The Mirror Man, стр. 64

“I get that,” Brent said. “But they’re not going to let you go.”

“They have to. This is finished. I am not leaving my son alone with that thing.”

“He’s not alone. For all Parker knows he’s with his father. He’s going through this with you. I mean, Parker doesn’t know the difference. He’s okay for now.”

“What do you mean?” Jeremiah stared at Brent. “He’s not okay. Nothing is okay. Don’t you get that by now, Brent? Don’t you understand? I have to do something.”

“Let’s play a game of IF,” Brent said, out of left field.

“What? I don’t want to play the fucking game, Brent. Just go, will you? I want to be alone.”

“I think it will help,” he persisted, and proceeded to turn on the controllers and the headsets.

“How the hell is that going to help? You’re crazy!”

“It’ll be a diversion. Come on. Just one quick game. Please? Humor me.” Brent’s eyes were fixed on Jeremiah, his mouth tensed in a straight line across his face, urging him to accept. “Please.” Something in his eyes was deadly serious. “I want to help you.”

Reluctantly, Jeremiah took the headset and put it on. The wall in front of them morphed into an image of the virtual battlefield, fixed at the precise point they’d left it several days before. Brent didn’t touch the avatar but began typing a message with his controller. Jeremiah watched as words appeared on the sidebar.

Type. Don’t talk. Natalie told me she saw something under the Meld. She saw that someone out there knew.

Knew what?

That it wasn’t you.

Diana didn’t know.

Are we sure? Maybe she did know. Maybe what she said was true.

Diana didn’t know. It wasn’t her.

Who, then?

Doesn’t matter.

Who?

Louie.

Dog?

Yes. He knows. He knew from the first day.

She must have seen that. She must have thought it was Diana. Then they saw the tape, heard what she said. I should have listened to you. I should have helped you. I’m sorry.

Jeremiah didn’t type a reply. A dread washed over him as Brent’s words sunk in. He read them over again, then took his headgear off and laid it gently on the table in front of him. He walked out, through the bedroom and into the bathroom, where he thought he might vomit. He was shaking, and his reflection in the mirror was ashy. He steadied himself against the sink and breathed in and out slowly, trying to settle his churning stomach.

All of this was his own fault. He’d been so smug, so self-righteous, trying to keep secrets from them. It was impossible to keep a secret under the Meld. From his suspicions about Charles Scott—his illness, the fact that he’d released Meld to fund his personal clone—to the emails he’d read about the army’s involvement, it was all there in his head. The Meld just distorted all of that, mixed it up and spit it back to her as vague red flags.

And Louie, he thought. Why had he held on to that so hard? Like it was some twisted trophy, as though it were the last remaining vestige of his own identity. He’d been a fool to think it mattered, arrogant to think he could keep it hidden. It wasn’t the clone who’d destroyed his life. It wasn’t Charles Scott, even. He’d done it himself.

And Parker was out there. Under their scrutiny. Unprotected. Alone.

Brent began knocking at the bathroom door. “Are you all right?”

Jeremiah turned on the shower full blast, hoping that would get rid of him, and said nothing. Brent eventually stopped knocking.

The mirror began to fog over, and Jeremiah wiped at it with the sleeve of his shirt and studied his own face in the swath he cleared. He looked old. He looked tired. He looked different than he had when this whole thing had started several months before, and not just physically. He wasn’t the same man he saw on that monitor every day. He was separate. He was different. He was changed. And something in him welcomed it, accepted it, for better or worse.

For a few startling minutes Jeremiah seriously considered the idea of killing Charles Scott.

Never in his life had he been prone to violent thoughts, but they came easily to him in that moment. He imagined strangling the man with his bare hands, delighting in the agonized contortions of his face as he gasped for air and realized he was dying. The man was evil. He deserved it. And part of Jeremiah longed for that revenge, so much so, that his hands balled into tight fists as he considered it. But another part of him, a surprisingly logical part, understood that this wasn’t the answer. He stared into his own eyes and, with considerable effort, reined in his anger. If he killed Scott, he went to jail. Or worse. And that would leave Parker alone with that clone, helpless under the scrutiny of these people. Jeremiah couldn’t allow that, no matter how much he wanted Scott dead. This wasn’t about what he wanted. This was about Parker. This was all about Parker.

He was going to get out of here. He was going to get to his son. And if they wouldn’t let him out, he’d find a way to break out. If they wouldn’t let him trade places with the clone, he would have to take the clone’s place. He knew that. Looking at his reflection, he realized he would have to do something drastic. For once in his goddamn, miserable excuse of a life, he would have to take action. No more halfhearted attempts. He would make his own decisions, take control and create his own ending.