Light (Gone 6)

“My name is Astrid Ellison. A-S-T-R-I-D. E-L-L-I-S-O-N.”

“And most of you know me.” This was Todd Chance. “And you know my wife, Jennifer Brattle.”

Astrid was seated between them. Between two of the most famous people in the world: the couple sometimes known as Toddifer. They were both beautiful, especially—from Astrid’s perspective—Todd Chance. About fifteen years too old for her—okay, twenty years too old—but still and all a startlingly handsome man.

And Jennifer was cute. In her own way.

It was Jennifer who spoke next. “As you all know, our property, San Francisco de Sales Island, where we maintained a home, was part of the FAYZ. Our children, thankfully, are all alive and well and now at our other home in Malibu.”

“We returned to the island just yesterday and found that it had been occupied during the time we were . . . away.” And that seemed to be the end of her prepared remarks, because she looked beseechingly at Todd.

“The house is fine. Well, a little bit of a mess. And our yacht, well . . .” He pushed his fingers back through his mane of blond hair. “That’s not the point, though. We’re here to talk abou

t what we found. I mean, two letters that were left in a desk in our bedroom.”

There were eight TV cameras in the overly gold hotel ballroom where the press conference was being held. Microphones were mounted in front of Todd, Astrid, and Jennifer.

Astrid still wore a few bandages. And an amazingly clean cotton shirt and totally intact jeans and shoes. Shoes that had not been looted from some stranger’s home. Impractical shoes you couldn’t easily run in.

These are not fleeing shoes, Astrid had realized when she put them on.

“One of the letters was addressed to Diana Ladris, another survivor,” Todd continued. “We’ve given that letter to her. It’s private. But the other was addressed to us. To me and to Jennifer, which was a surprise, obviously. It’s um . . . well, actually, we’ll just have Astrid read it. She knew the boy who wrote it.”

I knew him, all right, Astrid thought. I wanted him dead. And then this. The FAYZ continued to teach her lessons.

She picked up the photocopy of the letter. It was handwritten.

“‘Dear Mr. Chance and Ms. Brattle. Sorry about the mess. Great bed. Loved it. As a matter of fact, loved the whole house. Actually, I tried to kill your kids when I found them here. Yeah, funny story. Maybe not funny, hah hah.’”

Astrid heard nervous laughter from the media people, or maybe just from the hotel staff who were hovering around the edges grabbing a glimpse of the Hollywood royalty.

“‘Anyway, I missed and they got away. I don’t know what will happen to Sanjit and that stick-up-his butt Choo and the rest, but whatever happens next, it’s not on me. However . . .’”

Astrid took a dramatic pause.

“‘However, the rest of what happened was on me. Me, Caine Soren. You’ll probably be hearing a lot of crazy stories from kids. But what they didn’t know was that it was all me. Me. Me me. See, I had a power I never told anyone about. I had the power to make people do bad things. Crimes and whatnot. Especially Diana, who never did anything wrong on her own, by her own will, I mean. She—and the rest of them—were under my control. The responsibility is on me. I confess. Haul me away, officers.’”

Astrid suddenly felt her throat tightening, although she’d read the letter many times already, and knew what it said. Rotten son of a . . . And then this.

Redemption. Not a bad concept.

Well, partial redemption.

“It’s signed Caine Soren. And below that, ‘King of the FAYZ.’”

It was a full confession. A lie: a blatant, not-very-convincing lie. But it would be just enough to make prosecutions very difficult. Caine’s role in the FAYZ, and the reality that strange powers had actually existed in that space, were widely known and accepted.

Of course Caine had enjoyed writing it. It was his penultimate act of control. He was manipulating from beyond the grave.

“Now,” Jennifer said, interrupting the long silence, “we want to discuss the deal we’ve just signed with Astrid to develop a book and then movie, telling the true story of the FAYZ.” She began reading off a prepared statement. “‘Astrid Ellison was a central figure, right from the start. She had long since earned the nickname Astrid the Genius, and . . .’”

And Jennifer went on, and then Todd, and Astrid smiled when it seemed appropriate, and made a humble face when that seemed appropriate, and her thoughts went far away, far from the ballroom and the cameras.

She didn’t even realize that tears were running down her cheeks until she felt Todd offer her a tissue.

“Oh,” she said. “Sorry. I was just . . . It happens sometimes—”

And then she looked up, toward someone at the back of the room.