Genetic modification? The hairs on my scalp prickled.

The DNA of five subjects from five of the major races was modified in vitro. This modification was primarily designed to reduce the side effects of supernatural powers. It was expected that reducing these effects would aid assimilation, but this was further tested by raising twenty of the children in ignorance of their heritage. The remaining five served as a control group and were raised as supernaturals. During the intervening years, the study experienced some subject attrition (Appendix A), though contact has been reestablished with most.

Attrition? They must mean kids they lost track of—like Rae, Simon, and Derek. Did that mean there were others like us out there, ones they hadn’t found?

As the remaining subjects proceed through puberty, side effects have been drastically reduced in nine (Appendix B). However, in those subjects who did not improve, the genetic modification itself has had serious and unexpected side effects (Appendix C).

Fingers shaking, I typed “Appendix C” into the Find box. The document scrolled down.

One problem noted in the nine successful subjects was a general reduction in powers, which may be an unavoidable consequence of reducing negative side effects. It appears, however, that with the unsuccessful subjects, the reverse occurred. Their powers were heightened, as were the negative side effects, particularly sudden onset of these powers and, more seriously, their uncontrollable nature, apparently emotion based.

Uncontrollable powers. Emotion based.

I remembered Tori sobbing that she couldn’t help it, that when she got mad, things just happened. Like Liz. Like Derek. Like Rae. Like me?

I skimmed over the next page. It detailed how they’d handled these “unsuccessful” subjects—put them into a group home, tried to medicate their powers and convince them they were mentally ill. When that failed…

The powers of supernaturals increase through puberty, meaning the powers of these failed subjects will continue to grow. It can be reasonably hypothesized that their powers will become more volatile and uncontrollable, threatening the lives of the subjects; the lives of innocents around them; and, perhaps most important, posing an immense exposure risk to the entire supernatural world.

We undertook this experiment in hopes of bettering the lives of all supernaturals. We cannot, through our actions, endanger that same world. As responsible scientists, we must accept responsibility for our failures and deal with them decisively to minimize the damage. While the decision was not unanimous, it was agreed that if the predetermined rehabilitation process fails, the subject must, with deep regret, be terminated quickly and humanely.

At the bottom was a list of names. Beside each was their current status.

Peter Ricci—rehabilitated

Mila Andrews—rehabilitated

Amber Long—terminated

Brady Hirsch—terminated

Elizabeth Delany—terminated

Rachelle Rogers—rehabilitation progressing

Victoria Enright—rehabilitation progressing

And finally, at the bottom, two names.

Derek Souza—???

Chloe Saunders—???

I don’t know how long I stared at that list—and those question marks—before something hit my skull. I spun as a stapler bounced onto the carpet.

“Café mocha,” said Dr. Davidoff, right outside the door. “Decaf, nonfat.”

As I logged off, my gaze flipped between the reading room door and the kneehole under the desk. The kneehole was closer, but then I’d be trapped. A spurt of courage sent me lunging for the door. I made it—to the door, not through it into the reading room—as the hall door clicked open. I wheeled and pressed myself against the wall, beside a tall bookcase. I was out of sight but just barely.

I reached for the reading room doorknob. If I opened it wide enough to get through, though, he’d notice.

Go to the desk, I pleaded. Check your e-mail. Check your voice messages. Just please, please, please, don’t check on me.

His footsteps headed straight for me. I plastered myself to the wall and held my breath. His arm appeared. Then his knee. Then—

He stopped. The arm and knee turned toward the desk. He bent and picked up the stapler.

Oh, God. He knew. I had to come clean. Make up a story and turn myself in before I was caught. I stepped forward. A chattering broke the silence. My teeth? No, the pen holder on his desk was shaking, pens and pencils rattling.

Dr. Davidoff stared at it, his head tilting as if to say, Am I doing that? He caught the pen holder. It stopped shaking. As he pulled back his hand, the mouse rolled across the pad.

“Well?” a voice said by my ear. “Are you just going to stand there?”

Liz stood at my shoulder. She jabbed her finger at the door.

“Go!”

I made sure Dr. Davidoff had his back to me, then eased through the door.

“Lock it!” she whispered.

I reached around and turned the lock. The pens chattered again, covering the click of the door latch.

Liz stepped through the wall and waved me to the chair like she was shooing a cat. I’d barely settled in with the book when the door opened.

Dr. Davidoff took a slow look around the room. I followed his gaze, frowning, like I was wondering what he was searching for. I forced myself to look past Liz perched on the side table.

“Dr. Davidoff?”

He said nothing, just looked around.

“Did you forget something?” I asked.

He murmured about checking on dinner, then left after pausing at the door for one last, slow look around.

“Thank you,” I said to Liz after Dr. Davidoff had locked me in again. “I know you’re mad at me, for saying you’re dead—”

“Because I’m obviously not dead, am I? You said the reason I couldn’t touch stuff or move it was because I was a ghost.” She smiled smugly, pulling her knees up and hugging them. “So I worked really hard at moving stuff. If I concentrate, I can. That means I must be a shaman.”

Earlier I’d tried to explain why I hadn’t told her sooner that she was a ghost. I’d said I’d thought she might be a shaman, because Derek said they could astral-project—appear without their bodies.

“They’ve got me drugged up,” she continued. “That’s why I keep getting all confused. I can’t wake up, so my spirit is moving around instead.”

She dangled her legs again and made figure eights with her feet, watching the giraffes on her socks dance. She didn’t believe what she was saying. She knew she was dead. But she wasn’t ready to face it.

As for being able to move objects, Dr. Davidoff had said one kind of ghost could: a telekinetic half-demon. When Liz got mad, objects had attacked whoever she was angry at. Now, as a ghost, she’d finally learned to harness her power.

In life, Liz thought she had a poltergeist. In death, she was one. She just couldn’t accept that yet. And I wasn’t going to force her.