The Similars (The Similars #1)(42)

Levi doesn’t respond. He simply stares at me with those gray eyes, the ones I love, or used to, anyway.

“Oliver meant the world to me. I didn’t mean to push him away.”

“I get it,” he says. “You were scared. You didn’t want to risk a relationship. You didn’t want your friendship to change. If there were someone I cared about that much…”

“What?” I ask, my heart in my throat.

Levi shakes his head. “Nothing.”

There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask him, but it was never the right time, until now. “Levi? You said before, when we were in your room, that you’ve always hoped there was a reason you were created. I think you know more about that than you’re telling me.”

He hesitates before answering. “What makes you say that?”

“In American history, when Mr. Park dedicated that whole class to discussing cloning, there was talk of an experiment. Something about primates. Theodora said she knew all about it, but that it was classified.”

“It is.”

“But you know about it too.”

Levi shuts down all at once. He stiffens and his jaw locks. If I’ve had any window of insight into him tonight, I don’t anymore. It’s been closed. Maybe indefinitely. “You should go to bed, Emma. Stop thinking about Albert Seymour and his primates. I can assure you, you’re better off not knowing the details.”

Without so much as a goodbye, he turns and leaves me alone in the darkened hallway.

That night, as I toss and turn, drifting in and out of a fitful sleep, I startle awake. That’s it, the piece of the puzzle that has been eluding me. Albert Seymour. I remember where I last saw the scientist’s name. He was in the portrait of the Ten, the one from my father’s senior year. Albert Seymour was the man standing between my father and Jane Porter.





The Wards


“Dash,” I address my plum, “who was Albert Seymour?”

“Researching Albert Seymour,” Dash responds. “Is there anything else I can assist you with, hon?”

“Hon?” I tease. I’m not used to this sass in the middle of the night.

“It’s something I’m trying out,” Dash quips. His response makes me smile.

Over the next week, I eagerly read all Dash can collect about Albert Seymour’s life. I devour a biography of the man, discovering that he was born into an influential family in Boston. Seymour’s only sibling was a half brother, John Underwood, who shared the same father. Little is said about Underwood, or the brothers’ childhood, except that they lived apart, and Underwood took his mother’s last name. The book skips to Seymour’s days at Harvard, where he graduated early, then began studies for his PhD, completing his dissertation on reproductive cloning by the age of twenty-two. Seymour wasted no time starting his own cloning lab in Boston, eventually moving it abroad when laws in the United States barred him from continuing his research.

The book glosses over Seymour’s Darkwood days in a few sparse paragraphs, so I trek to the Tower Room to study the portrait of the Ten from Seymour’s year. I scan the names, lingering on the familiar ones—my father; Oliver’s parents, Jane and Booker; Prudence’s dad, Jaeger’s family. There along with Albert Seymour is John Underwood. I’d read the name before, but I hadn’t realized the two were half brothers. I make a mental note to ask my father about both of them if he ever answers any of my buzzes.

As I take in the picture, I match each name to a figure in the photograph. My father, Jaeger, Bianca Kravitz, Booker Ward, Ezekiel Choate… Albert Seymour is the scrawny guy near the end with oversize glasses. His clothes are wrinkled and look too big for his narrow frame. I look again. Something isn’t adding up. Where is John Underwood? I count the people in the photograph. There are only nine. John Underwood is listed, but he isn’t in the photo.

That night, I read the book a second time, thinking maybe I missed references to Seymour’s primate experiment, but it’s not even mentioned. That strikes me as odd. If the experiment was so groundbreaking, why can’t I find any information on it? Theodora called it “classified,” but Mr. Park knew enough about the experiment to bring it up in class. Where did he learn about it?

A week later, I linger behind in American history to find out.

“Mr. Park?”

“Hmm?” He stacks textbooks on his desk, clearly preoccupied.

“That day you brought up Albert Seymour’s primate experiment…sir,” I add politely. “You were going to say more about it, only the class’s discussion got sidetracked. I can’t find any information about it anywhere. Can you tell me more?”

Mr. Park sighs. “I appreciate your scholarly interest in the topic, but I’m in a rush, Emma. My next class starts in two minutes in the annex across campus.”

“I understand,” I say quickly. “You must have a book you can point me to? Some articles?” And for good measure: “I’m trying to learn more about the issues, Mr. Park. Expand my base of knowledge.” I cast my most winning smile.

“I’ll try to locate some material for you,” he answers hurriedly before making a beeline for the door.

“I thought I told you to let that go,” a voice says from behind me. I turn, taken aback, to find that Levi is still in the room. I’d thought Mr. Park and I were alone.