readers—thank you. And finally, to my readers! Thank you for deciphering the scientific mystery with Jane, for fleeing with Jane and Sam around the globe when Jane’s life was threatened, and for feeling Jane and Sam’s intense love story. You make my stories live. Thank you.

About the author Tara Jade Brown lives in Switzerland with her husband, two sons, two cats, and a dog. Before becoming a full-time writer, she worked as a neuroscientist, an entrepreneur, and a marketing manager. Her works include her debut novel The Senthien (the first book in the Descendants of Earth trilogy), Swift Escape, and a few short stories: Dante’s 9, Forbidden, and Far Away. To find out more, please go to www.tarajadebrown.com.