Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(6)

But no matter how much I hum, no matter how much the music plays in my head, it doesn’t happen.

I open my laptop and search HTS.

I can’t ignore it. I can’t ignore me. NO. Not me.

Not me, whatever some stupid DNA test says. My stomach rolls, rebelling at the idea. They might say I am. But it’s not true. It’s not.

It can’t be.

My search lasts only a few minutes. The first thing that pops up is footage from the 20/20 feature on HTS. Death row inmates are interviewed by Dr. Wainwright. I listen as they share the horrific accounts of their crimes with the stoic-faced man. Some of them smile weirdly as they recount their transgressions. Those curving lips make my skin crawl. A breath shudders from my lips. I’m not them.

I punch fiercely at the keyboard and move to another site. A video of some extremist group brutally assaulting three men . . . three HTS carriers. From the comment feed below, everyone thought they got just what they deserved.

It’s too much. My already churning stomach pitches. The laptop falls from my lap as I dive for the bathroom, retching until my stomach is empty.

After that, I stagger back into my room and pick my laptop off the floor. Logging off, I set it on my desk and drop back on my bed.

Gradually, sunlight fades from behind my blinds. My phone rings and I glance at it. Zac. I can’t talk to him right now. Not yet.

I roll on my side and close my eyes, pressing a hand to my lips, smothering the cry that rises up in my throat and seeks escape. But there is no escape. No running from this.

After a while, I breathe normally again and feel like I can face my parents. I have to. I can’t pretend nothing happened. I need them to tell me everything is going to be okay. I need to know the next step. The plan. Sucking in a breath, I open the door. As I descend the stairs, I stop at the sound of Dad’s voice.

“She’s not a carrier. We would know something like that! You’ve seen those monsters all over the TV. The Minneapolis Bomber . . . the Atlanta Day-care Shooter. We’d know if our daughter is like them!”

I flinch and ease down one more step.

“The kill gene,” Mom says. “That’s what they call it. It can be dormant until something triggers it. They don’t all start out as monsters. . . .”

I sink down on the step and hug my knees, unable to face them after all.

It sounds like Mom believes I’m this . . . thing. A monster waiting for darkness to come so that I can leap out.

I bury my face in my knees. My shoulders shake but I don’t cry. Don’t make a sound. I’m not a killer. Although I’m going to become one. It’s just a matter of time. That’s what being an HTS carrier means. At least that’s what everyone says. Apparently, even what my parents believe. Or at least Mom.

“No. It has to be a mistake.” Yes! I latch on to these words. It is a mistake. It is. I hear the clink of glass and guess that Dad is pouring himself a drink.

“Patrick.” Mom says his name sharply. “You heard the headmaster. He had them double-check the DNA. That’s why it took so long to get the results from the fall. We can’t live in denial. We have to deal with this.”

Dad doesn’t respond. After a few moments, Mom adds, her voice clipped and efficient, “I’ll take her to her appointment with the caseworker tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you do that.” Even from where I huddle on the step, I don’t miss the bite in his voice.

Mom didn’t miss it, either. “You blame me? Is that it?”

“She certainly didn’t get this damned gene from my side of the family.”

“So this is my fault?” Mom’s voice is a snarl. “It’s recessive. It took both of us for this to happen! You always have to blame someone anytime anything goes wrong. You blame me for Mitchell and you might as well blame me for our daughter turning out to be a sociopath.”

I gasp.

There’s a loud crash. Dad’s glass hitting the wall or floor.

My hands grip the edge of the step, needing something to hang on to, something to keep me from splintering apart. A fingernail cracks under the pressure.

In the distance, I hear the faint ring of my cell phone in my room. Zac calling again. Or maybe Tori.

Mom’s raspy voice drifts to me, quieter now, subdued. “Feel better?”

“No. I’ll never feel better again, Caitlyn. Should I? I just lost my daughter.”

I bow over, clutching my waist, the words a painful blow. I cover my mouth so that no sound escapes. I want to shout that I haven’t gone anywhere. I’m the same girl I was yesterday. I’m no different. But somehow I am. To them, I am. I’m lost. Tomorrow the world will know that, too.

I hear the creak of the French doors followed by my brother’s voice. “Hey, what’s for dinner? I’m starved.”

“We haven’t cooked,” Mom snaps. No. No dinner. We forgot about food. “There are leftovers from last night.” I hear glass rattle and guess that she’s digging through the fridge. “Lasagna. Some garlic bread. I’ll warm some up. Sit down. We need to talk. . . .”

I rise and lightly tiptoe back to my room, not wanting to hear the inevitable conversation.

When they tell Mitchell that his sister’s not who they thought she was. That girl is gone and never coming back.


Sleep eludes me. Zac stops calling around midnight. I lie in bed, a song whispering through my head, fingers laced over my stomach as I stare up at the ceiling. My eyes are dry as bone. Strangely, I haven’t cried even though it feels like I lost everything. My head spins against the backdrop of an aria, thoughts racing through everything that’s happened, everything that’s going to happen. Zac will still be there. My real friends. They won’t change because they’ll understand that I haven’t.