He took a deep breath. “I owe you an answer, then. Name your question.”

“Why didn’t you kill him yourself?”

Of course she would ask why. Such a question offered more insight than “what,” but he would abide by their agreement.

“Because I wanted him to suffer.”

He could have said more. He loved your friend, you see. When she left him, took his money and his affection, it broke his heart, though he did his best to conceal it from me. But I saw the anguish, and I used it. I wanted him broken, as I was broken.

He saw her calculating that response, trying to factor it into what she knew of the situation. She really was impressively clever, and if he wasn’t careful, she would wind up destroying everything he’d dedicated his life to achieving. Her kisses weren’t sweet enough to take the risk.

But he would.

“So do I look like I’ve been making out with the boss?” she asked, surprising him.

If pressed, he would’ve predicted that she would ask him to elaborate on his previous answer. Instead, she appeared content with his response, making him wonder what she’d surmised. His inability to read or influence her made him uneasy, as if they faced each other as equals.

He surveyed her flushed cheeks, tousled hair, and smudged lipstick. “You do. I have a private washroom through there if you want to freshen up.”

Since bending you over the desk is out of the question.

“Thanks. Then I’d better get back to work. They’re going to wonder what we found to talk about so long.”

He watched her walk away from him, hips swaying with a rhythm that offered an invitation he desperately wanted to accept. This attraction was unwise. She probably hadn’t forgiven him; it was likely a ruse to get close and persuade him to drop his guard. He knew how it was done. Rule one-get close to the mark. Find out what he needs and offer it. After all, he’d worked that angle many times. But as she sauntered out of his office, he knew he was going to ignore that prudent voice.

Mia Sauter was going to prove a distraction he didn’t need, but he was incapable of turning away from her a second time.

The facility was dark, just as Dr. Rowan liked it.

In the cells, the overhead lights had gone down hours before, leaving the subjects to their own thoughts, should they be fortunate enough to own any. Most of his colleagues preferred the daylight, but so deep beneath the ground, it wasn’t like sunlight ever touched any surface here.

Sometimes he likened it to working beneath the sea. Some people simply were not suited for extreme environments. Those who flunked out of the Foundation’s training program also failed at life, but they never wanted to admit they hadn’t read the fine print.

It was deliciously quiet. Each cell had been soundproofed, so he didn’t have to listen to their whimpering all night long. The ones who could speak were fascinating. A few of them had even earned higher privileges through exemplary performance.

Gillie was his favorite. She’d kept her name, instead of a number like the failed experiments. She retained all her faculties and, indeed, possessed a rather whimsical charm. Instead of a cell, she had an apartment at the end of the hall. She had books and television, but no Internet. They couldn’t take the risk that she’d try to get a message past their blocks and firewalls. While she seemed content with her life-and she’d known no other since she was a child-it would be unwise to consider her a willing guest. Still, he knew she harbored a strong fondness for him; whether it matched his regard for her, only time would tell.

Dr. Rowan couldn’t take the credit for her or any of the other successes. He’d been brought into the research late, but he’d seen the promise of it at once. Forced evolution-a chemical compound that could jump-start the process and within a single lifetime offer incredible advances? It was nothing short of revolutionary. He imagined the thrill the serum’s inventor must have felt when the first test group went live in Pine Grove. Free vaccinations were incredibly alluring to lower-class parents, and when one added in a private clinic, it became irresistible. No government red tape? Sign us up.

It had taken years to collect the subjects they now held. One disadvantage the initial team hadn’t foreseen: underprivileged children had a way of slipping through the cracks. Their parents didn’t file taxes or hold down jobs with any regularity. Oh, the parents had signed releases, but they went off the grid thereafter, making them difficult to track. The arbiters of the tests had reckoned impoverished individuals would lack the resources to move around. Clearly, they hadn’t researched the hypothesis enough. Dr. Rowan would not have made that mistake.

So sometimes it was too late by the time they tracked their subjects down. The change had begun, but without proper treatment, their prognosis was irrevocable. Still, they must be studied until they could offer no further insight into where the serum went wrong.

Dr. Rowan went over the test results a second time, but he didn’t like them any better. His findings were conclusive: test subject 34-Q needed to be put down. Her psychosis had grown worse, and she was no longer responding to the medication. She had become violent when offered physical contact. If released from the facility, which wasn’t an option, she would become a burden on the state, a shameless abuse of resources.

He’d known her most of her natural life. They’d scooped her up five years after the initial trials in Pine Grove. Fortunately, many test subjects lacked a caring nuclear unit, part of the reason they’d wound up getting free vaccinations in the first place. The parents of 34-Q hadn’t argued when the Foundation quietly proposed to assume responsibility for her care. And for years, he’d tried to salvage her. He hated to admit failure.

But she was inferior stock. Instead of completing a successful transformation, she’d splintered into fragments. She sat and rocked, nothing more, and if one tried to touch her, she screamed. She’d long ago lost the ability to speak.

He watched her now on the camera in her room. Her dark hair was lank and tangled, her blue pajamas soiled with sweat and other effluvia. She was a thin, wretched creature, roiling with fear. Her eyes had sunk into the hollows of her head, so when she rocked back into the light, she looked like a monster out of a child’s nightmare.

Dr. Rowan sighed. It was a shame to waste a subject, but he could see no alternative. Her care had simply proven more expensive than her continued existence was worth, and though he ran this place with a free hand, he still had to justify expenditures to the board.

They were growing impatient with his process. The idiots didn’t understand the need for him to document his work; the world would one day want to know exactly how he had created a super-race that was faster, smarter, and unspeakably gifted. The board didn’t care about any of that; they just wanted him to produce a cash cow. Gillie certainly qualified. She was paying for the year’s payroll in a single month, and if he could stabilize her condition, she would earn even more.

He couldn’t have 34-Q draining that profit. Whether he liked it or not, science had become the province of big business. Like anyone else, he had a bottom line to consider.

Decision made, he flipped off the monitor in his office, turned, and filled a syringe. After capping it and slipping it into the pocket of his lab coat, he went down the hall. Rowan passed nobody in the bone white corridors. It was late; the day crew wouldn’t arrive for hours yet. Just as well, for this work was best done in the dark.

Dr. Rowan took a stamp out of his pocket. Though he was loath to admit as much, using it gave him a thrill. It was very much like playing God. Deliberately, he pressed the inked side against the first page of 34-Q’s chart. A red mark appeared, encircling the word TERMINATED.