Dead Girl Running (The New Order Book 1) (29 page)

“I’ll be fine. I’ve got to be. I’ll just rest up a few more days then join you on a few shorter, easy runs. You’re tapering already, aren’t you?”

Crap. I’m so busted. “Uh. Not exactly.”

“Are you kidding? What are you waiting for?”

I grimace.

“Lost without me, huh?” He smiles, and the front desk worker giggles.

“No,” I say. “I’ve got a lot on my mind, but you’re right. I’ll start tapering now.”

“Good. Oh, and one more thing: you’re invited over to my house the night before the race to carbo load.”

“Whose idea is this?” I cross my arms. I don’t like the idea of his mom glaring at me all night across the table.

“What’s the matter with you?” He laughs. “Hey, Franco told me Mom kind of freaked you out, but don’t worry about that. She tends to rub new people the wrong way. It’s nothing personal.”

“Yeah. You Harmans keep saying that.”

“You
have
to come,” he wheedles. “We’re having pasta. And bring your mom.”

“Are you sure your mom wants us invading your privacy?”

“She insisted. She’s forcing Franco to come, too. He didn’t want to, at first, because he wants me to drop out of the race altogether. But she told Franco he had no choice in the matter.”

“Then how can I refuse?”

he next day at work, everything appears back to normal. Gus’s office is organized in its usual untidy fashion, his maps on the wall and a picture of him and Ben resting on the desk. In that way, Gus and I are the same. We always want our loved ones with us, no matter how much it hurts to remember the past. I wipe a speck of dust off the top edge of the silver frame then head back out into the main workspace.

Gus gestures toward the speakers. “You’ll like this song. ‘Respect’ by Aretha Franklin. Man, she had a great voice.”

I listen a moment. “I
do
like it.”

“I knew you would.” Gus points to a bagged body across the room. “And I haven’t had a chance to check out that poor soul over there, yet. Do you mind?”

“Sure, but… first I have a question for you.” I position myself so the cameras can’t read my lips.

Gus pauses mid-suture to peer over his glasses. “Okay, then. Shoot. And don’t worry; I’ve already upped the volume with my handy-duty remote so the only words they hear are Aretha’s.”

“Okay, good. I need to know what you want me to do about the race.”

Gus shakes his head. “I can’t believe how many people have entered that stupid race. Did you know there were so many?”

“Yes, Liam told me—750 runners.”

He raises his brows. “And you’re sure you can beat all of them?”

I shrug. “I don’t have any idea.”

He sighs. “So, here’s the deal. I’ve asked around, and no one seems to know anything about you leaving this position. So, I think we’re safe. I’m not sure Dr. Edwina even looked at your chart. It might’ve just been a ruse. She has a sick mind, that one.”

I place a hand on the cool table. “Okay, so, what do you want me to do?”

He frowns. “Maybe the more important question is: what do
you
want to do?”

I picture Liam running beside me on the treadmill, on the potholed roads, and downward-dogging next to me during yoga. My mind fills with memories of Franco biking alongside us, watching me stretch on the monorail, and making fun of Liam.

I know what I want.

“To run.”

“Okay,” Gus replies. “Then you should.”

I take a deep breath. “And I want to win it.”

He raises his eyebrows. “May I ask why?”

“It sounds horrible, I know, but I want to be better than everyone else for at least one moment in my life.”

Gus snorts. “How egotistical of you.”

“Yes, I know it is.”

“Well, even if you’re fast enough to be in the top ten, all the fastest runners attend the Championship Ball afterwards. You can meet all the Representatives. Would you like that?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure I’d like that, either.” Gus turns back to suturing. “Meanwhile, that body over there is getting cold, so to speak.”

“Right. I’m on it.” I cross the room and grab the file.

Female, White European Descent, nineteen-years-old, died in childbirth. Simple processing requested. No diagnostics required.

That’s odd.

“Hey, Gus. What do you think of this? This girl’s only a year older than me and died in childbirth. Isn’t that strange? I mean, nobody gets pregnant that young anymore, and I’ve never heard of anyone dying during childbirth.”

I unzip the black bag, starting at the feet then up the pale white legs, past the purplish C-section incision, over the chest and shoulders. A long red curl falls out.

No.

It can’t be.

In a fast, fluid motion I peel off the rest of the bag.

Red hair.

Lying before me, dead, is the same girl the Suits dragged into Reproductive Services on my birthday.

The metal clipboard clatters to the ground.

“I won’t do it!” she had screamed as they dragged her away.

And now look what happened.

Gus hurries to my side and gathers up the chart. “What are you doing?”

“Where is it?” I dig through the long bag, frantically searching. “Where is it?”

Gus places a firm hand on my shoulder. “Silvia, calm down. Remember who’s watching.”

“Where’s the baby?” I ask, jamming a hand into every empty corner of the bag.

Gus glances at the chart. “You’ll never find the baby. It’s not here.”

“You mean it’s alive?” I ask, hopeful.

“Actually, it doesn’t say.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to see someone so young dead.”

“That’s not all of it.” My hand pauses at the incision from the C-section. Black sutures stand at attention along the long scar. “Gus…”

His gaze follows mine.

“Doesn’t that chart say she died in childbirth?”

“Yes.”

“Then can you explain why this incision is at least two weeks old?”

ere’s what’s going to happen,” instructs Gus. “I need you to move around to this side of the table, so no one can read your lips. Have you got a grip on yourself now?”

“No. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m actually kind of freaking out.”

“Then can you fake it?”

I gulp a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Good.” Gus pauses. “Now, explain to me why you’re so upset. Did you know this young lady from school?”

“No. I recognized her from the street.” I try to calm my breathing, but I’m close to hyperventilating. Not good. I won’t be able to hide that from the cameras.

“Silvia, you pass hundreds of people a day—”

“I know, but this was different. On my birthday, my mom brought me to Genetic Counseling—”

“Nice birthday present. If I’d known you were getting the day off for that, maybe I would’ve raised more of a fuss.”

“That’s beside the point.” I take a deep breath. “She took me to the park afterward, so it was fine. But, on the way, there was a holdup in traffic because this girl was screaming and trying to get away when the Suits dragged her into Citizen Family Planning and Reproductive Services.”

Gus tenses.

I narrow my eyes. “You still haven’t answered my question about the scar.”

He takes a deep breath. “That’s because I don’t know, and I’m afraid to guess.”

“Maybe she was in a coma afterward, and the chart is incomplete,” I offer. “Maybe they used some advanced tissue adhesive I’ve never seen before, and it speeds healing. Maybe there was an accident…” I come up empty.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Gus stares at the chart. “Process her, and be done with it. I don’t want you getting into trouble over someone you didn’t even know, so don’t make a fuss. It’s too late for her now, no matter what happened.”

Can Gus really be so cold inside?

Breathing deeply, I pretend I’m in yoga class instead of Mortuary Sciences and pick up the scalpel. I incise the skin on each upper arm to release the microchip and birth control capsule, setting them both to the side. Then I clean away any traces of blood, smooth her hair, and zip the bag closed over her body. There’s nothing else to do for her.

Except…

Cupping the capsules in my hand, I cross the room to the tall, metal disposal chambers. Using the scanner, I record the microchip. As her personal information flashes across the screen, I commit the home address to memory. Then I crack open the birth control capsule, ready to sprinkle the contents in the containment chamber.