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“Not yet,” I said, scanning the car. A student with headphones. A nurse in scrubs, scrolling her phone. A couple arguing quietly about holiday plans.
I dropped my voice. “Emma, earlier you said your father told you that you were gone. What did you mean?”
She stared at her shoes. For a long moment, I thought she wouldn’t answer.
“There’s a room in our house,” she said finally. “Under the main floor. The walls are all white. No windows. Daddy said it was for healing.”
My throat tightened. “You were sick?”
“I didn’t feel sick,” she said. “But he said I needed medicine to help other kids. He said I was special.”
She tugged absently at the place where the bracelet had been, though I’d left it taped.
“A man used to come. With glasses that shined. Daddy called him Dr. Lane. He gave me shots. They hurt. One day I heard them talking in the hallway. They said something like ‘Phase Three didn’t work’ and ‘Subject Alpha is no longer… useful.’”
She struggled with the last word, like she couldn’t quite get it out.
“What happened after that?” I asked.
“They took me for a drive,” she said. “Daddy hugged me and said he loved me more than anything, but sometimes love meant letting go.” Her voice cracked. “Dr. Lane told me I was going somewhere safe. The van stopped. I heard them arguing. And the door wasn’t locked right. So I ran.”
I pictured a little girl jumping from a van and sprinting into the night while two men argued over what to do with her. No wonder she’d ended up in alleys and dumpsters.
“Emma,” I said, swallowing hard, “do you remember them saying anything about your bracelet?”
Her brow furrowed. “They said not to lose it. The Doctor said it made sure they could always find me if something went wrong.”
A locator. Of course.
Right then, the train’s advertising screens flickered. Normally they ran promos for injury lawyers and fast food. Now they turned red.
My face was on the screen, pulled from some old police file where I looked wild-eyed and tired. Next to it was Emma’s school picture.
The nurse gasped. A teenager two seats down stared at the screen, then slowly turned to look at us.
“That’s him,” he said quietly, phone already in his hand.
I stood up, heart pounding. “Stay close,” I told Emma.
The train screeched into the next station. The doors slid open with a chime. Someone yelled, “Call the police!” as I pulled Emma toward the far end of the platform.
I didn’t head for the stairs. I aimed for the locked emergency gate and the dark maintenance tunnel beyond.
The alarm started blaring the second I kicked the gate. The sound was sharp enough to make Emma flinch and cover her ears.
“We’re okay,” I said, more to myself than to her. “Step where I step. Do not touch the metal rail by the wall. That one can hurt you.”
We dropped onto the tracks and stepped into the darkness, leaving the furious voices and flashing screens behind.
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