Replica (Replica #1)(103)

She liked how Pete looked at her.

They pulled over at a diner across from a motel called the Starlite, its parking lot empty except for a white Chevrolet and a few beat-up, dusty sedans. She didn’t want to think about the kind of people who used the Starlite midday. Gemma climbed out, stretching, her body still sore from being contorted on a lawn chair all night. Once again she had that awful, full-body sensation of being watched. She whipped around, certain she saw a face peering out at her from a window of the Starlite. But it was only a trick of the light.

Still, even after they were seated and tucking into enormous burgers and a platter of fries so towering it seemed to defy physics, she kept glancing out the window. Another car pulled into the diner parking lot and her heart stopped. But it was only a dad and his two kids. And after a while, she began to relax.

“So what’s the next move?” Pete had waited until they were both finished eating before leaning forward and speaking to her in a low voice. “I mean, we can’t depend on Jake anymore. The replicas are gone. Are we finished here?”

Again, she liked his use of the word we. “I’ve been thinking about that.” She’d eaten too much too quickly and now she was nauseous. “I have to talk to my parents. It’s the only way.” Even saying it made her chest feel like it might collapse, but she kept talking, half hoping to convince herself. “My dad has answers. He’s been miserable for years, and I think it has to be because of Haven.” She was surprised to realize, as soon as she said it, that this was true. “He walks around like he’s got something clinging to his back. Like a giant vampire bat or something.”

Pete made a face.

“What?” she said. “You think that’s a bad idea?”

“I think it’s a great idea.” Pete sighed. He swiped a hand through his hair. It stood up again immediately. “This is big stuff. These are big, serious people. I worry . . .” He looked up at her, and something in his eyes made her breath snag. But he quickly looked away. “I was worried, that’s all.” He was back to his normal self, easy and silly. “You ready to hit the road, then? I made a playlist for the drive back, you know. ‘One hundred greatest bluegrass hits of the 1970s.’”

“I’ll throw you through the windshield,” Gemma said. She felt surprisingly free now that she’d made the decision—as if something had clambered off her back. “Meet me in the car, okay?”

In the bathroom she stood in front of the mirror and remembered the girl on the marshes, her reflection, her other. She leaned over the sink and splashed water on her face, as though it would help wash the image from her head. The cold did her good.

She was going to confront her father and get answers, and she didn’t care anymore whether he got angry, whether he ever spoke to her again, whether he ordered her out of the house.

She almost hoped he would.

She would be fine on her own. She was stronger than she’d ever thought she was. She was strong, period.

Outside, she saw Pete sitting very still with both hands on the wheel, staring at her with the strangest expression. He must be far more freaked out than he was letting on. His eyes looked enormous, like they might simply roll out of his head, and she felt a burst of gratitude for him. He was trying, for her sake, to act normal.

“All right, Rogers.” She was speaking even as she yanked open the door. “Passenger gets DJ privileges, so hands off the radio—” All her breath left her body at once.

There was a man sitting directly behind Pete, holding a gun to his head. She knew him instantly: it was the man who’d grabbed her outside the gas station. The same long, greasy hair, the same gray stubble and wild look.

“Get in the car and shut the door,” he said. His eyes went left, right, left, right. She wanted to move, but she was frozen. Even the air had turned leaden. She was drowning where she stood. “In the car,” he said again, practically spitting. She saw the gun trembling in his hand and realized he was panicking. She nearly tripped getting into the car. She felt as if her whole body was coming apart.

“Okay,” she managed to say. She got the door shut and held up both hands. Think, think. Her phone was in her pocket. If she could somehow dial 9-1-1 . . . “Okay, listen. Just calm down, okay? Let’s everyone stay calm. You can have my wallet. You can have anything you want.”

“I didn’t come for money,” the man said. He nudged Pete with the gun. Pete had gone so pale Gemma could see a vein, blue and fragile-looking, stretching across his temple. “Drive.” She was amazed that Pete managed to get out of the parking lot without hitting anything. She was amazed by Pete, period. She’d never been so scared in her life. Her stomach was cramping, and she was worried she might go to the bathroom right there.

“Please,” she said. Her voice came out in a whisper. “Please. What do you want?”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. But he didn’t sound as if he meant it. Gemma could smell him sweating in his old camouflage jacket. Rick Harliss. The name came back to her from the article she had read about Emily Huang and her involvement with the Home Foundation. He’d once worked for her father. He’d lost a daughter, Brandy-Nicole, when he went to jail. “I just want to talk, okay? That’s all I want. That’s all I ever wanted. Someone to listen. No one fucking listens, no one believes. . . .”