Project Paper Doll: The Trials (3 page)

She ignored my question, staring holes through me instead. “His mom, she’s back in town now. I met her. She seems nice. She wants to have a funeral—Quinn, too—but they
can’t do that, can they? I mean, what are they going to do, bury an empty casket? Maybe some of the blood the police scraped up from that parking lot?” She raised an eyebrow at me.

My hands clenched into fists.

“The hospital still says his body never got there. I mean, they have the record of the ambulance call and everything, but that’s it. Nobody seems to know what happened to him after
that,” she said, lifting her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. Then her eyes narrowed. “But you do, don’t you?”

I looked away. “No.”

I didn’t, truly. But I had my suspicions, given the people involved. There was no way that Jacobs or Laughlin would risk police involvement, as there inevitably would be with a shooting
death. No, it was better that Zane Bradshaw, an inconvenient victim/speed bump on the road to progress, just mysteriously disappear as a bureaucratic error, lost in the system. Perhaps even
delivered to an accommodating funeral home and cremated “by mistake,” a discovery that would be made months or years from now. Or never.

Or maybe Laughlin or Jacobs’s lackeys, whomever they’d charged with cover-up duties, had gone old school and simply buried him in a grave that some early-morning hunter or jogger
would stumble over one day.

My stomach lurched, and I rocked forward to my hands and knees, the imagined scene pictured too clearly in my head, the white of his shirt, now dull and dirtied, wrapped in tatters around
bones.

Bile rose up my throat. I coughed and choked it out, bright yellow on the pristine white floor.

“So, see?” Rachel asked, watching me, satisfaction heavy in her expression. “I’m not the only one who’s selfish. You got Zane killed, and you won’t even help
his family and those of us who really cared about him say good-bye.”

Her words struck deeply, where I was most vulnerable. Because she was, after all, absolutely correct. I might not know where Zane’s body was, but I was definitely the reason he was
dead.

“Screw you, Rachel,” I said, wiping my chin and glaring at her through my tears. “I hope you get everything a real person like you deserves.”

“Girls, girls,” Dr. Jacobs said in a scolding tone, catching both of us by surprise.

He stood at the top of the steps behind Rachel, having emerged from the private elevator or perhaps even the observation room behind my cell. I wasn’t sure. I didn’t care.

Rachel stood up immediately, scooping her bag up from the floor and slinging it over her shoulder. Then her hand shot out toward him, palm up. “Cash,” she said flatly.

His smile was tight with irritation. “Good afternoon to you, my dear,” he said. “Manners do still count for something, you know.” But he reached into the pocket of his
white lab coat to remove a silver, or more likely platinum, money clip.

“Yeah? How about you save your lectures for the grandchild you didn’t try to have murdered?” She paused for a moment, pretending to think, tapping her finger against her mouth.
“Oh, wait…there’s just me.”

Rachel was holding tight to her grudge. Not surprising. Dr. Jacobs had once thrown her into my cell, hoping she’d annoy me enough that I’d kill her and therefore meet the entrance
requirement for the trials. When a family member, the only one who seems to really care about you, is willing to have you killed to prove the worthiness and ability of his science
experiment—namely, me—that’s probably not something you get over quickly or easily. Unfortunately, that didn’t change the fact that he was still pretty much all she had.

Dr. Jacobs paused counting out hundred dollar bills to give Rachel a sharp look.

“You know, if you’d just give me access to my trust fund, we wouldn’t have to go through this,” she said. “You bribing me to talk to your toy, me pretending not to
hate you.” She waved her hand in an airy gesture.

“Not until you’re eighteen,” he said with a weary air that suggested this was a conversation that had taken place multiple times in various iterations.

I pushed myself to my feet to snag the roll of toilet paper from my bathroom—a toilet, sink, and shower set up in the corner of the room behind a privacy curtain that was more of a
suggestion of such than the real thing.

I wanted, if at all possible, to get the floor cleaned up before Jacobs noticed. But I forced myself not to rush; that would surely draw his attention faster than anything.

“I could hire a lawyer,” Rachel continued, snatching up the money he held out and shoving it into her bag.

“Not one that’s better than all of mine,” he shot back. “It’s untouchable for the next fourteen months, Rachel. Get used to it, please.”

“Whatever. I’m late to meet Cami,” she said, spinning off in a huff.

I mopped up the floor as Rachel stomped up the stairs, her heels cracking loudly on the tile.

“I’ve already made your excuses for your absence on Friday, as you requested.” Jacobs’s voice was muffled as he turned away from the intercom outside my cell to call
after his granddaughter. “I explained your trip to Chicago has an academic aspect, and Mr. Kohler has agreed that a five-page paper on the architecture of the city should be more than enough
to—”

“Five pages?” Rachel shrieked.

“Chicago? She’s coming with us?” I blurted, the wad of toilet paper forgotten in my hands. He was bringing Rachel to the trials? Since when had this top secret competition
become a spectator sport? The thought of her smug face watching from the bleachers made me feel ill. I still didn’t know exactly what the trials would involve. Dr. Jacobs claimed not to know.
The event was supposedly shrouded in secrecy, to prevent one competitor from having an advantage over another.

Dr. Jacobs turned to me, startled. “Don’t be ridiculous. Rachel is accompanying her friends on a shopping outing.” He glared at me, as though I was the one revealing
secrets.

“Wait, you’re letting her out?” Rachel asked her grandfather, a beat too slow on the uptake. Was it just me, or had her face gone a shade paler?

“It’s nothing for you to be concerned with,” Dr. Jacobs said, lifting his hands reassuringly.

Rachel shuddered. “Just keep her away from Michigan Avenue. I don’t want her spoiling anything for us. Cassi’s always filling out those stupid giveaway cards. It’s about
time she actually won something nonpathetic. They’re sending a car for us on Friday.” She paused with a frown. “I hope the driver knows to bring spring water—the carbonated
kind, not that cheap regular stuff.”

Then she turned and stalked off toward the elevator. I felt Dr. Jacobs’s attention return to me.

I chucked the toilet paper into the tiny plastic trash can (white, just like everything else in here) and resumed my place on the floor, forgetting until I was in position that I’d already
done sit-ups and my stomach was not in a forgiving mood.

“That was more emotive than you’ve been in a while,” Jacobs said conversationally as I forced myself through another set of five.

I didn’t know whether he meant my shouting at Rachel earlier or the vomiting on the floor, but I wasn’t going to ask.

What he said sounded like a statement, but I knew better. It was bait with a bright, shiny hook buried inside. He’d been trying to get me to talk for weeks now, to open up, as he said.

A horrible idea that brought to mind the image of my skull being cracked open with everything spilling out for further examination, speculation, and admiration of his handiwork.

I gave a shake of my head, more to myself than him. No, damn it. My feelings and thoughts were mine, at least. The only things that were, in this place. And I was going to keep them.

Instead, I lay on the floor, giving my abused muscles a break, and retrained my efforts on the other side of my new exercise regime. With barely any exertion, I had my cot suspended above me
again, along with my initial stack of books, gathered and reassembled in midair. Once, something like this would have been difficult for me and the results unpredictable. The lightbulbs overhead
would have blown and anything not bolted down would have been shaking and shifting.

Not anymore. Amazing what grim, uncompromising determination would do for you.

“Your improvement is quite impressive, particularly for such a short amount of time,” Jacobs said, after a moment. “Then again, I suppose that might be due to your newly
acquired motivation.”

I went still, and the books wobbled slightly. Was that an oblique reference to Zane’s death? If Jacobs had guessed my intention to raze Project Paper Doll to the ground, personnel
included, I wasn’t sure what he would do. He needed me to compete in the trials but certainly not at the risk of loss, humiliation, and death.

I let out my breath slowly, straining to maintain an impassive expression.
Steady, stay steady.
I wasn’t sure if I was talking to my cot and the books or myself.

“Your desire to seek vengeance against Ford is understandable,” he continued. “And I certainly can’t argue with the results.”

I relaxed. That was a logical assumption on his part. Of course I would blame the person who pulled the trigger on the bullet that had killed Zane. In Dr. Jacobs’s arrogant mind, that was
the only reasonable response. No way would I hold him responsible.
He
hadn’t hurt anyone.

Except me. Over and over again, in almost every way possible. He had vastly underestimated the depths of my anger and desire for retaliation.

A grim smile pulled at the corners of my mouth. His loss. Or, it would soon be.

Yes, Ford had shot Zane, but it had been unintentional, a by-product of her attempt at self-defense against Laughlin’s guards. Zane’s death was her fault only because she, like me,
was a pawn in this game Jacobs and Laughlin were playing with us.

“But
we
,” Dr. Jacobs said with a wink at me, as if we were somehow collaborating, “need you to be
you
. Everything that makes you special, not some flesh-and-blood
robot.” He made a disgusted noise at the idea and then smiled at me as if I understood what he was talking about.

Which I didn’t. Not at first. Robot? What?

Then, suddenly, his meaning clicked. Oh. If I were too much like Ford, too obviously different, inhuman and nonemotional, his methodology wouldn’t shine through, demonstrating the obvious
advantages of his technique (i.e., she walks, talks, even smiles just like a real human, but she’s not!) over that of his competitor, Dr. Laughlin.

And that, in turn, explained Rachel’s persistent presence. Rachel had the ability to crawl beneath my skin and set up camp, like a rash that would not go away. She irritated me, to the
extreme. He’d been counting on her for that, to force me to react and dissolve the walls I’d put up around my feelings.

He wanted to make sure that if he pricked me, I’d still bleed. Especially in front of the audience we would have waiting for us at the trials.

And I’d fallen right in line with his plan.

A fresh cascade of self-hatred washed over me, and I let my cot and books fall to the floor.

I stood on shaking legs to turn my back on Dr. Jacobs’s gloating face. He’d won, yet again.

“You’ll be pleased to hear that Private Zadowski is being released from the hospital today,” he said smugly.

My breath caught in my throat at the name; a vision of that soldier’s face, young and unlined, growing purple from the effort to stay alive, was so bright in my mind.

“Minimal permanent damage to the heart, despite clinical death, thanks to your resuscitation efforts. He’s going to be fine.” He paused. “You really are quite capable of
amazing things, 107.” He sounded impressed, pleased, but there was a layer of smugness beneath it all, as if to say, “Of course you are. Because I made you.”

Then he walked up the stairs and away from my cell, whistling, his shoes clacking happily on the tile floor.

My fingernails dug into the vulnerable skin of my upper arms, the pain sharpening my focus and reminding me of my true purpose.

Oh, Dr. Jacobs, you have
no
idea what I’m capable of.

I lowered myself into push-up position on the floor and sent that second stack of books into the air, where they held steadily for the first time.

Two more days.

“107,” D
R
. J
ACOBS SNAPPED
.

His voice over the sudden pop of the intercom jolted me awake. I sat bolt upright, my heart pounding in triple time.

I blinked rapidly, trying to reorient myself, the rush of adrenaline making me shaky. I was in a cell at GTX, just like usual. Well, the usual for the last three weeks, anyway. My eyes were
gritty, and my neck had a painful kink.

I tugged at the collar of my tunic, which was damp with nightmare-induced sweat. In the dream, I was being chased by an unseen enemy, while Zane, a pale spectral vision with a blood-soaked
shirt, watched in the distance. And no matter how hard or fast I ran, I couldn’t seem to get any closer to him, nor could I shake my pursuer.

Nothing like your subconscious to be as subtle as an anvil to the skull.