Its better to be

missing than dead.

As dark as Gillian Flynn

and as compulsive as Serial.
LAURA SALTERS,
author of Run Away

A literary masterpiece
unlike anything Ive ever read.
AARON HARTZLER,
author ofWhat We Saw

Book one in the

Times bestselling
York
New
thriller series

Comparisons to Gone Girl

and Reconstructing Amelia
are inevitable.Quill & Quire

CHAPTER SAMPLER

#TheDarkestCorners
#DigDeeperGetDarker
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,

and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright 2016 by Kara Thomas
Jacket photograph 2016 by Burcin Esin/Getty
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press,
an imprint of Random House Childrens Books, a division of
Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon
is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Visit us on the Web! randomhouseteens.com
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools,
visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in- Publication Data
Thomas, Kara.
The darkest corners / Kara Thomas. First edition.
pages cm
Summary: When her father dies, Tessa is pulled back to the small Pennsylvania town
where her life came apart when her father was sent to prison, her mother went to pieces,
and her beloved older sister ran away, and where her testimony and that of her
now-estranged friend Callie sent a serial killer to death rowa serial killer who
may be getting a new trial as long buried secrets come to light.
ISBN 978-0-553-52145-0 (hc) ISBN 978-0-553-52146-7 (glb)
ISBN 978-0-553-52147-4 (ebook) ISBN 978-0-399-55294-6 (intl. tr. pbk.)
1. Serial murderersJuvenile fiction. 2. MurderPennsylvaniaJuvenile fiction.
3. SecrecyJuvenile fiction. 4. FriendshipJuvenile fiction. 5. SistersJuvenile fiction.
6. Detective and mystery stories. 7. PennsylvaniaJuvenile fiction. [1. Mystery and
detective stories. 2. Serial murderersFiction. 3. MurderFiction. 4. SecretsFiction.
5. FriendshipFiction. 6. SistersFiction. 7. PennsylvaniaFiction. 8. Youths writings.]
1. Title.
PZ7.1.T46Dar 2016
813.6dc23
[Fic]
2015004181
The text of this book is set in 11.5-point Sabon.
Jacket design by Greg Stadnyk
Interior design by Heather Kelly
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
Random House Childrens Books supports
the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

FREE SAMPLENOT FOR SALE

Thom_9780553521450_4p_all_r1.indd 4

10/6/15 1:09 PM

chapter
one

Hell is a two-hour layover in Atlanta.

The woman to my right has been watching me since I sat
down. I can tell shes one of those people who take the sheer fact
that youre breathing as an invitation to start up a conversation.
No eye contact. I let the words repeat in my head as I dig
around for my iPod. I always keep it on me, even though its a
model that Apple hasnt made for seven years and the screen is
cracked.
Pressure builds behind my nose. The woman stirs next to me.
No eye contact. And definitely do not
I sneeze.
Damn it.
Bless you, honey! Hot, isnt it? The woman fans herself with
her boarding pass. She reminds me of my gram: shes old, but
more likely to be hanging around a Clinique counter than at the
community center on bingo day. I give her a noncommittal nod.
She smiles and shifts in her seat so shes closer to my armrest.
I try to see myself through her eyes: Greasy hair in a bun. Still in

I bought my ticket to Pittsburgh at the airport. It cost two

hundred dollars more than it would have if Id booked it in advance. I nearly said screw it. Thats two hundred dollars I need
for books in the fall.
Youre probably wondering what kind of person would let her
father die alone for two hundred dollars. But my father shot and
nearly killed a convenience store owner for a lot less than that
and a carton of cigarettes.
So. Its not that I dont want to be there to say goodbye; its
just that my fathers been dead to me ever since a judge sentenced
him to life in prison ten years ago.

chapter
two

Maggie Greenwood is waiting for me at the arrivals gate. Shes a

few shades blonder and several pounds heavier than she was the
last time I saw her.
That was almost ten years ago. I dont like thinking about
how little has changed since then. The Greenwoods are taking
me in like a stray cat again. Except this time Im well fed. Im on
the wrong side of being able to pull off skinny jeans. Probably all
those dinner breaks at Chilis.
Oh, honey. Maggie scoops me to her for a hug with one
arm. I flinch but force myself to clasp my hands around her back.
She grips my shoulders and gives me her best tragedy face, but
she cant help the smile creeping into her lips. I try to see myself
through her eyesno longer a bony, sullen little girl with hair
down to her waist.
My mother never cut my hair. Now the longest I keep it is at
my shoulders.
Hi, Maggie.
She puts an arm on the small of my back and herds me out to

where shes parked. Callie wanted to come, but she had to get an
early night.
I nod, hoping that Maggie doesnt sense how her daughters
name inspires a sick feeling in my stomach.
She has a twirling competition tomorrow morning, Maggie says. Im not sure who shes trying to convince. I know its all
bullshit and Callie wouldnt have come if Maggie had dragged
her.
So shes still into that? What I really mean is, So people actually still twirl batons and call it a sport, huh? But I dont want
to be rude.
Oh, yeah. She got a scholarship. Maggies grin nearly cuts
her face in half. To East Stroudsburg. Shes thinking of majoring
in exercise science.
I know all this, of course. I know who Callie is still friends
with (mostly Sabrina Hayes) and what she had for breakfast last
week (cinnamon-sugar muffin from Jims Deli). I know how badly
Callie is dying to get out of Fayette (pronounced Fay-it, population five thousand) and that she already parties harder than a college freshman.
Even though I havent spoken to her in ten years, I know almost everything there is to know about Callie Greenwood. Everything except the thing I desperately need to know.
Does she still think about it?
Your grandmother told me you decided on Tampa?
I nod and lean my head against the window.
When I told Gram Id gotten into the University of Tampa, she
said that I had better think real hard about going to college in the
city. Cities chew people up and spit them out.
As Maggie gets off at the exit for Fayette, all I can think is that
Id rather be chewed up and spit out than swallowed whole.
5


Maggie pulls up outside a white, two-story farmhouse that was
twice as big in my childhood memory. We shut the doors of the
minivan, prompting the dogs next door to flip out. Its almost one
in the morning; in a few hours, Maggies husband, Rick, will be
getting ready to start his bread delivery route. I feel bad, wondering if hes waiting up to make sure Maggie got home okay. Thats
the kind of husband he is.
My dad was the kind of husband whod make my mom wait
up, sick with worry, until he stumbled in smelling like Johnnie
Walker.
The dogs quiet down once were on Maggies porch, already
tired of barking. Neighborhoods in Fayette wear their emotions
like people do. The Greenwoods neighborhood is tired, full of
mostly blue-collar families who are up before the sun. The type
of people who eat dinner together seven nights a week, no matter
how exhausted they are.
When I think of my old neighborhood, I think of anger. Of
crumbling town houses squashed together so tightly, you can see
right into your neighbors kitchen. I think of angry old men on
their porches, complaining about the cable company or the Democrats or their social security checks not arriving on time.
The Greenwoods used to live in my old neighborhood.
They moved a year before I left to live with Gram, which meant
I couldnt run down the street to play with Callie like Id been
doing since I was six.
Maggie unlocks the front door, and I immediately smell the
difference. I want to ask her if she misses her old house as much
as I do.
But of course she doesnt. And after what happened in that
6

house, its the type of question that will definitely make me unwelcome here.
Are you hungry? Maggie asks, shutting the door and locking it behind her. I know they dont give you anything on the
plane anymore. Theres some leftover lasagna.
I shake my head. Im just . . . really beat.
Maggie makes a sympathetic face, and I notice all the lines
that werent there ten years ago. She probably thinks Im upset
about my father dying.
The Tessa she remembers would have been upset. She would
have cried and screamed for her daddy like she did the day the
cops broke the front door down and led him out of the house in
handcuffs.
Maggie doesnt know that the old Tessa has been replaced
with a monster who just wants her father to hurry up and die so
she can go home.
Of course you are. Maggie squeezes my shoulder. Lets get
you to bed.

The sun comes up the instant I fall asleep.
I really need a shower, but I dont know where the Greenwoods keep their towels. In the old house, they had a linen closet
inside the bathroom. Instead of going downstairs and asking
Maggie for a towel, I splash some water on my face and pat it dry
with a hand towel.
I have trouble asking people for things. Ive been this way for
as long as I can remember, but I think it got bad when Gram
brought me to Florida. Before she turned her office into a bedroom for me, I slept on a pullout bed. There were no blinds on the
7

windows, so every morning at six, the sunlight streamed in and I

couldnt fall back asleep.
I started sleeping under the pullout bed, because it was dark
there. Gram didnt catch me for more than a month. The windows in my room have blinds now, but sometimes, when I cant
sleep, I find myself crawling under the bed and staring at the bedsprings like theyre constellations.
I didnt even bother trying to fall asleep last night. When Im
done washing my face I find some Listerine under the sink and
swish a bit in my mouth. No reason to redo the bun I slept in.
Whats the point? Theres no way Ill look worse than my father.
Maggie is making French toast when I get downstairs. A
coffeemaker gurgles on the counter.
Milk or cream? she asks, gesturing to the mug shes left out
for me. I dont have the heart to tell her I hate coffee.
I shrug. Either is fine.
Maggie tilts the pan and flips a slice of bread. I tried to get
Callie up, but shes not feeling well.
I sit down at the kitchen table. I heard Callie sneak in at three
this morning. Ill bet anything shes hungover. Once Callie started
high school, the red Solo cups in her Facebook pictures started
popping up like mushrooms.
Shes missing her competition. Maggie frowns, adjusting the
heat on the stove. But I figure Ill let her slide. Its the summer.
My muscles tense up as I realize this means that Callie probably wont be able to avoid me all day. Especially not if her mother
has anything to do with it.
I called Callie every day for a week once I got to Florida. Every
time, Maggie answered. Callie was either at twirling practice, or
riding bikes with Ariel Kouchinsky, or finishing up her homework.

Maggies voice became more desperate and apologetic every day.

She didnt want me to give up.
Eventually my calls stretched out to once a week, then once a
month. Then they stopped altogether.
This past year, Maggie called on my birthday and sent us a
card for Christmas. She didnt mention Callie either time.
Three years ago, I spotted Callie in the last place I thought
shed be: an online forum dedicated to discussing the Ohio River
Monster murder trial. She made only one post. It was two lines,
telling the other posters to shut upwhat did they know about
the case, they were a bunch of wannabe lawyers living in their
moms basements. She signed off with Wyatt Stokes is a murderer and never came back to defend herself against the swarms
of people demanding, Prove it.
I know it was Callie; she used the same username shes used
for everything since we were tentwirlygirly23.
I created an account and messaged her. Its me, Tessa. Ive
been reading this stuff too. She never responded.
In any event, she cant be thrilled that Im back to remind her
of the worst summer of our lives.
Maggie flops a piece of French toast onto my plate. I look up
and return her wan smile. We have to be at the prison by eight.

Fayette, Pennsylvania, looks worse during the day. Worse than
I remember. Maggie stops at the Quik Mart on Main Street to
get gas. Half the businesses are boarded up, or are hiding behind
Closed signs that are probably gathering dust.
A big part of Fayette died with the steel industry in the early

L AURA MCNEAL

Alfred A. Knopf
New York

KEEP READING FOR A SNEAK PEEK. . . .

this is a borzoi book published by alfred a. knopf

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product
of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright 2016 by Laura McNeal
Front cover photograph of bridge copyright 2016
by Micha Pawlitzki/Getty Images
Front cover photograph of boat copyright 2016
by Alison Langley/Getty Images
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by
Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Childrens Books,
a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of
Penguin Random House LLC.
Visit us on the Web! randomhouseteens.com
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at
RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: McNeal, Laura, author.
Title: The incident on the bridge / Laura McNeal.
Description: First Edition. | New York : Alfred A. Knopf, 2016. | Summary: When
Thisbe Locke is last seen standing on the edge of the Coronado Bridge, it looks like
there is only one thing to call it. As the town prepares to mourn the loss, her sister Ted,
and Fen, the new kid in town, are not convinced and they set out to figure out what
happened on that bridge and find Thisbe.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015024304 | ISBN 978-0-375-87079-8 (hardback) |
ISBN 978-0-375-97079-5 (lib. bdg.) | ISBN 978-0-307-97461-7 (ebook)
Subjects: | CYAC: Mystery and detective stories. | SistersFiction. |
BridgesFiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Self-Esteem
& Self-Reliance. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Emotions & Feelings. |
JUVENILE FICTION / Family / Siblings.
Classification: LCC PZ7.M47879365 Inc 2016 | DDC [Fic]dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015024304
The text of this book is set in 12-point Bembo Book MT.
Printed in the United States of America
April 2016
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
Random House Childrens Books supports the First Amendment
and celebrates the right to read.

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IMPULSE

Thisbe had to stop. She had to quit obsessing about Clay and

Jerome and college and ride her bike down to Glorietta Bay,
where she always felt better, where she had researched and
written The Effect of Pleasure Boating on the Mid-Intertidal
Zone, the best paper Ms. Berron had ever seen from a high
school student. She should stare into the murky water until she
saw the rippling edges of a stingray as it fluttered its way along
the rocks. That was a reliable thrill: wild animal, you, chance.
Contact with an alien world.
She changed into shorts and found her notebook, but she
couldnt help it: she lay back down. She knew what she should
have done, but she couldnt go back to February and do it. That
was the problem.
Take, for instance, the morning the doorbell rang. A Saturday. Bright and beautiful.
Shed still been asleep, which was why she hadnt answered the
door right away. Shed called out several times in a not very
1

patient voice, Could someone please answer the door? No one

had answered her, and the bell rang again. The sofas were empty
when she huffed herself out of bed and down the stairs. Sections
of the New York Times flung over the kitchen island. Coffee cups
drained. A single pancake dry at the edges on a sticky plate. Finally she remembered her sister Teds regatta in Alamitos Bay.
That was where everyone had gone.
She opened the front door, and there it was: A fortune cookie
on a paper plate. Not in a wrapper but under plastic wrap like
when you made cookies yourself and gave them to somebody.
When she pulled the plastic off, the cookie smelled of almonds.
She scanned the giant hedge between her house and Mrs. Js: nobody there. The Greenbaughs magnolia trees: nobody. Nothing but lawns, parked cars, and flickeringsun.
A gift or a prank? She didnt want someone to drive by
and see her in her pajamas, so she bent down (careful not to
show cleavage), grabbed the plate, and paused. It might be one
of those things she heard about all the time but had never personally experienced, proposal bombs; no, it was some madeup word promposals. Like when the guys from the water polo
team had painted one letter per bare chest to spell P-R-O-M-?
to ask Emily Jenks to go with. . . was it Bruce Greckenthaler?
Thisbe forgot which guy, but maybe this was like that. And the
cookie could be for Ted. That was a depressing thought. Ted
was only fourteen, and guys hit on her all the time. On Valentines Day, Mike Rounderman had left roses for her. Red ones.
And he was a junior.
Thisbe wanted the fortune cookie to be from Jerome, but
that was crazy. Jerome didnt like her. If he did, he would have
smiled back at Thisbe in the quad and picked her to be in his
2

small group when Mr. Shao had asked for volunteers to take the
pro-Shylock side.
Thisbe stood there holding the plate. Should she set it back
down or take it inside? Say something ironic to the empty street?
No, that would be dumb. It was normal to take the plate inside
even if it wasnt for her. She shut the door behind her and then
spied through the peephole in case someone made a run for it,
but no one did.
The fortune was actually sticking out. Just a bit. And the
seam of the cookie was pretty wide. Thisbe could push the fortune back in if it was meant for Ted, and who could blame her
for looking, anyway? The plate had no name on it.
She tugged, and the paper slipped free.
TRUST ME, THISBE, it said.
Thisbe, not Ted. The good feeling started small and flared
to every corner of the room. It had to be Jerome, because who
else would even be worried about whether she trusted him?
Two nights earlier, he had come over to study. They had stood
together right here, on this very rug. Shed felt bad because of
the way the night had ended, with him thinking she thought
he was a stoner when she didnt. Shed smiled at him in the
quad the next day and he hadnt smiled. Or maybe he hadnt
seen her?
TRUST ME.
Shed had no conversations with other guys. Only Jerome.
On the back, under Lucky Numbers, it said: 25 29 66.
The date for prom? Not unless she was going to the prom in
the twenty-fifth month of 1966. Maybe they were just random
numbers. They probably didnt mean anything at all.
Awesome, she thought. She took pride in never saying
3

that word, but she thought it now. Because really it was awesome: Jerome Betchman, who was more interesting than Mike
Rounderman on every level, was (1) romantic, (2) creative,
(3)not mad at her. Hed gone to a lot of trouble to show her that.
She stuck her eye to the peephole again and saw a white car.
The sun falling slantwise through the window on her bare feet
was even brighter now, and she broke off a tiny piece of cookie
to eat. Fortune cookies were the worst dessert in the world, to
be honest, worse even than pecan sandies, but this one was sort
of buttery, like a crepe, and she had to make herself stop nibbling because she wanted to keep it forever. She took the broken
cookie to her room and wrapped it in a tissue and set it in a yellow tin box that said Sunshine State. Then she sat down on her
bed to tell Jerome that she got the fortune cookie and she loved
it so much and she did trust him. Of course she did! She was
sorry shed ever worried what her mother thought of him. But
what should she do? Call him?
No. Her voice would sound too excited. Quavery. She would
talk too fast and say too much. If she texted him, though, she
could compose it all first. Think it through. Write and revise.
Then send.
Thanks for the cookie, she typed.
Did it need an exclamation point? Thanks for the cookie!
Still not that impressive. Thanks for the amazing cookie!!!!!!!
No. Too delirious. Just: Thanks for the cookie!
Should she add an emoji? She didnt normally use emojis, but
Ted said that was why Thisbe always sounded like a cranky old
hagball.
Just one. A heart, maybe. Not a red one but a blue one. Or
was there a fortune cookie emoji somewhere in her phone? She
4

looked at all the tiny pictures, and although there were a whole
bunch of cute ones and a lot of truly weird ones, none of them
made sense in this context.
Okay. Just, Thanks for the cookie! and heart picture. Deep
breath. Send.
There it went.
She sat expectantly for five minutes. Nothing happened.
The sun shone. Wind clattered through a palm frond. A bird
sang.
She would take a shower and then see if she got a message.
Nothing. Not at 12:30, 1:30, 2:30, 3.
As the hours passed, she did an outline for history, a Spanish
assignment, and all of her calc. Practiced the piano. Ate not one
but two muffins. The only message she received was from Ted.
Bullet in the third race!

Bullet as in first place.

Congrats! She typed. The day was eight million years long.
All the sunshine was going to waste, but she couldnt think what
to do with it. If Jerome had left the cookie for herif anyone
had, really!he or the random stranger would be wondering if
she got it, right? Wondering what she thought. Waiting to hear
back from her. But clearly Jerome wasnt.
The answer she was waiting for finally came after dark. Two
stony words.
All that Jerome said was, What cookie?
She waited a few minutes so it wouldnt seem like she was
one of those people who constantly checked their phone. She
felt so confused and deflated now. Prickly all over her skin and
in her stomach. Something was wrong, obviously. She typed:
The fortune cookie.

Sorry. Wasnt me.

It wasnt? Oh. Okay! My mistake. No heart shape or koala bear

or smiley face. There was no emoji for this.
The conversation ended. Sat there like a dead thing. No matter how many times she reread it, she couldnt find any desire
on Jeromes part to talk with her. Shed gotten a cookie from
someone, and the cookie wasnt from him. Of course he would
be terse.
But who had sent the cookie? And why? She opened the tin
box and picked up the curved shards she hadnt eaten. She bit off
another piece and tasted it as if the flavor might provide a clue.
It wasnt quite as delicious now. She turned the message over
again and read Lucky Numbers 25 29 66. There was
nothing lucky about them, as far as she could see.
The next fortune cookie appeared in her backpack after lunch
on Monday, in the front pocket where she kept her pencils. Jerome was in class as usual, sitting slightly behind her and far to
the right. Thisbe stared at the cookie briefly and left it there,
straightening herself in the chair. If she unwrapped the cookie
on her desk or even in her lap, everyone near her was going to
notice, including Jerome and Mr. Shao. She glanced around to
see if anyone was watching her lean back down for the second
time to take a pencil out of her bag. Jerome wasnt looking right
at her, but he seemed to be aware of her self-consciousness, so
she turned back to Mr. Shao and listened to the difference between metonymy and synecdoche.
She would have to wait. All through class. She waited and
she thought about the cookie wrapped in plastic.
It seemed weird to go to a bathroom stall to unwrap something you might eat, but thats what she did after the bell. Peeled
6

the plastic, broke the cookie open, and slid the paper out. It had
the exact same lucky numbers on the back25 29 66
so they must mean something. And this time the fortune said:
YOUARE SO MYSTERIOUS.
What was she supposed to make of that?
She didnt eat any of it. She was in the bathroom, first of all,
and that would be gross. She wrapped the broken halves and
tucked them in her backpack and felt distracted the whole rest
of the school day, wondering if she was missing something, if
someone was watching her.
She stayed after school to make up a physics lab, so it was
nearly 3:30 when she went to her bike. Only a few people were
walking around when she reached for her helmet and saw it,
another cookie, right there in her basket. She froze. A girl in a
purple jacket, Wendy something, was walking slowly, so slowly
to the gym. Thisbe waited, fiddling with her lock. No one else
was nearby. The windows of the classrooms were tinted, so she
couldnt see anything in them but reflected palm trees and brick
walls. Finally she just picked up the cookie like it was a normal
thing and untwisted the plastic and pulled out the fortune.
PLEASURE AWAITS YOU BY THE SEA, it said. Same
lucky numbers.
Corny, but in a good way?
No one appeared at a school window. No one stood by a
car in the parking lot, waiting for her. The two boys walking
with their lacrosse sticks barely noticed her. And yet, riding
away from the school, she felt strangely good, as if the messages
meant something had changed about her.
Every day that week she reached into her backpack with a
little knot of hope in her stomach and looked into her bicycle
7

basket the way you looked under bushes during an Easter egg
hunt. Nothing on Tuesday. Nothing on Wednesday. Nothing
on Thursday. On Friday she went to her bike at the usual time
after school, in a crush of people, and finally, finally there it
was: a pale, curved cookie in plastic. She blushed. She couldnt
help looking around. People were talking to one another in the
usual way. Didnt they see it? A girl from Spanish said hello,
but Thisbe didnt move to point out or pick up the cookie because they didnt know each other all that well. She extracted
her bicycle in a haze, waited for more space to open up behind
her, rolled backward and then forward. She couldnt wait any
more, so she picked up the cookie, studied it self-consciously,
and stuck it in her pocket. No one said, Whats that?
Perhaps Clay had been watching from a distance, though,
because by the time shed crossed Orange Avenue and was riding along Seventh Street by the park, he was there. On a bike.
Beside her. Jeromes best friend, and surreally handsome. She
couldnt even look straight at him without blushing.
Arent you going to open it? he said.
What? she said.
You should open it.
Why?
Because you might want to answer me.
Okay, she said, though that wasnt what shed meant to
say. She wondered if he meant for her to stop right then, in
the street, at the corner where the Catholic kids were standing
around in their red shirts and their parents were waiting in a
line of shiny idling cars.
Maybe I will, she said, and she kept riding slowly along.
He stayed beside her for another block before he said, Youre
killing me.
8

Oh, yeah?
Yes. The suspense.
I turn here, she said. She stopped her bicycle, and he
stopped his.
So maybe you should open it now.
All right. Again, that wasnt what she wanted to say. She
needed more time to think. Clay Moorehead had asked her to
trust him? Clay Moorehead had sent her a message informing
her that pleasure awaited her by the sea? Not love or romance,
but pleasure?
She slowly peeled off the sticky plastic. She tried to remember that she was not a bimbo and she didnt need his approval.
The kind of thing her mother always tried to tell her when
Thisbes feelings were hurt.
So do you have a fortune cookie machine at home or
what? she asked. It was hard to breathe because everything was
strange. The sky was extra high up and the trees were in sharp
focus. She wished she werent wearing her dorky bike helmet.
No.
Do you order them from somewhere?
No. I make them. Someone else bakes them and I write the
messages.
Whos the someone? she asked. She had it all unwrapped
now and held the sweet, sticky curve of it in her hand.
Lourdes.
She raised her eyebrows. People kept streaming past them in
cars and on bikes, students from the high school most of them,
but none of them, thank God, were Jerome.
Oh, Clay said vaguely, as if he was embarrassed, she cooks
for all of us.
Lourdes makes all the cookies for all the girls? Thisbe said.
9

She could look at him, she found, right in his dark brown handsome eyes, if she was challenging him in some way.
He frowned and she noticed his dimple. He said, All what
girls?
She tried to sound jaded and indifferent. You know. The
others.
What others?
She was still holding the cookie, but she hadnt opened it.
The other girls youveshe searched for the right word,
peering at the blossoms on the orchid treebeen with.
Like. . . Penny Wheeler.
I didnt give her any fortune cookies.
Serena Tringman?
No. Just you.
Just me. Why did I get fortune cookies?
He shrugged. Sometimes you have to pull out the big guns.
He smiled at her, and his dimple was deeper when he did that.
Really. She cracked open the cookie and pulled out the
slip of paper. It said, DINNER AT CLAYTONS TONIGHT?
Claytons, the coffee shop? she asked.
Yeah. Is that bad? We could go somewhere else.
No! I just didnt know if Clayton was your full name or
something. She didnt say she thought he might be asking her
to eat at his house while referring to himself in the third person.
What? He laughed and seemed a little confused. No.
She loved the coffee shop. Maybe she could go to dinner
with him and see what he was like before she told her mother
anything about it. This idea hung in the air like the drowsy
blossoms on the orchid tree.
Whats with the lucky numbers? she asked. They were on
the back again: 25 29 66.
10

They spell my name.

How? she asked.
Like on a phone keypad. Remember that time in English,
freshman year?
She didnt.
We had to make up codes like in that one book. You dont
remember?
She did, dimly, but she was studying her phone keypad
and the numbers on the slip of paper. 6 equaled MNO, so 66
was...CL-AY-NO?
He stood close enough to touch her and shielded her screen
from the sunlight with his hand. Oh my God, he said. I didnt
think of that. Moorehead is too long, so I did my nickname.
Claymo. He laughed the way a confident person could laugh at
himself and stepped away. I guess it wasnt the greatest code.
She remembered that whole long day, sitting on her bed,
waiting for Jerome to write back. Depends, she said. Its
great for being hard to crack.
So will you? he asked.
A date. With Clay Moorehead. Who had made up a code
forher.
Sure, she said, but she had not ridden a single block before
she began to feel unsure.
Thisbe? her mother said, her voice buffered by the bedroom
door.
Thisbe hated how you couldnt keep feelings in a box the
way you kept the stuff that inspired them. All she could do
when she relived the fortune cookie morning was wish it had
never happened. Dont come in! she said.
Are you okay?
11

teresa tOten
teresa tOten
DELACORTE PRESS
DELACORTE PRESS

# BewareThatGirl

KEEP RE ADING FOR A SNE AK PEEK . . . .

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of
the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living
or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright 2016 by Teresa Toten
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of
Random House Childrens Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Published simultaneously in hardcover by Doubleday Canada, an imprint of Penguin Random
House Canada Limited, Toronto, in 2016.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of
Penguin Random House LLC.
Visit us on the Web! randomhouseteens.com
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at
RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Toten, Teresa, author.
Title: Beware that girl / Teresa Toten.
Description: New York : Delacorte Press, [2016] | Summary: When a scholarship girl and
a wealthy classmate become friends, their bond is tested when a handsome young teacher
separately influences the girls in order to further his less-than-admirable interests.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015028074 | ISBN 978-0-553-50790-4 | ISBN 978-0-553-50791-1 (glb) |
ISBN 978-0-553-50792-8 (ebook)
Subjects: | CYAC: FriendshipFiction. | SecretsFiction. | Mental IllnessFiction. |
PsychopathsFiction. | Teacher-student relationshipsFiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.T6458 Be 2016 | DDC [Fic]dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015028074
ISBN 978-1-524-70032-4 (intl. tr. pbk.)
The text of this book is set in 11.6-point Augustal.
Book design by Stephanie Moss
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First U.S. Edition
Random House Childrens Books supports the First Amendment
and celebrates the right to read.

FREE SAMPLENOT FOR SALE

Tuesday, MarCh 22

K ATE

AND

OL IV IA

Neither girl moved. The young blonde on the bed didnt move because she
couldnt, and the blonde in the chair didnt because, well, it seemed that
she couldnt either.
Two doctors, a nurse and an orderly barged in, disturbing their silence.
They lifted the body in the bed using a sheet, changed the bedding, checked
her pulse and heart rate, tapped, touched and shone lights into unseeing
eyes. This time they removed the long cylindrical tube that had been taped
to the girls mouth. The withdrawal of the tube was ugly.
The body seized, arced and then spasmed.
When they left, the girl in the chair resumed her vigil numbed by the
reek of ammonia and latex. The doctors never told her anything, so shed
stopped asking. The bedridden girl was attached to a tangled mess of tubes
and wires. They led from her battered body to several monitors and a single
pole that branched out like a steel tree blooming with bags of IV fluid.
Things beeped and hummed on a random timetable that neither girl heard.
In the forty-eight hours since their arrival, the girl in the chair rarely broke

her vigil to stretch, sleep or go to the bathroom. Her normally perfect blond
hair clung to her scalp, greased darker now with sweat, mud and dried
blood.
She sat spellbound by the monitors, by the ever-changing colored dots,
the indecipherable graphs and especially the wavy green line. The green line
was important. She didnt waver, not in all those hoursnot until Detective
Akimoto cleared his throat in the doorway. She struggled to meet his eyes.
Im sorry, but Im going to need you to step outside for a moment.
The girl turned to her friend, whose mouth was red and angry from
where the tape had been ripped away.
The detective flipped open a small black notepad.
He clicked his pen several times.
Now, please.
Other men were outside, milling about the corridor. Cops.
We have a few questions about your friend, and also about a . . .
Mr. Marcus Redkin.
Mark.
She rose slowly. The room swayed in the effort. Yes, sir. She stole one
more glance at the wavy green line.
The girl on the bed was no longer inert, not entirely. But no one saw.
Words fell out of her mouth, silently slipping off the sheets and onto the
ground.
But no one heard.

Thursday, September 17

KAT E

Im not a pathological liar and I dont lie for fun. I only lie because
I have to. Thing is, Ive always lied, because Ive always had to. Im
comfortable with the weight of my lies. So Im good. Thats all there
is to it. Well, that and I want a better life. Wait, thats a lie. I want a
big life.
And another thingdogs and little kids love me, so there goes
that lame old saying. Demented rich girls love me too. I am that
friend, the how-did-I-live-without-you friend. The you-are-such-ariot friend. The friend with the shoulders that are soggy from your
tears. I am the lifeline friend, and lifelines come with a price. But I
digress. Love that word, digress. Its snotty and not as easy to work
into a sentence as youd think.
Id been watching her for days.
The first few days were all about the hunt, about not walking
into walls. There was that familiar head-spinning hell of where to
go, who was who, dont make an ass of yourself at the new school,

etc., etc. But I can focus like nobody else. A handful of girls were
examined and dismissed. Too regular, too normal, too together or
(the true kiss of death) not genuinely loaded, even though they
seemed to have all the trappings. I know the difference. Before
coming here, I spent most of high school out west in the very best
private girls schools. I was the scholarship kid, the boarder. The
girl you convinced your parents to bring home for weekends, for
holidays. Ive had plenty of practice.
See, I know how whack these girls are behind their armor of
Range Rovers and Louboutins. There had to be someone. My meal
ticket was in this senior class somewhere.
And then, at the beginning of week two, there she wasall born
blonde and rich and just messed up enough. Beautiful, no cliques
and reeking of Lexapro or Paxil or something. Mind you, that could
apply to half the school. But this girl was like an extra. There was
definitely something. Olivia Michelle Sumner: if that doesnt spell
money, I dont know what does. She was head-to-toe Barneys and
Bloomies, preppy with a price. The rest of the girls gave her a wide
berth even as they squealed, Welcome back, Olivia! Youre back!
Great to see you! Hey, wow! But they werent her people. That
was clear. Olivia kind of glided around on remote control. There
was a story there. Excellent. Olivia Sumner and I shared only one
class, AP English, but thats all it takes.
Watch me now.
Pay close attention.
Survival of the fittest, baby.

Friday, September 18

OL IV IA

Olivia cradled the phone, shaking her head. No, Dad, it was fine.
More than fine, really. Just like you said. She paced the length of
the sunken living room. When that was no longer calming, she
stepped up into the dining room, circling the stainless steel table,
then veered through the library and eventually invaded all four
bedrooms one by one. Olivia stayed out of the kitchen. Anka was
throwing pots around and cursing the Cuisinart. The whole week
was a nonevent, just like we thought. It was the right decision not
to transfer out.
She found herself back in the living room. No, the teachers
didnt make an obvious fuss, but they let me know they were
there for me in the very best Waverly fashion. Olivia hovered over
more than sat on the mohair chaise before getting up and pacing
again.
Well, as I suspected, AP English is going to be intense because
I got Ms. Hornbeck again. Thank God Ive already read the Albee

play and the Cormac McCarthy. But I may need a tutor to keep
me in solid merit-scholar range, okay? Where was that Cormac
McCarthy book? She drifted to her room, forgot why she went there
and drifted out again.
No, I can sleepwalk through math and physics, you know
that. Now she was in her fathers bedroom. Sleek burled oaks and
flannels in varying hues of gray and taupe embraced her. She let
them. Olivia loved his room. The soft buttery gold of the LED art
lights glowed against the Modigliani and Caravaggio sketches.
The art rested quietly against walls covered with charcoal fabric
that warmed the room, making it feel safe, making it feel like her
father. No, nowhere. Im buried in work already. Itll take me
all weekend to dig myself out. Yeah. She nodded. Just a little
rusty.
The rest of the penthouse featured impenetrable modern Brazilian art juxtaposed with ancient Chinese sculptures. It looked as if
it was curated, which of course it was. Wife number two. But here,
in his haven, was the closest her father came to the traditional, and
to himself.
No, just every other Wednesday now. I told you that yesterday.
She stifled a groan. Yeah, still five fifteen. Look, it was Dr. Tamblyns suggestion. Hes super positive. Olivia glimpsed herself in
his mirror and turned away. Of course I am. Check with Dr. Tamblyn whenever you want. I wont ever go off the meds again. Lesson
learned, big-time. She gripped the phone so tightly that it dug
a groove in the palm of her hand. I promise, never. Can we stop?
Im good, were good. Besides, Anka is here and shes a hawk. Hey,
you just tie up all those big international deals so that we can keep
the lights on in this place. She was smiling, but Olivia could feel
the weight of his worry pressing against her.
Well, you knowshe sat on and then got up off the manicured

bedthey were fine. What time was it? Her stomach began to
foam. No longer soothed by the Modigliani and all that gray flannel, Olivia was on the move again. Back to the living room, back
to the floor-to-ceiling windows stretching the length of the penthouse. She became mesmerized by the art outside the windows,
the whole expanse of Central Park and the beckoning lights from
the Dakota. Having New York at her feet cushioned her soul.
I dont really know the girls, Dad. Remember, they were juniors
last year, a full year younger, and last year, well, was last year. But
theyve been fine. Have they? There must be gossip. Did it matter?
Come on, its Waverly, Dad. Anyone whos anyone has their shrink
on speed dial. The sky had slipped out of its silky purple dress into
a basic black. Im sure Ill find a friend. And if not, its only a year,
right?
She liked the inky-black sky best, always had. It was soothing.
No, I didnt mean that. Of course Ill find friends. Hey, do you
have to stay in Chicago before you head out to Singapore? She had
to stay focused. On Sunday? Thats great, Dad! Does Anka know?
Okay, Ill tell her. No, Id rather just go to our bistro. Ill call.
Olivia walked back to the chaise. Is seven thirty okay? The
foam in her stomach bubbled. She had once described the foam
as a pink thing, a mixture of warm blood and spit. Yes. No, thatll
be great, Dad. Cant wait. Dr. Tamblyn had said the medication
would eventually take care of that too. Hed also said that she had
to be religious about taking it exactly on time.
Sure. Stopyou know Ill be fine. I love you too. Olivia put the
phone down. She sat on the chaise with her full weight this time.
And waited.
Olivia? You off za phone wit Mr. Sumner? Anka strode in, wiping her hands on her apron. The housekeeper had a formidable
collection of aprons. Is not your time for za medications tablet? Is

six thirty oclock. Should be at six oclock, no? You want me to get
your waters? Olivia?
She was going to have to talk to Anka about backing off. Olivia
knew the schedule.
Instead, she nodded, sighed and then waited to feel something. Anything.

BOOK 1

D
E
G
A
C
UN
R M E NA C E
T H E S IN G U L A

JOHN SANDFORD
& MICHELE COOK

KEEP READING FOR A SNEAK PEEK. . . .

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of
the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living
or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright 2014 by John Sandford and Michele Cook
Cover photograph copyright 2014 by Zmeel/Getty Images
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Ember, an imprint of Random House
Childrens Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. Originally
published in hardcover in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random
House Childrens Books, New York, in 2014.
Ember and the E colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Visit us on the Web! randomhouseteens.com
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at
RHTeachersLibrarians.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition of this work as follows:
Sandford, John.
Uncaged / John Sandford & Michele Cook. First edition.
p. cm. (The singular menace ; book 1)
Summary: When an animal rights action at a research lab goes wrong, a terrible secret is
exposed, and Shay must find her brother Odin before the researchers at Singular Corp. can
silence both of them.
ISBN 978-0-385-75306-7 (trade) ISBN 978-0-385-75307-4 (lib. bdg.)
ISBN 978-0-385-75308-1 (ebook)
[1. Adventure and adventurersFiction. 2. AnimalsTreatmentFiction. 3. Protest
movementsFiction. 4. Brothers and sistersFiction. 5. Science fiction.] I. Cook, Michele.
II. Title.
PZ7.S21628Unc 2014
[Fic]dc23
2013044491
ISBN 978-0-385-75305-0 (pbk.)
Printed in the United States of America
10987654321
First Ember Edition 2015
Random House Childrens Books supports the First Amendment
and celebrates the right to read.

FREE SAMPLENOT FOR SALE

IN THE END . . .
The naked girl stared at herself in the motel mirror, a little sick with
what she was about to do. She was slender, with muscles in her arms
and shoulders, and red hair that fell to her waist. A scratch trailed
from her hairline down to one eyebrow; her lower lip was swollen,
raw on the inside where her teeth had cut into it. She had the salty
taste of blood in her mouth.
Shed just gotten out of the shower, where shed scrubbed someone elses blood off her clothes and body.
Now for the hair. Has to be done, she thought.
She shook out the Walgreens bag. A pair of shears, a comb,
and a box of Clairol Nice n Easy clattered down onto the Formica
counter beside the sink. Behind her, the gray, wolflike dog was on
its feet, watching her, picking up on the stress; the dog made a rumbling sound in its throat.
She turned and said, Youre gonna get it too.
The motel was a dump, built a half century earlier, twenty rooms

stretched along a broken-blacktop parking lot. The room smelled

of cigarette smoke, sweat, urine, whiskey, and disinfectant. The windows were glazed with dirt, and the venetian blinds were yellow
with age. The bed was short and lumpy, covered with a shiny maroon bedspread that she didnt want to touch.
Instead of throwing her clothes on the bed, shed hung them on
a hook by the shower. The wooden handle of a wicked knife stuck
out of a sheath tucked inside the back pocket of the jeans.
An ancient television sat on a corner table. It didnt work. The
room had one solid appliance: the big chain on the door, which, she
thought, it probably needed.

The motel office was down at the far end of the building. When
shed walked in a half hour earlier, the clerk, a too-thin, windburnt
man in his forties with a hard, bobbing Adams apple, had said, We
dont usually take dogs.
She ignored the comment. How much for the room?
He looked her over. She wore a hoodie pulled down over her
forehead, and sunglasses. The bottom part of her face was pretty,
except for a bruised lip. Her only luggage was a mans leather briefcase.
Could be free, depending, he said, trying to be cool about it.
He failed. The office looked like it hadnt been cleaned since the
place was built, with paper trash everywhere. A dusty box of Snickers candy bars was propped next to the cash register, the same cash
register that had a truckers bumper sticker stuck to it that read ass,
grass or cash, nobody rides free.
rides

Somebody had crossed out the

with a Magic Marker and written above it sleeps.

I dont want free, the girl said. She dug a twenty-dollar bill out

of her jeans, held it up with two fingers. For me and the dog. I only
want the room for a couple of hours, for a shower and a nap. I dont
need a receipt.
He looked her over again, then reached under the counter and
produced a key on a tag. Youre in room eighteen. Be out by one
oclock. You bring in any guys, I get a cut.
Wont be any guys, she said. She snapped the bill down onto
the counter, took the key, and was out of there.

Standing naked in front of the mirror, she picked up the shears and
ran her fingers through her hair. No more sentimental moments; she
started cutting. When she was done, long curls of red hair lay in the
sink, like streaks of blood.
In the mirror, shed changed: she looked lighter, thinner, almost
elfin; the short hair emphasized her high cheekbones. Shed cut it
just short of punk.
Now for the color. She took two bottles, a tube of conditioner,
and some gloves out of the Clairol box, read the instructions,
poured the color into the activator, and began working the black
dye through her hair. Because her hair was so short, shed need less
than half of it. Behind her, the dog whimpered.
Smells like cat pee, huh?
When she was finished, she picked up the comb, got the bottle,
and said, Cmere boy.
The dog whimpered again.

An hour later, they were done. She pulled on her damp shirt, put
the comb and shears in the briefcase, and used the last of the motel

towels to dry her hair and the dogs. He was contributing a whole
new stink to the smelly room.
Lets get your collar back on, she said. You look undressed.
The dog had been a silver gray. Shed used the comb to drag the
color through the hair on his forehead, back, and sides, but hadnt
tried to get all of it. He looked pretty good in black and gray: like an
off-brand German shepherd.
She looked off-brand herself. Different. So different that after
she buckled the collar on the dog, she turned and examined herself
in the mirror for a long minute, getting used to it.
Shay Remby was gone. Who was this new girl?
She moved the sheath and knife to the small of her back, pulled
on her hoodie, and picked up the briefcase. The dog was already at
the door. She clipped on his leash, tossed the room key on the table
next to the TV, and then they were out of the motel and walking
down the street, moving fast.
There had to be good parts of Stockton, California, she thought,
but this wasnt one of them. The streets were rough, the buildings
decrepit. Broken windows were everywhere; the ones that werent
broken were covered with bars or heavy mesh screens. A gang was
busy tagging the bare concrete walls and every other flat place they
could find.
She turned the corner and saw Spartan Assembly straight ahead.
She had no idea what was done there. A factory of some kind, she
thought, with fifty cars parked outside. The best place to hide a car,
shed learned in the last few days, is a crowded parking lot.
Youre gonna smell up the Jeep, she said to the dog. I love
you anyway.
The dog rumbled at her.
The black Jeep Rubicon, almost new, sat in the middle row of the

parking lot. She popped the door, let the dog jump into the drivers
seat, then pushed him over to the passenger side. A moment later,
they were moving, the girl and the dog turning their heads to look
out the windshield, the side and back windows.
On guard against the world.
Running.

1
IN THE BEGINNING . . .
The leader of the group had the Taser, a snub-nosed stun gun that
looked like a miniature Super Soaker. There were six baseball bats
and two commercial bolt cutters scattered among them, hung on
loops beneath casual jackets. A seventeen-year-old boy, muscled up
from white-water kayaking, had the ten-pound sledgehammer. They
all carried ski masks and heavy work gloves.
Twelve young people altogether, male and female in equal numbers, most still in their teens. If they were stopped by the police,
there would be no defense for the gear, so they were on edge, jumpy,
looking around as they walked.
Ready to run.
But the distance from the cars was short, and the exposure was
brief. A risk that had to be taken.

They had one big fence to get through.

The fence was twelve feet high, with razor wire on the top: they
6

couldnt climb it. The bottom of the fence was set in a band of concrete: they couldnt dig under it. They couldnt cut through it, or
even touch it, because of a spiderweb of motion alarms.
There was one possible entry, at a back gate. The gate, which was
almost never used, was secured with an electronic lock that opened
only with the right magnetic card.
They didnt have one of those. They did have a deck of obsolete
cards, kept by the son of a former researcher. The boy was a computer hacker whod studied the cards for years and claimed to have
found the algorithm by which the codes were updated.
Eventually, one of the women in the group had paid attention
to what he was saying. Shed led him through cyber attacks on several animal lab facilities, and the damage had been impressive. The
woman took the high school senior as a lover to tie him more tightly
to the group.
Two weeks earlier, hed stuck a recorder card into the electronic
lock to get a reading on the current lock code. A few hours later,
hed produced a new card that he swore would open the gate and
silence the alarms around it.
Some of the members of the group had their doubts, but the boy
didnt. He was ultimately convincing.
All twelve of the raiders were committed, some more committed
than others. At least two would give great sighs of relief if the card
failed and they couldnt get in.

The target was a research laboratory near the university in Eugene,

Oregon, a heavy user of live animals: the usual mice and rats, but
also rabbits, cats, and rhesus monkeys. The labs website was glossy
and vaguea lot of PR double-talk about searching for a cure for
Parkinsons disease. But they had an insider who told them that
7

something else was going on, something a lot stranger and meaner.
The animals, he said, were being used and abused in ways that had
no relevance to Parkinsons or any other disease.
Theyre trying to make robots out of living beings is the way
he put it. I dont know why, but I think theyre planning to make
robots out of people. Theyve killed hundreds of those monkeys,
and theyre killing more all the time.
The raiders were ready to believe. Theyd all been involved in
tree sitting, and tree spiking, and then more extreme environmental
sabotage actions. They all knew each other and their various levels
of commitment. Five of the twelve had been to jail at least once. The
others had been luckier.
Or faster.

They crossed the parking lot in three groups, through the dense,
fishy odor of the Willamette River, and converged on an alley between two anonymous warehouse buildings. The alley was the riskiest part, the part where itd be almost impossible to run, where they
could be trapped.
They saw no one.
Emerging from the alley, they moved sideways down the back of
one of the buildings to three large Dumpsters that smelled of rotting
vegetables and spoiled milk. The Dumpsters were fifty feet from the
gate and provided temporary concealment.
The leader checked the power level on the Taser, then said,
Masks, everyone.
The black knit ski masks came out of their jacket pockets.
Sixteen-year-old Aubrey Calder giggled nervously as she fitted the
breathing hole around her lip-glossed mouth and whispered, Im
seriously wetting my pants.
8

You say that every time, but were six for six, said Christopher,
the sledge guy. This is gonna work. This is gonna be awesome.

The leader, the old man of the group at twenty-three, peeked

around the Dumpster, scanned the orange sodium-vapor security
lights, and said quietly, Im going for the gate. Ethan led from the
front, and it gave confidence to the others. Hed already done two
years at Washingtons Coyote Ridge Corrections Center, where hed
learned to make pillows and mattresses. My time in the joint, he
called it. It gave him a certain cred.

The target building seemed like a newer brick warehouse, an

unfriendly one: small windows too high to see into and covered
with wire-mesh screens. There were larger windows at the front
of the building, but those looked into the lobby, and the lobby
was secured from the rest of the building by locked reinforced
steel doors. There were no signs identifying the building as a laboratory.
They would go in through a steel service door on the side of
the building, for which they had a key provided by the insider. He
couldnt get them an electronic key card for the gate because he
had no reason to have one, or to ask for one. He couldnt ask for a
service-door key, either, but he could be alone with a janitors key
ring for long enough to press both sides of the key into layers of clay
inside an Altoids tin.
Given perfect impressions, the raiders could make their own key.
And they had.

THE

S I N G U L A R M E NA C E
SER I ES

Illustration 2015 by Adrian Neal / Getty Image

BY NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHORS

TheSingularMenace.com

KIDNAPPINGS, RUNAWAYS,
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