Page 29 of Conspiracies and Chemistry

“Good,” he said, extricating his hand from her grip. “Probably better to forget you ever met me.”

Closing my eyes to block out Savannah’s wide eyes and open mouth, I breathed in for a count of four, then breathed out for a count of six. I let the hardness of the pavers under my slippers ground me. I opened my eyes. “You’re not planning any activities while you’re here, are you, Dad?”

“You know better than to ask that. Plausible deniability.”

Pain stabbed through my abdomen, and I knew it wasn’t from stray uterine tissue growing in my abdomen. “Dad, please don’t?—”

“Where can I park my truck?” He scanned the overcast sky. “I don’t want it to get picked up by some drone.”

“In the garage.” I gestured toward it. “Or under that sycamore tree.”

“Not enough leaves to cover. There’s a live oak down the drive. I’ll put it under there.”

“I’ll make us a snack,” Savannah said, “while you’re getting settled into your room.”

I winced. “He won’t be staying in the house.”

She planted her hands on her hips. “Of course he will. You have, like, six guest rooms.”

“She also has fluoridated water,” Dad said.

At Savannah’s puzzled expression, I shook my head. “He prefers to sleep in his truck.”

He patted its camouflaged side. “I carry fifty gallons of rainwater with zero mind-controlling chemicals. I keep telling her to install a cistern, but here in the city, they’d probably pollute it with their chemtrails.”

“Chemtrails?” Savannah asked.

“Don’t ask,” I said. “Dad, when you’ve parked, you should come inside for some of Savannah’s cookies and tea. Don’t worry, I’ve got bottled water.”

“Bottled water?” he scoffed. “Worse than city water. Government controls that too.”

“Fine, you can skip the tea.” As he turned back to his truck, I said, “By the way, how long do you plan to stay?”

“Through next Sunday,” he said. From the firm set of his jaw, I could tell he was holding something back, but I knew better than to ask.

13

Biosensor

Biosensor:A biological-based device that detects chemicals.

OLIVER

“Thanks for doing this with me today,” Andrew said, screwing the blue-and-green model of the earth onto the rotating arm of the model of the solar system. “I know work is nuts.”

“Yeah.” I tightened the latch on the camera tripod. We were working at my polished granite island. My place in Los Altos Hills wasn’t the most convenient for my San Francisco–based friend, but with no significant other or pets wandering into the shot, it was better than his and Carly’s townhouse. Neater, too, without all the knick-knacks and shit Carly put everywhere to make it “homey.” I preferred to keep my kitchen streamlined and functional, like my lab. And my house was as lonely and echoey as the lab would be today, on the Sunday before Christmas.

I could’ve gone in today. But West had reminded me I needed to set an example of work-life balance for our employees. That meant not going in on Sundays. Still, I was itchy. With our deadline looming—tomorrow, there’d be 69 days on the damned poster—I couldn’t afford to waste time. If I dropped in for a few minutes after we finished filming to check on my assay, it didn’t really count as work. Right?

“All good?” Andrew asked.

I flicked on the camera and angled it so the model was in view. “Uh huh.” What if something went wrong on the assay? Would I have time to start another? I ran the math in my head.

“Hey.”

I looked up from the camera’s screen.

Andrew’s mouth was flat with exasperation. “What’s with the one-word answers? Everything okay?”

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