noodles.
The deal was right out in the open: the kids didn’t cause trouble for Clarence and Mary and gave the two foster parents good evaluations. In return, Clarence and Mary gave the girls good reports and pretty much allowed them to do as they pleased—and provided five fake sick-day excuses to the school. They were willing to stretch the curfew to midnight.
If the system worked, and it had to that point, the girls got a roof and food, and Clarence and Mary got the money. Live and let live.
As a bonus, the kids learned how to hang off a cliff on a rope, camp in a pile of thornbush, and survive on Skippy.
When Oates left to talk to Clarence and Mary, Shay grabbed her laptop and went to the Facebook page. “The police are here to ask about you. I’m worried. I’ll leave another note when they’re gone.”
She didn’t worry about leaving notes in the open. Odin might be brilliant at computers, but Shay was great at math, and she knew some simple facts: Facebook had a billion users, who sent billions of messages a day. The chances of finding any one message without knowing addresses in advance were virtually nil.
“It’s not like finding a needle in a haystack,” she’d told a friend. “It’s like finding a needle in all the haystacks in the world.”
She’d barely finished sending the message when she heard unfamiliar men’s voices down the hall. She shut the MacBook down, put it back on the bed where it had been. Went to the wobbly desk she shared with her roommate, opened her calculus book, took out the problem sheet folded there, and started working on it.
A minute later, Oates knocked and then stuck her face into the room. “Shay?”
She went back into humble mode and stood up.
The investigators came in, two youngish men, tough-looking, in expensive suits. Oates introduced them as Mr. West and Mr. Cherry.
They asked about Odin, where he might be, who he might be with. She didn’t know. They asked about the raid on the lab, and she told them the truth: she hadn’t been involved in any of that. She supposed she didn’t believe in animal testing if it was for cosmetics or something, but if it was for medicine, that was more complicated.…
At some point during the interview, Shay sensed that they weren’t police officers. She asked Oates, “Are these investigators with the Eugene police?”
“Just cooperate,” Oates said, and left the room to take a call.
“Are you with the FBI or something?” Shay persisted.
West said, “There are several agencies working on this situation. There was a shooting, and important research was destroyed.”
He hadn’t answered the question, Shay noticed. When they got to the computer, Cherry said, “I need to look through this.”
She shrugged and said, “Okay, but all my calculus work is on it. I’m going to need it for summer school, for my college prep class. Don’t mess it up. Please.”
Cherry picked up the computer and walked out of the room.
West was twenty-nine years old, with broad shoulders, buzzed black hair, and soft brown eyes. Pretty cute, Shay thought, though he had muscles even in his face.
“Sit,” he said, and Shay took a seat on the edge of her bed. West pulled out a desk chair and sat opposite.
“How much contact did you have with Storm?” he asked.
“Storm?” She was genuinely confused, and it showed.
“Storm, the animal rights group,” he said. “Robert Overbeek, Janice Loftus, Rachel Wharton, Ethan Enquist.” Shay recognized Ethan Enquist’s and Rachel Wharton’s names, but didn’t let on; as for Storm, why hadn’t her brother said something?
She said, “I … I … none. I never heard of any of those people. Who are they?”
“Crazies,” West said. “We’ve talked to a couple of kids who took part in the raid, and they say your brother was there.”
She scrambled. “He was? Are you sure? Do you know where he is now? He never even told me that he was going away.”
“Then why did he call
The deal was right out in the open: the kids didn’t cause trouble for Clarence and Mary and gave the two foster parents good evaluations. In return, Clarence and Mary gave the girls good reports and pretty much allowed them to do as they pleased—and provided five fake sick-day excuses to the school. They were willing to stretch the curfew to midnight.
If the system worked, and it had to that point, the girls got a roof and food, and Clarence and Mary got the money. Live and let live.
As a bonus, the kids learned how to hang off a cliff on a rope, camp in a pile of thornbush, and survive on Skippy.
When Oates left to talk to Clarence and Mary, Shay grabbed her laptop and went to the Facebook page. “The police are here to ask about you. I’m worried. I’ll leave another note when they’re gone.”
She didn’t worry about leaving notes in the open. Odin might be brilliant at computers, but Shay was great at math, and she knew some simple facts: Facebook had a billion users, who sent billions of messages a day. The chances of finding any one message without knowing addresses in advance were virtually nil.
“It’s not like finding a needle in a haystack,” she’d told a friend. “It’s like finding a needle in all the haystacks in the world.”
She’d barely finished sending the message when she heard unfamiliar men’s voices down the hall. She shut the MacBook down, put it back on the bed where it had been. Went to the wobbly desk she shared with her roommate, opened her calculus book, took out the problem sheet folded there, and started working on it.
A minute later, Oates knocked and then stuck her face into the room. “Shay?”
She went back into humble mode and stood up.
The investigators came in, two youngish men, tough-looking, in expensive suits. Oates introduced them as Mr. West and Mr. Cherry.
They asked about Odin, where he might be, who he might be with. She didn’t know. They asked about the raid on the lab, and she told them the truth: she hadn’t been involved in any of that. She supposed she didn’t believe in animal testing if it was for cosmetics or something, but if it was for medicine, that was more complicated.…
At some point during the interview, Shay sensed that they weren’t police officers. She asked Oates, “Are these investigators with the Eugene police?”
“Just cooperate,” Oates said, and left the room to take a call.
“Are you with the FBI or something?” Shay persisted.
West said, “There are several agencies working on this situation. There was a shooting, and important research was destroyed.”
He hadn’t answered the question, Shay noticed. When they got to the computer, Cherry said, “I need to look through this.”
She shrugged and said, “Okay, but all my calculus work is on it. I’m going to need it for summer school, for my college prep class. Don’t mess it up. Please.”
Cherry picked up the computer and walked out of the room.
West was twenty-nine years old, with broad shoulders, buzzed black hair, and soft brown eyes. Pretty cute, Shay thought, though he had muscles even in his face.
“Sit,” he said, and Shay took a seat on the edge of her bed. West pulled out a desk chair and sat opposite.
“How much contact did you have with Storm?” he asked.
“Storm?” She was genuinely confused, and it showed.
“Storm, the animal rights group,” he said. “Robert Overbeek, Janice Loftus, Rachel Wharton, Ethan Enquist.” Shay recognized Ethan Enquist’s and Rachel Wharton’s names, but didn’t let on; as for Storm, why hadn’t her brother said something?
She said, “I … I … none. I never heard of any of those people. Who are they?”
“Crazies,” West said. “We’ve talked to a couple of kids who took part in the raid, and they say your brother was there.”
She scrambled. “He was? Are you sure? Do you know where he is now? He never even told me that he was going away.”
“Then why did he call
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