Scorpion by Christian Cantrell (best english novels for beginners txt) 📗

“Which one will it be?” the cat asks with feigned suspense.

It had come down to either Mimikyu or Noctowl. But the problem with Mimikyu is that it spends its entire life disguised as something it’s not, and Henrietta has decided that she is finally done hiding. Besides, owls will forever remind Henrietta of Appa.

“Noctowl,” she proclaims confidently.

Arranging her collection by color allows Henrietta to locate a specific Pokémon’s quadrant almost instantly. Noctowl, being a rich honey brown, fits in reasonably well between yellow and orange. She has six different variants, but she picks the biggest, and the one that is, by far, the most worn. It is the one that came in the box dropped off by Quinn Mitchell shortly after the Elite Assassin’s arrest; the plush that once belonged to Quinn’s daughter; the Pokémon that, if its condition is any indication, Molly must have loved best.

There is a generous space reserved in Henrietta’s suitcase that perfectly accommodates the stuffed owl. Henrietta cross-connects the elastic tethers, folds the suitcase closed, and waits for the automatic zipper to finish its high-pitched trip around the equator.

“All I need now,” Henrietta says, turning to Jiji, “is you.”

She brings her fingers together in a pinch-like gesture, and the black virtual cat de-rezzes mid-stretch. In the corner of her vision is an icon indicating that her car will be downstairs in five minutes. Henrietta visits the restroom one last time, then pulls her suitcase off the bed and tips it up onto its casters. Because it is aware of its orientation and weight, and since it has full access to Henrietta’s itinerary, it is able to correctly deduce that now would be a good time to start keeping pace. Dutifully, it follows Henrietta out of the bedroom, through the living room, and into the linoleum entry hall, where Henrietta abruptly pauses.

“Stay,” she commands.

Given that the CIA has chartered a supersonic jet out of Joint Base Andrews, Henrietta expects to be in Paris in less than five hours. When Moretti informed her that she was going, she pointed out to him that her degrees and fields of expertise were specific to quantum and particle physics, not nuclear. He should be sending post-detonation forensic technicians, she suggested. Radiochemists and other experts in urban debris and microbeam X-ray fluorescence. But Moretti countered that he knew exactly what he was doing and told her that she had three days of access to Ground Zero to learn everything she needed to crack the case. After that, he expected her back at work, and to make up every last second of lost time. Nothing could be allowed to delay bringing Kilonova online, he reminded her—least of all, terrorist attacks.

But Henrietta has a very different kind of journey in mind. Though she has not yet worked out all the details, she knows that, no matter what happens, she will not be back. She knows from having lived through Seoul that the chaos of mass casualties will give her precisely the cover she needs to not just slip away, but disappear. The key will be to keep moving—to use her credentials to pass rapidly through restricted districts and choked, overwhelmed checkpoints that won’t have time to log every badge that gets flashed.

This is the first time Moretti has let Henrietta out on such a long leash, and she can see that his relentless focus on The Mission is causing him to overestimate his control over her. And, at the same time, to severely underestimate the extent of her own ambition.

Henrietta stands very still, listening for sounds from the kitchen. It is quiet, so she moves around the counter, past the stove, and pauses in front of the refrigerator. Still nothing but the hum of the compressor. She gently breaks the magnetic seal on the freezer, then waits. When she hears nothing, she swings the door the rest of the way back and bends down to get a good look at the black mass on the bottom shelf.

Jiji’s eyes are half closed, but his mouth is wide open and several of his teeth are broken and bloody from frantically trying to chew his way out. White clumps of ice mat his black fur and coat his long, curled whiskers.

“No biting,” Henrietta scolds while wagging a petite and disapproving finger.

32

  PROCESS OF ELIMINATION

TO QUINN, AGING has always felt like a lifelong process of elimination. A series of accomplishments to be struck off a list you did not even know you were keeping—not because they’ve been completed, but because they are now so far out of reach.

As she drives, these realities crystallize in Quinn’s mind like ice collecting on airplane wings, leading to a spiraling dive. The most recent longing she now has to leave behind is the possibility of ever truly being known by someone—really being seen and understood and unconditionally loved. Her mother and her brother don’t count. Quinn hasn’t been able to bring herself to answer even a single one of her mother’s calls in the last few days despite threats left on voicemail to drive down from Boston, and her brother is probably too stoned to even know that the bonds that have always managed to just barely hold the world together feel like they are finally about to be overcome by chaos.

James was her last chance. Even if she were to meet someone today, he would never really know her; never have anything better than a trivial accounting of how she came to be who she is; never be able to honestly say that he loves her more than anything else in the world. To him, Molly would just be a few fireplace-mantel photos that never changed or aged, next to photos of his own children that were constantly auto-updating. A collection of videos and glitchy low-res holograms that he would, for a time, endure in order to indulge her, but that would make him uncomfortable and jealous in ways he would