Agent of Chaos (The X-Files: Origins #1)(9)

His father tossed the shirt in his hand on the bed. “There’s nothing to decide. Kids don’t turn down acceptances to Georgetown University.”

Mulder crossed his arms. “Of course they do, or there wouldn’t be a waiting list. And I thought you were coming with me to show me ‘the lay of the land.’ What happened to playing tour guide?” His dad had never attended Georgetown, unless the campus tour counted, but he had the prospective students brochure memorized.

“I’m going out of town, remember?” He gestured at the suitcase, irritated.

“Does everyone at the State Department work weekends, or just you?” Mulder sounded more bitter than usual.

“Most people don’t have my level of responsibility, and the project I’m working on is entering an important phase.” His father arranged the shirts neatly in the suitcase.

“I bet.”

“I tried to get out of going, if that makes you feel any better.” His dad almost sounded sincere. “I know you don’t understand, but what I do is important. It’s bigger than me. I’m trying to do some good in the world.…” He stared at his half-packed suitcase, and for a second, he looked miserable.

Mulder almost felt sorry for his dad, but it didn’t last. Whatever prompted this heartfelt share session couldn’t make up for the past few years. Work was always his father’s priority, even when his family was falling apart, which didn’t make any sense to Mulder. As far as he was concerned, nothing would ever be as important as his sister and finding out what had happened to her.

His dad looked up and shook off any genuine emotion he might have been feeling. “It’s not like I planned to be out of town. I’m not thrilled about the idea of Phoebe staying here while I’m away.”

Phoebe was arriving late Sunday night. They had planned the trip months ago, after he realized they had spring break at the same time.

“Why? You don’t trust me?” Mulder clenched his jaw. Based on this conversation, the answer was obvious.

His father scoffed, “Give me a break. You’re a seventeen-year-old with a stack of Playboy magazines stashed under your bed.”

“I’ll be eighteen in October. Or did you forget again?” Mulder shot back. Last year his dad had called him a day late to wish him happy birthday. “I can write it down if that will make it easier to remember.”

Instead of apologizing for being a crappy parent, Bill Mulder pulled out the big guns. “Maybe I should call Phoebe’s parents and tell them she can’t come?” He reached for the phone on the nightstand.

As much as Mulder wanted to call his father’s bluff, he knew his dad would go through with it. And knowing Phoebe, her parents probably didn’t know much about the trip. So, for once, Mulder kept his mouth shut. He couldn’t screw up his chance to see Phoebe. He missed the hell out of her.

“No smart comment?” his dad asked, reveling in the lame victory.

There’s the Bill Mulder I know. Cold, distant, and condescending.

“Just let her come.” Mulder forced out the words through gritted teeth. “Please.”

“Sleep on the sofa and don’t make me regret trusting you.”

“No problem.” Mulder almost laughed. His dad didn’t even know basic things about him—like the fact that he already spent every night on the sofa.

Mulder retreated to the living room, turned on the TV set, and slumped on a stiff leather armchair. A little background noise would drown out his dad’s annoying voice if he ended up on one of his secret phone calls that Mulder didn’t give a crap about.

Two more months until graduation, and I’m outta here.

Then he could go back to living with his mom until August, when he left for college. If he figured out where he was going by then.

A newscaster’s voice droned on in the background. Mulder wasn’t really listening until he heard the words missing girl. He jerked forward and sat on the edge of the chair, listening.

“Sarah Lowe vanished from her home just before nine o’clock last night,” the reporter said as a photo popped up in the corner of the screen. A little girl with big brown eyes and crooked dirty-blond pigtails, wearing zip-up pajamas with elephants on them, smiled back at him. She looked around the same age as Samantha when she disappeared.

Mulder’s skin went cold.

The newscast switched to another feed. A woman with puffy eyes and the same shade of dirty-blond hair as Sarah stood at a podium between her husband and the DC police chief, clutching a wad of tissues.

“Sarah was playing in the living room, and the power went out,” Mrs. Lowe said between ragged sobs. “So I went down to the basement to check the breaker. I would’ve taken Sarah with me, but she hates it down there. She gets scared. She was only alone for two minutes.” Her breath hitched and she dissolved into tears again. Sarah’s dad put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and tried to console her.

Mulder remembered his mother had the same desperate look right after Samantha was taken.

The police chief turned to Sarah’s mom. “If this is too difficult—”

“I can do it,” Mrs. Lowe said, and looked straight into the camera. “When I came back, Sarah was gone and the front door was wide open.”

Mulder’s stomach lurched and he almost puked.