The Becoming of Noah Shaw (The Shaw Confessions Book 1)

WE’RE GATHERED HERE TODAY TO talk about some shit,” Mara says to Daniel and Jamie, having collected and deposited them in the sun-white living room.

“What shit?”

“Ours.”

Jamie looks from me to Daniel to Mara. “I don’t have any shit.”Content property of NôvelDra/ma.Org.

“You’re full of shit, actually,” Mara says brightly. “But this isn’t about you.” She pats Jamie on the head, and he pouts as he swats her hand.

“It’s about the girl,” I cut in, before they have another go at each other. “From the subway the other day.”

The air changes, restless and charged. “What about her?” Jamie asks.

“She was one of us,” Mara says. “Gifted.”

Jamie doesn’t seem surprised, but Daniel does. “How do you know?” he asks me. “The archives?”

That was not what I was expecting, and it must show, because he goes on, “There are names in there, files of other kids who were experimented on. Was she one of them?”

In the days since Sam’s death, I hadn’t even considered that possibility. Stupid. It was so obvious, I felt a bloody idiot for missing it.

“That’s not how he knows,” Mara says before I can stop her.

Daniel looks from her to me. “So that’s not what was in the envelope last night?”

Now I’m the one who’s lost. “What envelope?”

Mara’s mouth drops open. “I completely forgot.”

“What?” I ask as she rises from one of the sofas and picks up a plain envelope from a console table in the foyer. “The doorman gave me this to give to you last night, when I was walking everyone out.”

She hands it to me, but Jamie starts talking before I can open it.

“So, let’s recap,” he says, standing not so subtly between Mara and myself. “The girl who jumped in front of the F train—her name was Beth.”

I nod once.

“And she’s like you guys, a Carrier,” Daniel adds. He doesn’t wait for my assent before he asks, “But how did you find out?”

“It’s part of my ability.” I’m still and watchful as I speak, hating the sound of my own voice. “When someone like us is afraid or in pain or whatever, I can see it.”

“See it?”

“From inside them,” Mara says. “He can see what they see from their point of view.”

She’s not quite right—it’s only from their perspective when they’re the ones causing the harm, but I’m not about to correct her. Not here, in front of everyone.

“Wow.” Daniel lets out a breath. Jamie says nothing, looks as though none of this is a surprise. Which means Mara must have told him at some point. I’m sure the sense of betrayal will kick in eventually, but right now, I just want to escape.

Mara turns to me. “Are you going to tell them, or . . .”

“Oh, I’d hate to interrupt,” I say.

Mara turns away from me, to Daniel and Jamie. “She’s not the only one he saw. Someone committed suicide at David Shaw’s funeral—”

“What?” Daniel’s nearly out of his seat.

“I saw it too,” Mara says.

Jamie’s turn to look shocked. “Wait, not like Noah . . .”

Mara shakes her head. “I was there.” A brief glance at me. “We left the service to—”

“Shit on his grave?”

“Actually,” I say, “we left to fuck, but someone decided to hang himself in the bell tower, which rather interrupted the mood.”

Everyone’s gone quiet. I’m usually better at keeping my anger issues to myself, but. Not today, clearly.

After an extraordinarily awkward silence, Mara decides to keep at it. “Someone else committed suicide this morning.”

“Jesus,” Daniel says. “How many have there been?”

“A few,” I say casually. “But not like this.”

“Like what?”

This is why I wanted to talk to Daniel alone—without Mara, certainly without Jamie. To try and explain to him the difference between what Beth and Sam felt like and what the others felt like—the boy this morning, and the others I witnessed before Mara and I even met. I’d have had the chance to unpack that without being forced to discuss my own psychic disaster, which is precisely what’ll happen next unless I change the subject, and quickly.

“The girl’s thoughts, and Sam’s, in England—I knew what they were before they died,” I say, opening the envelope from the doorman. Probably just inheritance paperwork, but it gives me something to do with my hands instead of punching them through glass.

“That’s never happened before?” Daniel asks as I sift out the papers, evading the question. One of them falls to the floor, and I bend to pick it up.

INTERNATIONAL BUSINESS

MAGNATE DAVID SHAW DIES AT 40

David S. Shaw, founder of the Euphrates International Corporation, died on September 5th. His family’s spokesperson confirmed his death from the family estate in Yorkshire, England, offering no cause. Some media outlets in the United Kingdom reported that he died of a genetic condition.

A few short years after his graduation from Trinity College, Cambridge, Mr. Shaw started a small company that grew to become Euphrates International, which injected hundreds of millions of dollars into private and academic research laboratories for the funding of research in genetic modification.

In recent years, its dealings prompted an investigation by the U.S. Department of Justice. Mr. Shaw was born on [REDACTED] in London, England, to his parents, Lord Elliot Shaw and Lady Sylvia Shaw. He attended Eton before graduating from Trinity College at Cambridge University, with a degree in history. He lived with his wife and two children in their family home in England until Euphrates International moved their headquarters to the United States after controversial funding decisions prompted the opening of several ethics enquiries by Parliament.

His survivors include his second wife, Ruth, his son, Noah, and his daughter, Katherine. The family will be holding a private service at their estate in Rievaulx. In lieu of gifts, the family requests that donations be sent to the Shaw Foundation.

I look up at Mara. “What the fuck is this?”

She takes the clipping from me. It’s from the Times.

“Your dad’s obituary? I don’t get it . . . .”

I withdraw the other piece of paper from the envelope. Also a clipping, but this one . . .

COPS POISONED!

New York, NY, 10:05 a.m.

“We are heartbroken to announce the death of Officer John Roland, twenty-eight, who died early this morning at 8:31 a.m.,” Commissioner [REDACTED] of the NYPD announced at a press conference this morning. “Officer Roland was a two-year member of the NYPD and will be remembered for his sense of humor, his generosity of spirit, and his bravery.”

Roland’s death comes at the heels of eight other members of the department who have all died under suspicious circumstances that are being closely guarded by the NYPD. Under conditions of anonymity, an inspector consulted by the Daily News stated, “Their deaths are consistent with some sort of mass poisoning; they all succumbed within a finite period of time, and shared the same symptoms.” The expert wouldn’t elaborate on what those symptoms were, but a source close to the police has said that each of the officers complained of a bloody nose at some point before their deaths. Two sources confirmed to the Daily News that the [REDACTED] Precinct is being temporarily shut down for an inspection into whether an airborne toxin, like anthrax, may have been mailed to the department. Commissioner [REDACTED] refused to answer whether they were considering terrorism as a motive at this point.

“This is an ongoing investigation and we can issue no further comment.”

Officer Roland is survived by his parents, Mary and Robert Roland, of Providence, Rhode Island, and two younger siblings, Paul and Benjamin Roland.

Mara’s eyes settle on the picture of the officer. She barely skims the rest of the piece before thrusting it back into my hands. Jamie snatches it from me directly, stares longer than Mara. Daniel has to urge him to part with it.

“What is this?” I ask no one in particular.

Daniel takes the envelope from me, turns it over. “Who sent these?”

“The doorman didn’t say who left them,” Mara says.

“But he gave them to you?”

“He called her Mrs. Shaw when she was walking us out,” Jamie chimes in. “Passssssword . . .” he singsongs under his breath.

“Why would someone send you this?” Daniel asks. “Who even knows you’re here?”

Solid question. I didn’t buy the flat under my own name, but anyone working for or with my father would probably have the means to find out where I’m living. So, not exactly a secret.

Mara takes the clippings from her brother. “Add that to the growing list of questions, like, why are we killing ourselves?”

We. The word stings like the bite of a whip. Why are we killing ourselves.

“Noah,” Mara says, “where did you say the address was?”

“I didn’t.”

“What address?” Jamie asks. Three pairs of eyes watch me.

The words stuck in my throat, but it was too late to do anything but confess. “The boy who killed himself this morning—he did it with pills. The address was on one of the bottles. Two-thirteen Myrtle.”

Mara looks at her brother, then at Jamie.

“Oh, I’m definitely coming,” Jamie says.

Daniel looks at me for permission, and I appreciate the gesture. “Join us, won’t you?” I ask.

He cracks a small grin. He takes out his phone and texts someone first, then looks up. “Ready?”

Mara’s already by the front door, pulling her leather jacket from a hook. “How’s Sophie?” she asks Daniel as the rest of us assemble.

“How do you know I was texting Sophie?”

“Because you’re always texting Sophie.” She opens the front door.

Goose is standing behind it, his duffel in hand.

“Hello, darlings. I’m home.”