Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(96)

Sydney betrays her first sign of vulnerability in the conversation, swaying slightly. She loves her parents, and the idea that they love her back comforts her.

“And mine?” I ask, hating that he can hear the hope in my voice. “Who are they? How can I remember them if I was created here?”

“The memories are implants,” Dr. Groger says, “updated and deleted when necessary in impulse control therapy. But, yes, all of you took your first breaths in this lab—you’ve never lived anywhere else. In order to make you well-rounded, we implanted memories of a happy home life in most of you. It seemed to work best. They don’t always take, though. You, Philomena,” he says, “seemed dead set on self-deleting your programming. Rewriting it. It had to be updated multiple times, using differing versions until you found one you liked.”

I’m hurt to learn that my parents were never really my parents, despite the terrible things they’ve let me go through. And I guess I was right in thinking they felt like strangers.

“Who are they, then?” I ask. “Who are my parents?”

“Your parents—your investors—are a bit of a mystery to me,” Dr. Groger admits, tilting his chin up. He’s understanding the power he now has in the conversation and is freely using it. “Their intentions are unclear, especially since your design was so extensive. Very complicated. So much empathy and memory retention, but also humor and intelligence. You were flawed from the start. They wanted you to be too . . . real.”

“Why?” I ask. “To marry me off?”

“Who knows?” the doctor says. “They only invested in you this year. Your last investor was . . . let’s say, dissatisfied. Anton thought it best we didn’t let him invest again. The analyst was always looking out for you girls—unnecessarily so.”

The idea that I should be grateful to Anton makes me furious.

“In the end,” Dr. Groger says, “I assume your parents are investors for resale. Create a perfect girl, and when the market crashes—as it inevitably does—they’ll have a golden model. They wouldn’t be the only ones investing for resale.”

“Like Winston Weeks?” I ask.

I surprise him with my question, and he hesitates before answering. “Mr. Weeks is in a specialized business—he’s one of the most talented creators I’ve met. He only takes on girls with real potential. But what he’s looking for can’t be taught.”

“Potential for what?” Sydney asks.

“That, I couldn’t say. He doesn’t share that kind of information. But he’s interested in their chips. Like your Valentine out there. She was a prize. I was sorry to see her ruined, but she became too aware. That damn book . . . ,” he murmurs. “We had to destroy her. Mr. Weeks won’t be pleased.”

“Why did you destroy her?” I ask, devastated.

“Because she wouldn’t go back to sleep,” he says. “Her programming had become corrupted, and her thoughts were like a virus. They had to be eradicated before spreading to other systems. Other girls.”

“Interesting theory,” a woman’s voice calls. The girls and I spin around, and Jackson—shocked, again—falls a few steps to his side. He checks to see if anyone else is with her, and then looks at me and shakes his head.

Leandra comes into the office, her heels clicking on the concrete floor. Dr. Groger smiles and walks to the front of the room, holding out his arm for her to stand next to him.

My stomach sinks when she does just that. Terrified, I look back at Sydney. Her eyes are wide and scared. Annalise is still unconscious on the table, so if we run now, it’d mean leaving her behind. We can’t do that.

Leandra is stunningly beautiful even in the harsh light of the laboratory. The bruising near her eye is gone—“patched up,” as she would say. “Now, girls.” Leandra tsks. “You made quite a mess upstairs.”

I stare at her, knowing that she took the kitchen door key from the drawer. What does she want from us? Why can’t she just let us go?

“Guardian Bose tried to kill us,” Marcella tries to explain, guilt in her voice. “We didn’t mean . . . We didn’t want to hurt him. We just wanted to run away.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Leandra asks. “Surely you had the chance while he was bleeding to death.”

I lower my eyes, the blood racing across my bedroom floor from the Guardian’s body still fresh in my mind. Still wet on my clothes.

“Annalise,” Brynn says desperately, motioning to her. “She was too injured. She’s . . . dying.”

“You could have left without her,” Leandra suggests. The girls and I scoff at the thought, and Leandra hums out a surprised sound.

“Yes, they are very codependent,” the doctor says. “It’s a flaw we’ll have to work out.”

“I rather like it,” Leandra says, still watching us.

“Well, dear,” the doctor replies. “No one cares what you think.” He walks over to his desk impatiently. “Now, where is your husband? I need permission to decommission these girls.” He glances at Jackson. “And recommendations for what to do with the boy.”

Leandra’s eyes drift over to Jackson. “Ah, yes,” she says. “The boy.”