BROKEN SYMMETRY: A Young Adult Science Fiction Thriller (5 page)

I scanned the new slide, but couldn’t locate the straggler. “It looks normal,” I said.

“Did you count them?”

After a moment, I answered. “Forty-eight.” 

“That’s right,” she said with a smile. “That means you inherited the extra chromosome from your father, and one from your mother
—
who I’m guessing also had forty-seven.”

“Does that mean I’m mentally retarded or something?”

“Considering your personality, I think it’s safe to say it hasn’t affected your intelligence.” She must have picked up on my skepticism, though, because she continued to explain. “Think of DNA as a complicated computer program. While most people have certain instructions in their DNA, you have those same instructions but you also have an additional program installed.”

“A program for what?”

“It’s just an analogy. Most likely the genes in those extra chromosomes are just junk. I doubt they’ll ever open up and express themselves.”

“So they’re shy?”

She laughed. “Exactly, and since they don’t interfere with the rest of your DNA, you’ll never notice them. However, I should mention one thing.”

I swallowed. “What?”

“As we grow older, genes can
—
and do
—
express themselves differently. It’s possible your dad’s extra chromosome
woke up
and started doing something to him. Earlier, I said medication was responsible for his injuries. Now, I’m thinking it could be this.”

“So I’m going to die young, like my father?”
And my mother
.

“Not necessarily,” she said. “You have two extra chromosomes, while he had one. Duplicity usually provides a measure of protection from these kinds of defects, but it’s something I want you to be aware of.”

I nodded.

She pulled out a pad and scribbled out a name. “I’d like to refer you to a specialist. I’m afraid in two minutes I’ve just about exhausted my knowledge. I guarantee he’ll know a lot more than I do about this type of Aneuploidy-47.”

It was on my way out of the hospital while wondering if I was even human that I managed to read her chicken scratch, and my heart froze. The sheet read simply:

Charles Donovan

963-0369

***

For the third time, the mystery led back to Charles Donovan: my father’s former employer, the primary suspect in his case, and now a specialist in a chromosomal disorder that he and I both had.

I should have sought him out first.

So there was something else hanging out in our DNA, an extra pair of dormant chromosomes. What the hell?

My first thought was to take the development to Joe, see what he had to offer. But with a pang of guilt, I remembered Joe was off the case.

Because of me.

I would have to visit Charles myself, whether or not he was responsible for my father’s death.

I spent that afternoon scanning the internet for his address. Though I had his phone number, I wanted to show up in person. I found the location of his office, just off the Interstate 5. 1066 Cudahy Place.

I grabbed my keys and ran to my car. I could catch them before they closed.

I passed into the seedy, industrial district, with low-rise office buildings packed between ominous warehouses with busted out windows. Dark alleys slunk by, and I was sure I could see figures loitering in the shadows.

I shivered at the thought of being stuck here after dark. That’s when it got scary.

I pulled up to an unimpressive-looking low rise industrial office building, mostly reflective glass and cheap fake stone façade. The letters
ISDI
protruded from the wall in green block letters, and below them, in smaller blue letters,
Intelligent Symmetry
.

What was this, a software company?

ISDI.
I muttered the letters out loud. They sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place them.

I took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

Chapter 5

The office had
hit bad times.

Stacks of plump, used-up looking files smothered every inch of useable space, and the office’s sole desktop computer whirred at an empty cubicle, abandoned like the rest of the room. 

A guy, a high school senior no doubt, lay sprawled out on a couch, a Samsung laptop perched on his stomach and punk rock blaring through his headphones. His army boots took up half the coffee table, crumpling what looked like unfinished homework. He didn’t look up at me.

But I kind of wished he would.

It was hard to miss his lush, perfectly gelled hair, brooding eyebrows, and soaring cheekbones. And lips that made Cupid’s bow look like a kindergarten art project.

He was not from my school. If he was from my school, I would have noticed him.

A throat clearing behind me snapped me out of my daze. I whipped around and faced the office’s other employee, a blonde receptionist I’d somehow missed, glaring at me through slitted eyes.

In other words, Mr. GQ’s girlfriend.

“Can I help you?” she practically snarled, making it clear she intended to do no such thing.

I pretended I didn’t catch her tone, refusing her the pleasure of intimidating me. “I was referred to Mister Donovan.”

The receptionist bit down on her gum and stretched it over her tongue. “Do you have a name?”

“Blaire Adams.”

She blew a bubble and lifted the phone on her desk. “Dad, someone’s here to see you . . . Blaire Adams . . . uh-huh.” She hung up. “He’s coming down.”

Dad, huh?

She continued to scrutinize me, and only seemed satisfied when I chose an armchair farthest from the boy.

I didn’t like it one bit.
My
dad had worked here too, so why hadn’t he introduced me around the office? I’d assumed his work was unfit for kids. Clearly not.

I sat down and continued to survey the place, my eyes returning to the boy more often than I could help. Lining the walls, I noted the framed glossy photos of commercial interiors, pristine-looking laboratories, and a photo taken inside the white house.

High-end interior design and construction. My father’s work.

I glanced back at the secretary. Formidable as these two were, I had a hard time believing they were actually designers. Interns, probably.

“So is he coming down or what?”

“Be patient,” she said, reclining in her seat again and popping her gum. “He’ll come when he’s ready.”

“Today? Or next week?”

“Ah, Miss Adams,” said a smooth, deep voice from the bottom of the stairs, “how can I help you?”

I faced a handsome guy in his fifties with a full head of curly gray hair and warm eyes tucked behind frameless glasses.

Charles Donovan.

Sort of not who I expected

I stood up. “I’m here about
—
”

“I must say,” he said with a warm, firm handshake, “you’re a bit early, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Early? It’s five o’clock. Why does that matter?”

“No. But your internship doesn’t start for another three months.”

Oh.

That’s where I had seen ISDI. My acceptance letter.
Intelligent Symmetry Design & Interiors
. Whoops. I could already see my internship and my admission to Harvard flying out the door.

But as I studied Charles, a few things clicked into place. Somehow, without knowing it, I had applied to an internship at my father’s company. An odd coincidence, considering I had sought out this internship on my own.

No, not a coincidence.

I had been recruited. My biology teacher had announced the internship opportunity to the whole class; thinking back, I realized the whole thing was a setup. I was the only one qualified.

Charles had recruited me because I was my father’s daughter, not because I scored in the ninety-ninth percentile on the PSAT.

“So we’ll see you in three months?” said Charles, walking forward and holding the door open for me.

I didn’t budge. “I think we better have a talk right now.”

***

“Don’t worry,” he said, all smiles. “We’ll have time to cover everything when you start.”

“I haven’t accepted the internship yet,” I warned.

“Shall I consider this your acceptance?”

“Can I talk to you first?”

“I’m busy at the moment, but I’d be happy to set up something later,” he said.

I was not going home empty handed. “The doctor said I had an extra . . .” I glanced between the boy and the secretary, whose steely eyes targeted me once again. I changed my tone. “Can we talk in private?”

“Let’s do that.” Charles let the door shut and touched his daughter’s shoulder. “Amy-baby, check my calendar and see when I have a free hour. We’ll do her orientation early.”

“I’m not here for an orientation, Mister Donovan
—
”

“Please, call me Charles.” He beamed at me and headed for the stairs. “Amy will get you all set up.”

“Mister Donovan, what happened to my dad?” I called, halting him halfway up the stairs. “Where’s he been the last eleven months and why’d he show up last Thursday with no memory of me?”

Charles swiveled and regarded me with knitted eyebrows. He rubbed his chin, and finally let out a sigh and waved that I follow him.

About time.

At the top of the stairs, he led me down a hallway and past two steel doors, marked simply
A
and
B
. On the right, more photos of labs. But no more employees.

“We’ve been downsizing,” he said once we reached his office at the end of the hall in response to my unspoken question. He pulled the door shut behind us and motioned I sit across from the mahogany desk.

The moment the door latched, I became aware of the strange acoustics, like we were in a fishbowl. So quiet and still. Charles saw me glancing around, perturbed, and commented. “Soundproof glass. Same with the walls. This used to be a recording studio.”

“Doctor Johnson referred me to you,” I said, getting right to the point. “She said I had an extra chromosome.”

“Two, in fact,” said Charles. “Your mother was also a carrier. I knew them both.”

I raised my eyebrows. “A carrier?”

“Of a forty-seventh chromosome.”

“Is that why my dad died?”

Charles held my gaze. “I’m very sorry about your loss. He was one of our best.”

“One of your best what?
Designers?” I leaned forward. “Can we skip all this crap? I just want to know what happened to him. My dad’s dead, he’s been gone for a year, he used to work here, and now they’re saying he has a chromosomal disorder and died of internal bleeding
—
and my neighbor just committed suicide.” I paused. “That last one wasn’t you.”

“Look,” he said, leaning back, “I know you’re confused. I wish I could tell you what happened to your father, but I’m afraid it’s sensitive information that would damage the reputation of a former client.”

My jaw unclenched and fell.

Never, in eleven months, had I received the likes of Charles’s answer. He knew. Charles actually knew.

I nearly leapt onto the desk, my heart pounding. “What . . . what happened to him?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I can’t.”

“Because of a former client?” I stared in disbelief. “So you know exactly what happened to him
—
something even the police don’t know
—
and you’re not going to tell me because of a former client?”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Blaire, I just can’t.”

“This is my dad we’re talking about. He’s
dead
.”

“And that’s what makes it so hard for me.”

“Right before he died, do you know what he said about you?” I taunted, anger flushing my face.

Charles tilted upright, startled. “You actually spoke to him?”

I nodded, relishing what I hoped was panic in his voice.

“And he said something to you?”

Time to bluff. “He didn’t have to,” I said. “He wrote it all down in a diary, all the illegal stuff you did . . . all I have to do is read it. Should I be concerned about my safety?”

“A
diary
you say,” said Charles, suddenly more interested than alarmed. “Where is it?”

Before I could answer, though, the boy from the downstairs couch leaned into Charles’s office
—
instantly silencing me.

“Charles,” he said, “I’m good for tonight.”

Charles glanced up at the boy. “Absolutely not. You worked yesterday night.”

The boy opened his mouth to protest, but his eyes flicked to mine instead, and without a word he crossed his arms.

“What do
you
want?” I said when he didn’t look away.

“I work here. What do you want?”

“You’re an intern too?”

He sighed, shook his head, and disappeared down the hall.

Charles let out a chuckle. “Don’t mind Damian. Not the easiest to get along with, but he does brilliant work
—
reminds me so much of your father when he was younger.”

I faced Charles again. “For the last time, what happened to him?”

Charles smiled warmly. “I’m sorry, Blaire. It sounds like your dad lost his memory. What you described sounds exactly like symptoms of Chromosomal Aneuploidy-47.”

“Then why didn’t you just say that? So being a carrier . . . I’m screwed, basically.”

He chewed his lip. “Not necessarily. You have two extra chromosomes, not just one, which hopefully will provide a measure of protection from certain defects
—
”

“I know, I already got the lecture,” I said. “Why did Doctor Johnson even refer me to you? You’re not a medical specialist . . . I mean, what do you guys even do here?”

Without a hesitation, he answered, “high-end commercial and institutional interior design.”

“That’s a pretty compelling cover story,” I said, just to see how he’d react.

He smiled, but the corner of his eye twitched.

And I knew he was lying.

***

My dad always said the best place to find someone’s secrets was in their garbage can.

After my job interview with Charles, or whatever that useless meeting was, I drove off and parked a block up the street. Another tidbit of dad’s advice: make sure they see you leave.

I jogged back the way I’d come, scouting for the alleyway behind the row of warehouses and boarded up shops. The street appeared abandoned, and from the looks of it, ISDI was the only place around open for business.

Then the fear hit me. The sun was sinking fast, and I did not want to get caught out here after dark. Not alone.

Yet not a soul lingered. As far as I could see, just rows and rows of empty warehouses, abandoned industrial buildings, weed infested lots. I almost preferred to see a thug or two, or a hooker taking hits behind a fire escape.

But no one? It was almost sinister.

Behind the ISDI studio, two garages opened into a blind alley, both marked with a single letter.

A
and
B
.

Like the doors upstairs.

Between the garages, a metal chute jutted out of the building and emptied directly into an open dumpster.

Bingo.

I stepped up to the dumpster, glancing side to side to make sure nobody saw me, and peered over the edge
—
and what I saw made me flinch in surprise.

No trash. No papers. No body bags or bloody limbs.

Just broken shards of mirrors.

Millions of them, filling the dumpster to the brim. They installed them for their clients, no doubt. Tons of them.

My eyes returned to the spigot halfway up the wall, the source of the broken mirrors.

Movement caught my eye to my right, and I glanced at a window in the side of the building. The blinds snapped closed.

Someone had seen me. Two dark eyes lingered in my vision. But now as I stared at the blinds, hanging motionless and unperturbed behind the glass, I wasn’t even sure I hadn’t imagined it.

As I drove home, I mulled over my meeting with Charles
—
and what in the world it could mean that his biggest secret was a dumpster full of broken mirrors.

An idea struck me.

Today, I had come closer to answers than ever before. True to Joe Paretti’s intuition, my father’s disappearance tied back to his former employer, Charles Donovan
—
who, starting on June 30, would be my employer too.

I couldn’t wait until June 30, though.

What I could do was convince Charles to let me start the internship early.

***

On Wednesday morning before school, as a last ditch effort to get the diary back, I sprawled out on my stomach on my living room floor and wrote a letter to the mayor explaining why the diary had sentimental value to me and requesting that it be returned. Then I sealed the envelope, slapped on a stamp, and slipped it inside my mailbox for the mailman.

It was out of my hands now.

***

I returned to ISDI that afternoon after school and declared
—
perhaps overzealously
—
that I wanted to begin my internship as soon as possible. The effect was instantaneous . . . Charles retracted the offer. 

Now he circled me, massaging his chin and inspecting me. Behind him, Amy the secretary glared at me. Damian watched me also, leaning against the wall, arms folded. His smirk betrayed the sick kind of enjoyment he got at my predicament. I hated him already.

“You know,” Charles began, finishing his full circle around me, “now that I see you in the light, I don’t think I can use you.”

“But you already gave me the job.”

“Internship,” he corrected, “and that was before we met you, Blaire. You haven’t exactly been trying to impress me. I’m going to trust my better judgment and take back the offer.”

“I’m really sorry about yesterday,” I said. “I was flustered.”

Charles continued to study me. “Not only are you a liability, Blaire, but you draw attention to yourself. You’re distracting.”

“I’m not distracting.”

“I’m not talking about your personality.”

His words took a moment to register. “So, what, you’re saying I’m too pretty?”

He shrugged. “That’s one way to put it.”

I scoffed, and without thinking, gestured at Damian. “And he isn’t?”
Whoops.

Damian raised his eyebrow at me, and with that infuriating smirk firmly in place, mouthed, “too
pretty?
”

I rolled my eyes and ignored him. It wasn’t a compliment. I didn’t like pretty boys.

“He can be as pretty as he wants to be,” said Charles. “He’s my best. You on the other hand, would do well to blend in. In this business, we like plain.”

“Plain?” I repeated, staring blankly. Shouldn’t have worn my denim cutoff shorts. But it was mid-spring in Southern California; I didn’t really have a choice. I wiggled in an attempt to tug them down.

“Yeah,” said Damian. “Be more like Amy.”

The secretary threw him a mutinous glare, and I wondered if they might not be dating after all.

“Just let me try the work,” I said, in a final attempt. “I promise you, you won’t be disappointed.”