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  Dad pointed back the way we came. “We need to get moving again.”

  I walked ahead of him. “The men?”

  “I pay them. Most of them have been working for me since before your mother died.”

  “Like a security detail?” I stepped around mud and kept my eyes on my feet. “It all sounds . . . impossible. How are you able to afford all of this?”

  “Money isn’t an issue,” he said. “I’ve put you in danger by telling you too much. My journals are in a safe place and will be made public if anything happens to me. I believe the FBI is just doing their job. Sanctity released a false report through the NSA, which in turn shared the information with the FBI and the CIA—the latter two agencies don’t even know that Sanctity exists.”

  “What are they saying you did?”

  “They say I sold a recipe for biochemical weapons to a known enemy of the United States.”

  “Do you have the recipe they’re talking about?” I asked.

  He frowned.

  “Why don’t they just kill you? They have pictures of you standing over Luke. They must have been close.”

  “About that.” He paused.

  But the moment the words left his mouth my entire being zapped to attention, as if warning bells were sounding in my head, high alert!—and then Dad said, “I wasn’t even in California. Proof will be provided to the FBI.”

  “I don’t understand. The picture looked like you, and also that guy from the SUV.”

  “You’ve heard of Photoshop?” he said.

  “Then who did it? Why would anyone want to hurt Luke?” I asked.

  “It’s not about him. Sanctity will do anything to find me. Believe me that was an unsanctioned, off the record beating designed to force every law enforcement agency in the country to search for me. Not too mention how much help you can give them if you think I hurt that boy. Oh no, Beatrice, that was not personal at all.”

  I balled up my fists and sped up my pace. I was scared. I didn’t know who to believe. “Dad, why have you been gone for almost a year—”

  “Been on the run, Bea,” he snapped.

  “And you turn up after Mom dies? I needed you. She needed you.” I turned around and saw him wince.

  “I thought I was going to save her. I’m sorry. It was round-the-clock work, and a mobile research facility, until we . . .”

  He clucked his tongue, thinking, and then he scolded me. “Bea, you know almost everything. If I tell you any more, the whole thing will implode unless you run with me. And that’s no life for a young woman.”

  We got in the car and he popped it into gear. “You might have to account for this time with me,” he said. “We’re going to make it appear as if you’ve been with Amilee at the mall, watching a movie.”

  “When did you and she hatch this plan?”

  “I told her about it when I hit her car.”

  “I hate this, all of it.” I pouted. “I should be looking for new clothes to wear for homecoming, and spending time with my boyfriend and—”

  “Enough!” Dad’s entire face constricted and his jaw muscles flexed. “I don’t ever want to see my daughter in that compromising position again. Stay away from Lucas Drake.” His skin paled as he slammed his fist down on the dashboard. “I could have popped him.” And then he took a deep breath. “But somebody else got to him first.”

  A rush of adrenaline shot up my spine and crashed into my skull. I didn’t recognize this man—he seemed like an imposter.

  He handed me a roll of one hundred dollar bills. “Give some of this money to Amilee. To repair her car,” he said. And as we neared the mall he grabbed my wrist so tight I thought my skin would explode. “The FBI might tell you things that will make you think I lied. I promise, in the end everything will come to light.”

  “Ouch, Dad. What the hell?”

  “Sorry,” he said. “And about . . . all of this. Be smart.”

  “Is that your code word?” I snarked at him, but he didn’t notice.

  “No, I’m sure the FBI has heard us all say it, now.” Dad put the car in park. He leaned over and I turned my head. His kiss landed on my cheek.

  I rubbed my wrist as I stepped onto the curb. Two seconds later the FBI swarmed him. He didn’t fight back, or try to run. He smiled at me and mouthed the words, be smart.

  Part Two

  Chapter 15

  I open my eyes and I’m disoriented. I know I’m in a hospital because I smell a tinge of blood mixed with an overwhelming scent of bleach. I see a nurse, a doctor, a woman, and a man who is sleeping in a chair.

  “Luke?” the woman says, as she stares at me and then she shakes the sleeping man. “Kyle, wake up. Luke’s opened his eyes.”

  I move my mouth and gag.

  “Wait, wait,” the nurse says, hurrying over. “You have a tube in your throat.”

  I’m floating anyways, so what does it matter? Smooth is how I feel. I could be on a raft or a waterbed, rolling with the tide. I close my eyes and I’m lying in the sand. I hear the ocean—waves are crashing while the tiny grains beneath me move like water.

  The woman whispers, “He’s smiling.”

  Everything darkens, like I’m under a cloud cover. I open my left eye and it’s her. That woman is blocking my sun! But those sandy lumps I’m laying on lull me into nirvana and I’m not mad at her anymore.

  I feel so good I want to meet the Dalai Lama. No, wait—I am the Dalai Lama.

  My arms and legs are extensions of contentment—the Dalai Lama’s words, not mine. Nothing bothers me. Fingers are touching me everywhere, first my wrist, then my neck and . . . Ouch! She’s pulling my throat out of my mouth.

  My eyes pop open.

  “Just the breathing tube,” somebody says.

  What?

  I don’t understand. But I feel like I know everything.

  How can that be?

  B. B. B. B. B. B.

  Why does that letter stick in my brain?

  “Did he just say something?” the man says.

  “No,” the nurse says. “He’s still heavily sedated.”

  I drift in a cloud that’s warm and cozy. Bluest of blue skies with a purple haze above me, and wow, it feels so good. Darn that annoying background noise with its staccato rhythm hammering away at my floating vapor. A white, soft piece falls down, then another and wham! I feel a push on my body that causes my cloud to disappear.

  The voice is grinding with nonstop questions. “Do you feel this? . . . Do you feel that? . . . Luke?”

  The man and the woman stare at me. She cries. His face wrinkles inward, like a starfish tossed up on the shore.

  I wish this Luke would answer so I can go back to floating in peace. I lift my arms to cross them and almost pull the needle out.

  “Luke,” the doctor says again. “You’ve had an accident. You’re okay, now.”

  Who’s this Luke guy? Whoever you are, answer up!

  An hour, a day, a week—some length of time passes since the doctor pestered me, but it felt like moments ago. Now my head has this dull throbbing pain that amplifies with each breath. The lighting in this room is changed, like that was night and this is morning, or that was morning and this is night.

  I’m alone.

  Did Luke go away? Maybe I can meet this guy some time.

  I push a button on a remote near my hand and a nurse enters.

  “You want to sit up,” she says.

  Yes.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  I said, yes.

  “You don’t talk much, do you,” she says as she carefully tucks a pillow behind my back. “You’re looking better.”

  A doctor enters the room, bringing a surge of energy with him. “Luke, good morning.”

  Who’s this guy Luke?

  The doctor shines a light in my eyes and is tender when he touches the side of my face where the bandages are.

  Doc, what kind of accident was I in?

  He has a laptop on a movable table, and as h
e taps away on the keyboard he asks me, “Do you hear me?”

  Of course I do.

  “Blink your eyes if you hear me.”

  What’s going on here? I’m yelling at you now!

  “Come on, I can see you in there,” he says.

  Blink.

  “Good.”

  I motion with my hand that I want to write something.

  “Do you remember last night, when I was here?” he says.

  I blink. But I don’t understand why he’s not giving me a piece of paper and a pen.

  “Do you know who the president is?”

  Who cares?

  “I’ll take that as a no. You can blink twice for no.”

  I blink twice.

  “Do you know your full name?”

  Who am I?

  Suddenly, a locomotive speeds through every blood vessel in my body.

  He types some more stuff into that laptop and then he says, “Your name is Lucas Drake. You’ve been in an accident and suffered a brain injury. I believe the amnesia is temporary.”

  I blink twice, as hard as I can. No way. I blink more, squishing my eyes together over and over until wetness drips down my face. Then I close my eyes.

  I lie still for a while. When I open my eyes again, the doctor is staring at me. He’s not really seeing me see him. His arms hang at his sides and his mouth droops. I can feel sorrow oozing from this man. And as if a switch clicks on, he snaps out of the gaze and says cheerfully, “You’re on the road to recovery, Luke.”

  I feel his hand land on my foot. I’m sure that’s a good thing. But I try to wiggle my toes and nothing happens.

  “We’re going to run some tests today. I’ll see you later on,” he says, and then he slides the laptop to the nurse.

  After he leaves, she injects my IV. The aching in my head subsides and soon I’m in a warm flow of clear blue water. I hover on the other side of the waves, but I hear them rolling in and out and my body’s rocking with them.

  Later, I open my eyes and that woman from before is sitting in my room.

  “Oh, Luke, my baby,” she says as she approaches. And she stands there and cries.

  I shut my eyes real tight.

  Go away.

  The man’s voice is what I hear next. “Luke, we’re going to fix you up. I promise.”

  My head is beginning to pound again. I want that man and woman to stop bothering me.

  Chapter 16

  Every day I work with a speech therapist. Every other day I go to the torture room. I call it that because Will makes me do things that really hurt.

  “You’re fast, Drake,” he says.

  I frown.

  “You don’t like your name? Dude, it’s totally cool,” Will says.

  I struggle to say, “I . . . don’t know that . . . guy.”

  “Cripes, you’re using full sentences. I’ve never seen anything like this with your type of head injury.” Will jumps up and down, as if he were a child. “You’re flipping awesome.”

  I smile.

  He counts on his fingers. “Shit, it’s only been a month, right?”

  The guy’s not Albert Einstein, that’s for sure. I’ve got information locked in my head. I know I’m smart, I just don’t know how to use it.

  My mom—at least that’s who they say she is—tells me my hair is blonde. But I think my stubble is growing back darker, like brown. Will says he’s seen it happen before after brain surgery, not just a change in hair color, but personality, too.

  Will’s my favorite medical person. He says I’m his best patient and I’ll be running in no time, because I was physically fit before the accident.

  I hate seeing my doctor or the nurses. For whatever reason, they annoy me, and so does my mom. But Kyle is cool. He lets me call him that, because I don’t remember him as Dad.

  The doctor says eventually I’ll get my memory back, but I don’t know how he could say that. How does he know?

  “You’re going home tomorrow?” Will asks, as he tosses the heaviest medicine ball at me.

  I try to say, “Why is it called a medicine ball?” But it comes out smeary.

  “Because it’s supposed to keep you healthy!” Will says.

  I grin because he understands me, even though I cannot completely articulate the words.

  “Don’t change the subject. Are you going home tomorrow?”

  I nod.

  “I’m scheduled to see you early evenings twice a week. I’d like to add Saturday or Sunday. Seriously, you’re going to be rocking those waves in no time, dude.”

  Rocking? A spark goes off inside my head when I hear that word. What does that mean?

  “You surf,” he says. “Wipe that look of confusion off your face. It’s all good.”

  I can walk on my own now. But Will’s pushing me to run because he says it will make my floppy foot stop flopping.

  I continue to hear the same thing from the bigwig doctors. “We’re still discovering the mysteries of the brain. There are some things you’ll just need to relearn.”

  Yeah, like speaking, walking, talking, and everything in between. Not fun!

  I have a secret crush on Abby, my speech therapist who is waiting in my room when I roll in.

  “Morning, young man.” She’s my second-favorite. She knows I don’t like to be called Luke.

  “Abby!” I say her name perfectly.

  She grins. “Awesome, my wonderful patient!” She’s trying hard not to say ‘Luke’ I can tell.

  I lightly slap the hand of the orderly when he tries to help me. He chuckles and says, “You’ve come a long way.”

  A few minutes later, Abby and I play with the syllable cards and she shows me how to enunciate with the tip of my tongue.

  I flick my tongue on my lips and then snap it on the roof of my mouth.

  Kissing. I was kissing her.

  My eyelids flutter.

  “Hey, are you okay?” Abby says.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll say,” she responds. “That was a perfect yes!” And then she hugs me.

  I get a flash of skin touching mine. Pervert. Abby’s hot, but she’s older.

  “I’m giving you homework. The front of the mirror kind! And also when you’re resting. Here are the exercises.” She hands me a notebook. “You’ll be coming to see me twice a week. So it’s real important you do these exercises on your own. I won’t be with you every day when you go home.”

  “I’ll exercise,” I say.

  Abby packs up her things, gives me a thumbs up, and leaves.

  Hours later Kyle shows up. “I brought you some more clothes, Lucas.”

  I cringe at the sound of that name. It reminds me of the first awful moments in the hospital when everyone wanted this guy named Luke and it seemed like nobody was there for me.

  “Let’s change your name,” he says. “You obviously don’t like being called Lucas Drake, so what will it be?”

  “Do I have a middle name?” I ask—and I know I don’t say it well, but he’s also got a knack for understanding me, just like Will does.

  “Lucas is your middle name,” he says.

  I chuckle. “What’s my first name?”

  “Herbert.”

  Yuck.

  He snorts. “Grandfather, on your mom’s side. Sorry.”

  “Can you call me Louie?” I ask, but it sounds more like “gooey.”

  Chapter 17

  My speech is almost perfect now and my foot doesn’t flop. I feel almost whole. I can swim easily. Will says I’m so good that I should think about competing.

  I walk into the kitchen and Kyle and Samantha, supposedly my mom and dad completely shut up.

  “What?” I say.

  “It’s time to go back to school,” Dad says.

  Both he and Mom have this look on their faces like they’re waiting for me to crumble.

  I open the refrigerator, pour an orange juice, and gulp it down. “Okay,” I say as I place the glass on the counter. “What’s the big deal
?”

  They both exhale in unison. And Mom, who’s not so bad after all, says, “You’re a little different than you were before the accident. Some of the kids might notice.”

  I’m looking in the fridge, hungry as hell. I take an apple out, bite into it, and with my mouth full I say, “Enlighten me.”

  They both look at each other.

  “Seriously, tell me everything so I can be ready.” I take another bite of the apple. “You don’t want me to find out from some kid on the street that Santa Claus doesn’t exist, do you?”

  Dad says to Mom, “Might be something to this clean-slate thing.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “C’mon, guys. Tell me about who I was and what I can expect. You’ve isolated me for almost three months.” I’m standing, waiting, and then I say, “Do I have any friends? Because I haven’t seen any of them if I do.”

  Dad tells me about some guys he calls the law firm because of their names, and Mom’s sitting on an old yearbook, as if she were hiding it from me. I laugh when she gets up and puts it on the table. All the pictures I see of me look the same. I ask, “What’s different about me? I look like that, right?”

  They look at each other again. Dad says, “Your hair’s a little darker, and . . .”

  “You’re body is, well, not as hard and tough as it was,” Mom says.

  “Your mannerisms are different, too,” Dad says.

  “And they are going to notice?” I ask.

  “Maybe not,” Mom says.

  “Give me details, please,” I demand. “Am I a dork now or something?”

  “No, no,” Dad says. “You’re different.”

  “Your speech pattern is slower, and you’re less . . .” Mom turns away.

  “You were headed to college next year, early,” Dad says. “Now it’s not a concern. And that’s okay, we just want you to be healthy.”

  “You’re more . . . withdrawn,” Mom says. “You were very outgoing, and you just aren’t . . . happy.”

  I swallow. I was happy.

  “Do you remember George and Charlotte Hoffman?” Dad asks and Mom flashes him her standard look of disapproval. “We need to tell him,” he says to her.

  “I don’t remember. C’mon, Dad, you know that.”

  “Sorry,” Dad responds. “George and I go way back. You used to go over there with me when I worked on their plumbing.” And then he tells me about their niece, and how we were friends, and how that might come up when I go back to school.