Girl One(59)

27

“Well, if it isn’t the woman of the hour,” Dr. McCarter said. “I walked into the lab today expecting to see you in your usual spot, and yet—”

“I’m sorry,” I interrupted, leaning against the sun-hot brick of the gas station. “I’m on my way home right now.”

I said it aloud partially to remind myself that this was the right decision. That it was the only decision. I’d felt it in my gut as soon as I’d walked out of the prison: I couldn’t help my mother. I didn’t know who she was anymore. I’d been on the bright verge of abandoning everything—all I’d worked for, all Bellanger had worked for—to rescue a woman who’d never wanted rescuing. I was going home. Within a few days, I’d be back in the lab, goggles humid against my cheekbones, my mother forgotten. Relegated to the past she’d hidden from me.

“I’ve been keeping up with the story about your mother,” Dr. McCarter said. “It sounds to me like you’ve done your best and now you can rest easy.”

“Wait. What are you talking about?” With one fingernail, I traced the clumsy geometric initials carved into the side of the phone booth. Dr. McCarter couldn’t possibly know about my conversation with Ricky, but everything was so scrambled right now that I couldn’t be sure who knew what, all the edges of my life turned soft and pliable.

Dr. McCarter hesitated before he answered, like he thought I might be joking. “Well. It’s been revealed that there were no accelerants. No signs of foul play. The fire had multiple points of origin. The authorities are thinking it could’ve been insurance fraud. Apparently it’s not uncommon—especially with no deaths or injuries—”

“They’re saying she did it herself?” I paused with my fingernail lodged in the crook of an M, trying to identify whether it was relief or unease growing under my skin.

“Listen, Jo,” Dr. McCarter said. “You should be thinking critically about how to address this to the press. We’ve had quite a few requests for interviews, and that’s not the kind of publicity anybody wants. I’ll offer you my support, of course, the whole department will. You don’t need more distractions. But we do need to get out ahead of things.”

I shut my eyes for a second, hit with the blunt end of the realization. It was happening again. My mother had ended Bellanger’s work the first time, reducing his brilliant brain down to ashes, and now, seventeen years later, she’d used the same tactic to disrupt my own work, disappearing before she could even be held accountable.

“Really, Jo, it’s a testament to how exceptional you are. Raised by a single mother in poverty. We don’t fully understand the far-reaching consequences of how parthenogenesis affected the mothers. A mother who was undereducated, with mental health issues—”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “She doesn’t have mental health issues.”

A silence. “I’m just basing this on what you’ve told me,” he said too carefully. “The isolation of your upbringing, her reluctance to confront her own past. You’ve said yourself it’s not normal behavior.”

“I never said that,” I said, surprised by my own defensiveness, even as I thought of the disappearance and the notebook and the abandoned house, my wild-eyed mother knocking on doors, ranting about dead girls. Lighting a match. I swallowed, my throat dry, my tongue heavy.

“I’m not trying to insult you,” Dr. McCarter said. “You should be quite proud to have come so far on your own.”

“Yeah, well,” I said. “Maybe you should explore the far-reaching consequences of parthenogenesis on the daughters too. You could’ve saved me a lot of time if you’d addressed that sooner. Anyway, I’ll be home soon,” I said, before he could respond, and hung up.

When I turned around, Tom was waiting for me, and I knew from his expression—jaw set, eyebrows tugged together—that we were about to have a serious talk. I groaned. “God, not now, Tom. Please. I don’t need an after-school special.”

I began walking back to the Volvo at a brisk pace, arms crossed. Tom fell into step beside me. “You’re doing this, huh? Giving up. That’s it. What about the notebook? Your mother’s notebook? You aren’t even curious about why she—”

I stopped, facing him. “Is this about your book? Because we need to talk about that. I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I don’t know if you should be sharing these things with the world.”

“I was under the impression that you cared as much as I do about bringing Bellanger’s work back to the forefront.”

“That was before I knew—look, Tom, I’m worried that if you run off and publish a book about this, my work will get derailed. I’ll be dragged down into the scandal.” Even deeper into the scandal, I amended mentally. “I need to be running damage control right now, not making things worse by yelling to the world about murder or Fiona’s powers. If you care about my career, you’ll keep it between us.”

I hadn’t told Tom about the footage in the basement or about Cate. These felt like things I needed to keep private. I’d liked bouncing ideas off him, hearing his theories, but this was too personal, a part of my very skin and bones. And now I was glad I’d let Tom stay in a world where Fiona’s abilities were still rumors. The less he knew, the better.