Chapter 88: The Reunion

The world was a haze of white light and antiseptic smells when I finally opened my eyes. The ceiling tiles were counting themselves out above me. One. Two. Three.

"She's awake," a voice said.

I tried to sit up, but my body felt like it was made of lead.

"Easy," Ben said, his face swimming into focus. He was sitting by the bed, his arm in a sling. "You took a pretty hard hit."

"Leo," I croaked. My throat felt like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper.

"He's okay," Ben said. "He's safe."

He pointed to the other side of the room.

Leo was in a crib, sleeping. A police officer stood guard by the door.

"The baby?" I asked.

"Subject 12 took him," Ben said, his voice dropping. "We don't know where."

"He saved us," I said, remembering the gas, the detonator, the empty window. "He could have killed us all, but he saved us."

"Or he just wanted the prize for himself," Lucia said from the doorway. She was on crutches, her leg wrapped in a cast.

"No," I said. "He called himself the builder. He's not going to continue the legacy. He's going to build something new."

"With a stolen baby?" Lucia asked.

"With a brother," I said.

A doctor walked in. It was Dr. Patel. She looked exhausted, her lab coat stained with coffee.

"The marrow," she said without preamble. "We tested the sample you brought."

"And?"

"It's a match," she said. "A perfect match. But..."

"But what?"

"It's not just a match," Dr. Patel said. "It's an upgrade. The cells... they're enhanced. Stronger. More resilient. Whatever Edith did in that lab, she didn't just clone the donor. She improved the source code."

"So it will work?" I asked.

"It will cure him," she said. "And it might do more. It might make him immune to... well, almost everything."

I looked at Leo. My sick, fragile boy. He was going to be strong. Stronger than any of us.

"Do it," I said. "Start the transplant."

"We already have," Dr. Patel said. "The first infusion was an hour ago."

I closed my eyes, relief washing over me like a tide.

"But Sarah," Dr. Patel said, her voice serious. "There's something else."

"What?"

"The police found something in the warehouse," she said. "In the office where Subject 12 escaped."

"What did they find?"

"A laptop," Ben said. "He left it open."

"And on the screen?" I asked.

"A list," Ben said. "A list of names. Addresses."

"The other subjects?" I asked.

"No," Ben said. "The buyers."

I sat up, ignoring the pain in my head.

"The buyers?"

"The people who paid for the research," Lucia said. "The people who were waiting for their 'perfect' children."

"Who are they?" I asked.

"Senators," Ben said. "CEOs. Tech moguls. It's a who's who of the global elite."

"And they're not happy," Lucia added. "Their investment just drove off in a Packard."

I looked at Leo. The danger hadn't ended with Edith. It hadn't ended with Martha. It had just expanded.

We had cut off the head of the snake, but the body was still thrashing.

"We have the list," I said. "We have the leverage."

"We have a target on our backs," Ben said.

"Then we make the first move," I said. "We give the list to Miller. We burn them all."

"And Subject 12?" Lucia asked. "What about him?"

"He's out there," I said. "Raising the next generation."

"Is he a threat?"

"I don't know," I said. "But he's family."

I looked at the window. The sun was setting over the city, turning the sky a bruised purple.

"We need to find Clara," I said.

"Clara is dead," Ben said gently. "The explosion..."

"They didn't find a body," I said. "Just like they didn't find Martha's. Just like they didn't find Edith's, really."

I remembered the text. *The architect is dead.*

But architects leave blueprints.

"She's gone, Sarah," Lucia said.

"Maybe," I said.

The door opened.

A nurse walked in.

"Ms. Sterling?" she said. "You have a visitor."

"I'm not taking visitors," I said.

"She said it's urgent," the nurse said. "She said she has something for Leo."

I looked at Ben. He put his hand on his pocket, where I knew he kept a knife now.

"Who is it?" I asked.

The nurse stepped aside.

A woman walked in.

She was old. Her hair was white, pulled back in a severe bun. She wore a tweed suit.

But it wasn't Martha.

And it wasn't Clara.

She walked to the bed. She looked down at me with eyes that were familiar, but wrong.

They weren't blue. They were green.

"Hello, Sarah," she said.

"Who are you?" I demanded.

"I'm the one who paid for the crib," she said.

She placed a small, wrapped box on the bedside table.

"And I'd like a refund."