I stop in my tracks. I wish I could understand the words on the screen like he does. “And?”
His long hair sways as he shakes his head. “I can’t get into President Might’s personal BEEPR.” The mention of my dad’s name makes me uneasy.
“What does that mean? He’s not … hurt, is he?” Concentrate, Maci. I must concentrate on breathing if I want to stay conscious. In, out. In, out.
Evan shakes his head. “It’s turned off. I don’t think it’s from the lockdown, because even in lockdown, a BEEPR would show as being active.”
“Try Max,” I offer and quickly rattle off his ID number as Evan types it into the computer. My stomach twists in knots as I wait for an answer.
His shoulders sag. “Nope.”
Imaginary images of Max’s bloody lifeless corpse invade my mind. I slam my eyes closed, realizing, a little belatedly, that blocking my eyesight does nothing to stop from seeing mental images.
“Don’t think like that,” Evan says, reaching back to touch my arm while keeping his eyes on the screen. A warm sensation runs through me at the feel of his skin on mine. Neither of us are wearing our rings in the mind-reading mode, but I glance at my hand just in case. He smiles. “I don’t need to read your mind to know what you’re thinking. And you can’t think like that. They’re Heroes. Nothing will take them down, short of the sun collapsing in on itself.”
I want to believe what he’s saying, to feel without a doubt that my family is alive and okay. I used to think they were indestructible. But now I’m not sure what I believe anymore. My eyes close. When they open, they are filled with tears.
He turns now, and wraps his arms around me, pulling me toward him. He’s still sitting on a stool, so we’re about the same height. My face curls into his neck and he smells like cinnamon and chocolate chips. I do not let myself cry. I am not the girl who cries.
With my arm around his neck, I squeeze my ring into my palm. I’m not sure if I want him to hear what I’m about to say, so I don’t check if his hand is also closed. I can’t stop thinking this is somehow my fault.
A soft voice appears in my mind as Evan’s arm gives me a short squeeze. It’s not.
I pull away from him, feeling exactly as awkward as a situation like this warrants. I pretend to focus on his screen with my eyebrows drawn together as if I’m analyzing what might as well be hieroglyphics in front of me. Why is every moment with Evan so damned awkward?
Actually, strike that. I do know how to read hieroglyphics. This is still gibberish.
Evan’s fingers fly across the keyboard. I watch him type and think and type and think. Then he leaps off the stool and dashes across the room, impressing me with his supernatural speed (I mean he’s a research nerd after all). He digs through drawers like a mad man and I continue to pace on what has now become my place on the floor that I’m determined to wear down until there is a hole in it. It’s like a Tootsie P
op—how many paces until the floor caves in? Finally, he pops up with a black rectangular box.
Half a second later he’s back on the stool, the drawer across the room still slowly sliding shut. I check my MOD for the millionth time as he hooks up the box to the circuit boards in front of him. It’s half past noon. Almost twenty-four hours since I woke up in the medical ward, left the medical ward, argued with Jake, saw Pepper, and …
Yeah, I can’t think about that.
“I’ve got your house.” Evan’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts. He gives me a weak smile. “Only …” a sigh, “No one is home.”
I wasn’t expecting them to be home but disappointment hits me anyway. “Try Crimson.”
Evan’s lips press together, his teeth biting on the bottom lip as he works. Lines of code fly across the screen faster than I can count. “Here’s some good news.” He stops squinting at the screen to smile at me.
“Dammit Evan, I don’t care about your gorgeous smile!” I shove him, hard enough to prove my point but not so hard as to knock him off the stool and prolong my answer even more. “Just tell me what you’re seeing, quit the freaking King of Anticipation shit already.”
He talks so fast his words become a one-word sentence. “Every member of the Carlow household is home. No peril.”
A teensy amount of relief hits me. Followed by a massive amount of dread. I lean in closer to his screen and try to make sense of what he sees. “How is that possible? Crimson’s a Hero.”
Evan’s eyes scan the hundreds of lines of gibberish text and points to a place on the screen that’s just as gibberish-looking as the rest of it. “They’re all at home. Maybe they don’t need her.”
Evan shrinks beneath the murderous glare I give him. Then he says something that takes my glare right away. “Would you like to talk to her?”
My eyes bug out so hard, I fear they may fall out of my still healing skull. “Yes,” I say, but he’s already called her home MOD, based on the ringing sounding coming from the speakers. The whole screen switches from codes to the MOD call screen. Finally, something familiar.
After three rings, our call is answered. Crimson faces the monitor, dressed in her Hero suit. Her long blonde hair is in a disheveled ponytail; her eyes aren’t vibrantly decorated with eye shadow. Her lips twitch like someone who’s drank too many cups of coffee. “Hero Crimson,” she says, her voice sounding more like a preteen talking to her crush instead of her usual Hero confidence. Her eyes dart from left to right.
“She can’t see us,” Evan whispers so quietly I can barely hear him. “This isn’t a MOD, so, no camera.”
“Crimson, it’s me,” I shout as tears fill my eyes for a second time today. “It’s me. I’m so glad you’re safe.”