Trace Evidence: A Virals Short Story Collection Read online

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  This edition first published in the United States of America by Puffin Books,

  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2016

  Trace Evidence copyright © 2016 by Brennan NextGen LLC

  Shift copyright © 2013 by Brennan NextGen LLC

  Swipe copyright © 2013 by Brennan NextGen LLC

  Shock copyright © 2015 by Brennan NextGen LLC

  Spike copyright © 2016 by Brennan NextGen LLC

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  CIP data is available

  eBook ISBN: 9781101666128

  Puffin Books ISBN 978-0-14-751920-7

  Version_1

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  SHOCK CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  SHIFT CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  SWIPE CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  SPIKE CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  Brendan Reichs and Kathy Reichs would like to dedicate this book to the loyal Virals fans all over the globe. Thanks for taking this ride with us!

  You know who you are! We’d like to thank Arianne Lewin at G. P. Putnam’s Sons and everyone at Penguin Young Readers Group, Krista Asadorian and the amazing team at Puffin Books, Don Weisberg at Penguin and Susan Sandon at Random House UK, who championed this series from the beginning, and Jennifer Rudolph Walsh and the tireless team at William Morris Endeavor Entertainment. You guys made it all possible. Many thanks!

  I stood outside on the curb, waiting.

  Sweating, actually.

  I’d worn a long-sleeved Red Sox hoodie and jeans, appropriate clothing for late fall in Massachusetts, but clearly too much for semitropical South Carolina. There’d been no time to change after stepping off the plane—unsure whether or not I was late, I’d hurried to baggage claim, dragged my two battered suitcases onto a cart, and then hustled out into the stupefying, unnatural mid-November heat.

  And stood there.

  Twenty minutes and counting.

  Back home in Westborough, we’d be prepping the fireplace soon. Unpacking our winter hats and gloves. Not strolling around in shorts and T-shirts like these blond people surrounding me, radiant in their tanned, athletic perfection as they soaked in the morning sunshine.

  Home.

  The word seared my mind.

  I had to stop thinking like that, since I didn’t have one anymore.

  We.

  I had to stop thinking that way, too.

  Unbidden, tears gathered in my eyes. I pushed them back, angry. Determined not to let my emotions overcome me. Not again. Not today. At least not where anyone could see.

  I have a first impression to make.

  Wiping my eyes irritably, I glanced up at an iron clock bolted to the concrete pillar beside me, just above the taxi line sign. Twenty-five minutes.

  Am I going to need a freaking cab?

  I slipped out my iPhone, then cursed softly as I remembered it’d run out of juice on my two-hour flight here. Forgot to charge, then one episode of Scrubs too many.

  Anxiety crept in. Slowly and stealthily, like a jungle cat.

  Everything about this place felt foreign to me. It was more than just the temperature. Scanning the pickup area, I spotted palm trees swaying in the breeze. Heard a symphony of chirping crickets. Complete strangers nodded as they strolled past me, smiling, in no particular hurry. Some even said hello.

  This was not how people acted in Boston, the only city I’d ever known. That stuff could get you punched in the face.

  Carolina.

  Even the name sounded exotic to me.

  What did I know about the South? I could count the number of times I’d left the Bay State on one hand, with fingers to spare. Maine. Vermont. Rhode Island that one summer when I was twelve. Familiar, normal New England locales, not so different from my central Massachusetts home.

  But this place? I felt like I needed a passport. Westborough seemed a million miles away.

  Calm down. You can do this.

  The silent pep talk did nothing to ease my nerves. I was about to meet my father for the first time, face-to-face. A person Mom never told me about—not even his name—in all the years we spent together. A man who’d played no role in my first thirteen years of life, right up to the day of my mother’s funeral, when distant relatives began whispering about what was to be done with me.

  When everything I’d ever known was ripped from my fingers.

  We had spoken over FaceTime, sure. Three times in the last two weeks, while the “arrangements” were being made. Christopher “Kit” Howard was to become my legal guardian. Honestly, he was the only realistic choice.

  Other than my great-aunt Temperance Brennan.

  How’s that for a shock? Turns out, I’m related to someone famous, and never knew. She’d even offered to take me in, though we both knew it wouldn’t work. The Fates had decreed that Kit Howard would parent me through my high school years.

  So now I had a dad. I guess.

  Whatever. Only four years until college.

  That got me thinking about Mom again—the car accident, the doorbell, the sad-eyed police officer—but I shoved the raw memories away. After two weeks of mourning, I was desperate for a reprieve. My tears were spent.

  Another gaggle of passengers exited the airport. They all seemed to have rides waiting.

  Where was this new father of mine?

  How can you be late to pick up your long-lost daughter?

  As if in answer, a mud-streaked Mini Cooper raced around the corner. Tires screeched as the tiny car slowed, then lurched forward, cutting across two lanes to halt directly before me. A boyish-looking man with curly brown hair leaped from the driver’s seat. He wore a Pearl Jam tee, khakis, and the panicked expression of someone who has no idea what he’s doing, but is pretty sure he’s done it wrong.

  “Victoria?” he called across the hood. “Er. I mean, Tory? Tory Brennan?”

  He winced as if he’d just made a second strike. Which he kinda had.

  “That’s me.” Voice flat, try
ing to keep my roiling emotions in check. “Hello.”

  “Hi.” Then he stood there, staring dumbly, as if he didn’t know what to say next. Maybe he’d never gotten this far in his head.

  I understood. There was no script for this scenario. No rulebook on how to greet a close family member you’ve never met before but intend to share a home with, effective immediately.

  So we stared at each other. Behind him, a shuttle bus roared toward the exit.

  “I’m Kit,” he blurted, breaking the awkward silence. “I mean, Christopher Howard. Your father,” he sputtered. Then Kit shook his head, as if certain he’d finally struck out. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person,” he finished lamely.

  Spotting my bags, Kit shot forward. But he moved too fast, whacking his knee on the fender as he rounded the vehicle. Kit grabbed his leg, flushing beet red. A four-letter word curled his lips, but after glancing at me, he choked it back.

  I suppressed a smile. This guy might be a total doofus, but he was clearly more nervous than I was. Which was oddly comforting.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Kit managed finally, still grimacing as he rubbed his injured limb. “Flight status said you’d be delayed an hour, but then it changed suddenly and you were already on the ground.”

  He dug out his phone and thrust its screen at my face, as if to prove his point. But the app was displaying the correct landing time, nearly a half hour ago.

  “I mean, the stupid info changed. Without warning.” Kit glared at the device as if it had personally betrayed him, then shoved it back into his pocket. “I should’ve come early anyway.”

  “It’s no big deal,” I said, trying to give him an out. “We probably made up time in the air. Airlines always get that stuff wrong.”

  He nodded in thanks. “Your bags. I’ll get them.”

  Before I could warn him, Kit grabbed both suitcases and tried to lift them at once. But he clearly underestimated their weight. The first one dropped like a stone, nearly smashing his foot, while the second bag toppled the cart before slamming into the side of his vehicle.

  For a beat, Kit simply stared at the carnage.

  “Maybe one at a time?” I suggested. “And maybe open the trunk first?” Internally, I was debating whether I wanted to get into the car with this man. Kit needed to calm down a lot before he could safely drive.

  “Right.” Kit shook his head. “Trunk.” He reached for his keys, then realized they were still dangling from the ignition. An exasperated look crossed his face.

  Kit closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Ran a hand over his face. Then his lids slid open and he gave me a wry smile. “I’m going to start this over,” he said, meeting my eye directly for the first time. “Hello, Tory Brennan. I’m Kit Howard. And I’m very sorry I’m late.”

  He stuck out his hand. I shook.

  There. Meeting my father, complete.

  “I was very sorry to hear about Colleen,” he continued in a gentle voice. “Your mother and I hadn’t spoken in years, obviously, but I remember her well. She was a good soul. Kind. I’m heartbroken for you and her family. I know that doesn’t make things any better, but I want you to know anyway. I wish we’d learned of each other under better circumstances.”

  His words surprised me. Unlike nearly everyone else, Kit hadn’t flinched from addressing my mother’s death directly. Nor had he tried to convince me that everything would magically be okay. I appreciated that. I couldn’t handle any more ridiculous conversations that danced around the reality that my mother was dead, she wasn’t coming back, and it was always, always going to hurt. My father, at least, seemed to understand.

  Who was this man, who couldn’t make it on time to our first ever meeting but communicated with me better than people I’d known my whole life?

  “And I’m sorry we’re strangers.” Kit leaned back against his car, a touch of heat entering his voice. “That decision wasn’t given to me, though I accept why Colleen chose the way she did. But I want you to know, it wouldn’t have been this way had I known.”

  I nodded curtly. Looked away.

  There was only so much honesty I could take right then.

  “It’s fine,” I said in a level voice. “I don’t blame you.” Both mostly true.

  Kit seemed about to say more, but must have thought better of it. Instead, he walked back around the car and popped the trunk. Only one of my suitcases would fit inside, much to his chagrin. After a bit of maneuvering, we were able to jam the second into the car’s narrow backseat, but only at the expense of my legroom.

  “Sorry about this.” Kit was frowning at the clown car arrangement as he delivered his third apology of the morning. “First thing tomorrow, I’ll trade it in for something bigger.”

  My hands flew up in protest. “Oh no! It’s fine. Please don’t give up your car for me.”

  “No,” Kit said firmly, buckling his seat belt. “Should’ve done it yesterday. This thing doesn’t work well for me anymore, either. Not where I live. Where we live, I mean. I get stuck in the mud once a week.”

  I almost didn’t want to ask. “The mud?”

  Kit turned the key. We both cringed as the engine squealed.

  “It’s already running,” he explained needlessly. “The car.”

  “Yes.” Slight pause. “Do you need a minute? Before we go?”

  To my surprise, he laughed out loud. “So I don’t drive straight into a bridge abutment?”

  I snorted despite myself. “Something like that.”

  Kit ran a hand through his mop of curly hair. He kept the car in park. “Perhaps you’ve noticed that I’m a little nervous.”

  I grinned faintly. “A touch.”

  He chuckled, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. When he spoke again, it was as if we were peers. “Man, I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve never even had a dog, much less a teenage daughter.” His eyes were wide in disbelief. Then he started, realizing what he’d said. His head whipped toward me. “Not that I’m comparing you to a pet, of course!”

  “No,” I said quickly, not offended in the slightest. “I know what you meant.”

  He nodded in gratitude, but couldn’t seem to stop talking without a filter. “I mean, my God! I’m going to be your . . . your dad. This is so . . . nuts. I’m in no way prepared for this job.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said in a soothing voice. Weirdly, I felt like the adult in the conversation. “It’s not like I’ve had a dad before. There’s no act to follow.”

  He gazed at me intently. “Do you want to call me that? Dad? Is that what we do?”

  I stiffened. “Let’s just stick with Kit for now. Okay?”

  “Yes. Of course. Absolutely.” He seemed to realize how he’d been rambling. “Tory, you absolutely must know that I’m happy you’re coming to live with me. Thrilled. I refused to consider any other arrangement. I don’t want you to think—”

  “Kit.”

  “Yes.”

  I smiled, but my tone was serious. “I know. I heard, and can already tell. Just keep being honest with me. I like that better than you pretending to be some sitcom father.”

  He sighed with genuine relief. “That I can do. You’re a smart kid, Tory. I have no idea how to impersonate a dad anyway. Let’s do the thing where we just act like ourselves, and go from there.”

  “I like this plan.” A pause. “What was that earlier about mud?”

  Kit shifted into drive. “Yes. Well.”

  He cast a furtive glance my way as we pulled away from the curb.

  “How do you feel about island living?”

  It was an uncomfortable ride.

  Wedged into the passenger seat, I stared out the window with both knees pressed against my chest, lost in thought as we rolled through the unfamiliar terrain. The sun was a brilliant yellow orb hanging in a perfect Carolina-blue sky. As we crossed
mile after mile of lush, grassy swampland—everything green and yellow and tan—I couldn’t shake the feeling that my old life was slowly fading away, never to return. The idea made me sad.

  Kit called this area the Lowcountry, and he wasn’t lying. I didn’t see so much as a steep hill as we crossed a dozen waterways and several large islands, headed for God-knows-where.

  Seagulls and cranes. Green, brackish water. Swaying reeds. Crisp salt air.

  So much of it was foreign to me. What was this place?

  “Morris Island is . . . special,” Kit explained as we crossed a low concrete bridge to a colorful seaside town named Folly Beach. The place had three stoplights, tops. As we cruised along the main drag, a limitless blue expanse appeared dead ahead.

  We’d reached the Atlantic Ocean, but somehow weren’t there yet.

  “I thought Charleston was, like—” I waved a hand aimlessly, struggling for the right words, “—a city. You know? With lots of people, and stuff.”

  “Huh?” Kit shot me a confused look, then his eyes widened in understanding. “Oh! No. This isn’t Charleston out here.” He chuckled, turning left and heading north along the spine of a skinny barrier island. “I don’t live downtown. Far from it, actually.”

  The ocean was to our right, mere yards away. I spotted open water on the left side of the road as well, beyond a triple row of vacation homes marching alongside the street. A mile farther up, the land thinned to a single line of houses. Then even those fell away.

  “I live in a pretty unique place.” Kit pointed to a sign announcing the end of the public road, but didn’t stop, pulling through the final cul-de-sac, over its curb, and onto a shady strip of unmarked blacktop hidden from easy view. We crossed a bridge, then followed the pavement as it disappeared into heavy brush. “Welcome to Morris Island.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “There’s nothing here.”

  “Not much, I admit.” He was watching me from the corner of his eye, gauging my reaction. Which only deepened my unease.

  Nobody had mentioned that Kit lived off the grid, beyond the end of the road, like some kind of hermit, or maybe a psychopath. And he was clearly aware of that fact.