A flash of brilliant white teeth. “Of course I did. But the right way,” he said.
* * *
Later that evening, she burrowed into an armchair in the library, books spread out before her, the Ping-Pong ball clutched in her hand. Jillian, Molly, Dara, and Teddy had each claimed a corner of the room, the four of them struggling to finish their Forensics research paper before break. “So,” Jillian said, “there’s this coyote on the island who’s so heartsick. When he cries, he sounds like a preteen girl screaming at a One Direction concert.”
“Hmm,” Teddy said. But her thoughts kept ricocheting back to the glimpse she’d had into Clint’s consciousness. The coyote, the bunker, the desert, the smoke. Coyote. She’d heard that before.
She set down her pen and looked at Jillian. “Hey. Speaking of coyotes. Remember that dream you had a few weeks ago?”
Jillian, her nose in her textbook, didn’t bother to look up. “If you’re talking about the one with Al Gore, that was told in confidence.”
“Okay, enough with Gore. I meant the one where you were”—she really felt like an idiot saying it aloud—“a coyote?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“Do you recall anything else? Any details?”
Jillian raised one eyebrow. “Sand.” That could have been anywhere. Teddy was about to dismiss the dream when Jillian continued: “I was in the middle of the desert. And all around me, I felt like, the world was ending.” She shivered. “And I remember seeing an inscription.”
Teddy ripped out a page from her notebook, scribbling the symbol she’d seen in Clint’s office and in his mind.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Jillian said.
“Why are you drawing the symbol for Sector Three, Cannon?” Dara said, leaning forward.
Molly’s head snapped up. “I thought we were trying to get this report done.”
“Give me a minute,” Teddy said, waving her off. “I think Clint knows something about Sector Three. He was involved with it somehow.”
“Well, he wasn’t at Sector Three, I can tell you that for sure,” Dara said.
“Why not?”
“Because Sector Three had no survivors.”
Jillian frowned. “No survivors? Then how does anyone know—”
“My grandmother also gets death predictions. People here wouldn’t approve of what she does. But she has a shop. Headdress. Crystal ball. The whole shebang. She told me a story about this one guy who came to New Orleans for Mardi Gras in the eighties.
“He told my grandmother he worked for a government contractor at the time. The contractor had clearance to enter this military base once a week and deliver food, drinks, ice, propane, whatever the mess hall needed.”
“The base was in the desert?” Teddy said.
“Yeah. Somewhere in Nevada.” Dara lowered her voice. “Anyway, the vision she first got was normal—most of what happened on the base was just boring military stuff. Combat training, weapons drills, vehicle maneuvers, things like that. But all of a sudden, she got this picture of this guy getting blown up on his delivery. She wanted to warn him, so she drew the symbol that she saw in her vision for him. And she told him to stay away from there if he wanted to live. And the guy basically flipped out. Told her that he’d had it up to here with psychics and he was never going back to Nevada.”
“So Sector Three trained psychics?” Teddy asked.
Dara shrugged. “I guess so. That’s what my grandmother always assumed. No one else in our community ever talked about it. There was no mention of the facility in any records. She got another vision months later. Just bodies. Everyone there had died. That’s why I said no survivors.”
An explosion. Teddy had seen the aftermath of an explosion in Clint’s thoughts. But did that mean—
Boyd chose that moment to stroll through the library. They watched as she perused the rack of DVDs available for checkout, finally selecting one and leaving the library again.
Dara leaned forward, mischief dancing in her eyes, her story temporarily forgotten. “Showgirls or Sharknado?”
Jillian didn’t quite manage to choke back her laugh. But Molly flinched as though struck. White-faced, she sat motionless at the table. Even at the mere sight of Boyd, Molly seemed to shut down.
“Hey,” Teddy said softly. “Molly. I know it’s hard, but try not to let Boyd get under your skin like that.”
“You don’t understand,” Molly said. She grabbed her books, shoved them into her backpack, and fled their table.
Jillian blinked. “I hope she’s okay.”
Teddy looked up and saw Jeremy stop Molly at the library door. The two stood huddled together. At times Teddy couldn’t tell if Jeremy was part of the problem or the solution. His presence seemed to calm Molly but also agitate her. Relationships. She didn’t get them.
Jeremy came in and bypassed their table to sit down next to a pretty, athletic African-American woman with long brown hair.
“Who’s that?” Teddy asked, pissed on Molly’s behalf that he was talking to another girl.
Dara followed Teddy’s gaze. “Christine Federico. She’s one of the top third-years.”
Evans. Federico. Cannon.
Teddy’s shock must have shown on her face: Dara cocked her head, waiting expectantly for her to say something. Teddy opened her mouth and waited for her brain to catch up. It didn’t. The gears simply spun. What linked Teddy to Brett Evans and this girl? Though Clint had effectively blocked any further discussion on the topic, Teddy couldn’t dismiss the notion that the theft hadn’t been random.
“Sometimes I see her in the meditation lawn,” Jillian said. “I feel bad she’s staying here for Thanksgiving.”
“She is?” Teddy said. Her brain started to whir again—maybe Christine knew something about the theft. And though she had planned to do schoolwork over break, she now had another research project in mind: Christine Federico.
Jillian yawned. “I’m so glad I’m going home for the weekend. Need to recharge. You want to join, Teddy? Some time away from campus might do you good.”
Teddy shook her head. “No, I’ve got stuff
