He gives her something that could, from a certain angle, be considered a reluctant nod. “What do you think they’ll do with him?”

“He’s their golden child,” Risa says. “They’ll clean up the tarnish and make him shine again.” Then she smiles, her thoughts drifting off to him. “Of course, Cam would point out that gold doesn’t tarnish.”

That smile is a little too warm, and although Connor knows he’s playing with fire, he dares to say, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were in love with him.”

She holds his gaze, a little coolly. “Do you really want to go there?”

“No,” Connor admits.

But Risa takes him there anyway. “I love what he did for us. I love that his heart is purer than anyone else believes. I love that he’s far more innocent than he is jaded, but doesn’t even know it.”

“And you love that he’s completely infatuated with you.”

Risa smiles and tosses her hair like a shampoo model. “Well, that goes without saying.” The move is so unlike her, it makes them both laugh.

Connor sits up, his head no longer spinning when he does. “I’m glad you chose me before they came for him.”

“I didn’t chose anything,” Risa says, just the slightest bit annoyed.

“Well, I’m just glad,” says Connor gently. “That’s all.” He touches her face with Roland’s hand, the shark only inches away, but finally realizes that it will never be close enough to bite.

• • •

Sonia, still downstairs, decides that taking a tranq for the team is more than enough to ask of Hannah. She can’t ask Hannah to keep fugitives in her home after last night’s attack.

“I’m sorry—but I’ve got Dierdre to think about now,” Hannah tells them with tears in her eyes. Holding the toddler in her arms, she wishes them all Godspeed. Connor finds he has a lump in his throat for the storked baby he saved and will never see again.

Sonia drives him, Risa, and Grace back to her shop in her dark-windowed Suburban. She decides to keep the shop closed today, and there in the back room, the five of them talk of issues weighty enough, it seems, to collapse the floor beneath them. Connor insists that Grace be included because, although she bounces her knees impatiently and appears to have little interest in the conversation, all of Grace’s appearances are deceiving.

“A reliable source working with Proactive Citizenry told me a very interesting story,” Connor begins. He has no idea if Trace Neuhauser even survived the crash in the Salton Sea. He thinks not, because Trace would never have allowed the massacres that Starkey is now orchestrating in the name of freedom. But at least Trace was able to pass what he knew on to Connor before he was forced to pilot that plane for Starkey. “My source talked about how the name of Janson Rheinschild still strikes fear into the hearts of Proactive Citizenry’s inner circle.”

Sonia gives a satisfied and somewhat sinister laugh. “Glad to hear it. I hope he’s always the ghost in their lousy machine.”

“So it’s true that they”—Connor tries to choose his words carefully, but realizes there’s no delicate way to say it—“that they took him out?”

“They didn’t have to,” Sonia says. “When you tear a man down to his roots, it doesn’t leave much behind. Janson died a broken man. He willed himself to die along with his dreams, and I couldn’t stop him.”

Risa, who’s hearing all this for the first time, asks, “Who was he?”

“My husband, dear.” And then Sonia heaves a sorrowful sigh. “And my partner in crime.”

That gets Grace’s attention, although she doesn’t say anything just yet.

“Proactive Citizenry wiped him from their history,” Connor says.

“Their history? They wiped him from world history! Did you know we won the Nobel Prize?”

Risa just stares at her dumbfounded, and her expression makes Sonia laugh.

“Bioscience, dear. Back then antiquing was just my hobby.”

“This was before the Heartland War?” she asks.

Sonia nods. “Wars have a way of reinventing people. And making too many things disappear.”

Connor’s chair scrapes on the wooden floor as he pulls it forward. “Lev and I looked for his name everywhere online. Totally gone. But there was one article that misspelled it—that was the only way we found him.” Then Connor adds, “Your picture was in the photo. That’s how we knew you were somehow involved.”

Sonia turns to spit on the ground. “Deleting us from history was the ultimate insult. But it made it easier for me to disappear from them. From everyone.”

“We know you started Proactive Citizenry,” Connor says, noting Risa’s jaw drop again.

“That was Janson. I was out of it by then. I saw the writing on the wall and knew it was in blood—but he was an idealist. His finest trait and his deepest flaw.” Her eyes get moist and she points to a tissue box on the cluttered desk. Grace hands it to her. She blots her eyes once, then doesn’t tear up again.

“We know Proactive Citizenry was supposed to be a watchdog organization,” Connor says, “protecting the world against the abuse of biotech. What went wrong?”

“We let the genie out of the bottle,” Sonia says sadly. “And a genie is loyal to no master.”

From down below they can hear the grumbles of her hidden AWOLs arguing. Sonia bangs her cane on the trapdoor three times and they fall silent. Secrets below. Secrets above. Connor finds himself leaning closer as she begins to tell her tale.

“Janson and I pioneered the neurografting techniques that allowed every part of a donor body to be used in transplant. Every organ, every limb, every brain cell. The idea was to save lives. To better the world. But there’s a road to hell for every good intention.”

“The Unwind Accord?” says Connor.

Sonia nods. “It hadn’t even been thought of when we perfected our techniques—but the Heartland War was raging, and with school systems failing all over the country, feral teens were filling the streets in massive numbers. People were scared, and people were desperate.” Sonia’s eyes seem to go far away as she drags back the memory. “The Unwind Accord took our lifesaving technology and weaponized it to use against all those kids that no one wanted to deal with. The board of Proactive Citizenry went along with it—pushing Janson out—because they saw more than just dollar signs: They saw an entire industry waiting to be born.”

Connor finds himself taking a deep, shuddering breath at the suggestion of unwinding being “born.”

“It happened so quickly,” Sonia continues. “When no one was looking. The Juvenile Authority was established without public outcries and without much resistance. Everyone was so glad just to end the Heartland War and get the feral teens out of sight and out of mind. No one wanted to consider where they were going. Now there was a supply of anonymous parts for anyone who wanted them. And even if you didn’t want younger hands or brighter eyes, there were advertisements everywhere to convince you that you did. ‘A new you from the inside out!’ the billboards said. ‘Add fifty years to your life.’ ” Sonia shakes her head bitterly. “They created want . . . and want turned to need . . . and unwinding became woven into the fabric of everything.”

No one says a word. It’s like a moment of silence for the many kids lost to that great unwinding machine. The industry, as Sonia had called it. A mill of commerce trafficking in flesh, working outside the realm of ethics yet within the law and with the complete consent of society.

But then Connor realizes something. “There’s more to the story, isn’t there, Sonia? There has to be—or else why would Proactive Citizenry still be afraid of the man they defeated? Why would Janson Rheinschild’s name still make them shake in their boots?”

Now Sonia smiles. “What word strikes fear into the heart of any industry?” And when no one answers, she whispers it like a dark mantra.

“Obsolescence . . .”

• • •

Out in the antique shop, in a dingy corner that generally doesn’t see much traffic, is a stack of dusty old computers stacked one on top of another, daring gravity to topple it, which it never does. This is where Sonia leads them. “I keep these because every now and then a collector comes in looking for older machines—but not too often—and when they do, they never pay very much.”

“So why are we here?” Connor asks.

She taps him more lightly than usual with her cane. “To illustrate a point. Technology doesn’t age well—not like a fine piece of furniture.” And she sits herself down on one of those fine pieces of furniture—a curvy wooden chair with a red velvet seat. The chair probably goes for more than all the computers combined.

“When they passed the Unwind Accord, I gave up. I was disgusted by my own unintentional role in making it happen. But Janson, he fought it down to the day he died. Now that people were hooked on parts, Janson knew the only way to end unwinding was to give them cheaper parts that you didn’t have to harvest. Take away the need for harvesting, and suddenly people would rediscover their consciences. Unwinding would end.”

“ChanceFolk use their spirit animals for transplant,” Connor points out. “That’s how they got around it.”

“I’ll do you one better,” says Sonia. “What if you could grow an endless supply of cultured cells, put them into a machine, like—oh, say, a computer printer—and print yourself out an organ?”

Everyone looks to one another. Connor’s not quite sure if she’s being rhetorical, making a joke, or if she’s just plain nuts.

“Like . . . an electronic nail builder?” Risa suggests.

“A variation on a theme,” says Sonia. “Similar technology taken a huge leap forward.”

“Uh . . . ,” says Connor, “a picture of a liver isn’t gonna help anyone much.”

Then Sonia gets a funny look in her eye. A hint of the scientist she once was. “What if it’s not just a picture?” she asks. “What if you could keep printing layer after layer of cells on top of one another, making it thicker and thicker? What if you were able to solve the blood flow problem by programming gaps in the printing sequence and lining those gaps with a semipermeable membrane that would mature into blood vessels?”

Now she moves her gaze, locking on each of them as she speaks. The passion behind her eyes is hypnotic. Suddenly she’s no longer an old woman, but an impassioned scientist filled with a fire she’s been holding within her for years.

“What if you invented a printer that could build living human organs?” Sonia rises from her chair. She’s a short woman, but right now Connor could swear she’s towering over them. “And what if you sold the patent to the nation’s largest medical manufacturer . . . and what if they took all of that work . . . and buried it? And took the plans and burned them? And took every printer and smashed it, and prevented anyone from ever knowing that the technology existed?”